On the first day, Espen created PooPapalooza, on the second day he created...

Hot on the heels of yesterday's Poopfest, Espen woke with new mischief in store.

Unbeknownst to his sleepy parents, Espen was rallying the forces of soap everywhere before we were fully conscious.

Recall with me the button on yesterday's festivities. A dishwasher full of dish soap.

To be fair, Espen had given me the chance to join him in the kitchen at 6am but I politely declined, advising him cuddle in bed with me instead. He also politely declined my counter offer and proceeded to play quietly in the kitchen.


Go ahead. Start your prediction engines.


Sometime later, I hear Tobias' alarm go off and him padding down the hall to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Espen!" He says joyfully.

And then.

"Oh. Espen. What...."

The bells began to toll. Low and ominous, I moved slowly out of bed and inched towards the kitchen. Visions of a kitchen smeared in poop, dominated the horizon of possibility.

I turned the corner and beheld Espen and Tobias standing around the dishwasher. I admit, I felt momentary relief that there was no poo on the lid, but only for an instant.

The reason?

Our dishwasher lid was surrounded by three bottles of dish soap and dishwasher detergent. They were lying on their sides, lifeless victims of an over zealous toddler.

The lid itself, which is several inches deep, shimmered like a pond filled after a rainstorm. Part of me sighed in gratitude that it wasn't vomit.

Part of me thought, "Why didn't Tobias move all that crap after last night!?" And part of me thought, "Why do I smell poop."

Espen sidled over to me, smiling, holding his ice popcicle. I sniffed. "Did you poop, Espy?"

He shook his head even as I checked. Poop central. He smiled again, as if to say, "You are so lucky I left it in there."

The dishwasher however, was not so fortunate. My takeaway? Spatulas make excellent scoops for several gallons of soap. Get excited.

Shit Storm's A Comin'- Not for squeamish non-parents

There is nothing PG about the following story unless you take the definition literally. Parental Guidance was the one thing severely lacking.

Our tale begins this afternoon with Espen ready for a cozy winter nap. He is in his sleeping pants, his pull-ups and full of stories and good cheer.

As per usual, he proceeds through his monologues about string cheese and converses with his stuffed puppy about the events du jour. Then he begins to pull apart a beautiful dream catcher my sister made by hand to ensure his unconscious meanderings.

This is removed from his room.
He is informed that his puppy will need to come along as he is also very tired but cannot sleep when Espen is talking to him.

Silence reigns for a short interlude.
Then the giggling and laughing starts. This is not uncommon, but what IS- "Mommy, I need to go peew-peew. I need to go pee. Mommy, I nudie!"

We have been encouraging him to let us know when the urge to purge strikes so I haul my sleepy self to his door and say, "Alright, Espen, let's go potty."

As I am opening the door, Espen announces, in the nude, "I pooped in my bed!"

Come again?

He trots around his room, bare buns flashing, giggling. "I pooped!"

And then races out of the room, his thighs and bottom streaked with Brown.

My brain fractured into two separate units at that moment. One followed Espen to try and mitigate the migration of his Poopiness to the far reaches of the house.

The other part slowly begin to assimilate the carnage that lay before me in Espen's room.

For the life of me, I could not perceive where the crap ended and where it began.

My eyes began a slow sweep.
Floor. Poop. Wall. Poop. Rug. Poop. Door. Poop. Tractor bucket. Poop. Crack in the floor. Pee. Closet. Poop. Hinges. Poop.

At this point, my eyes began to cross. I went to our bedroom where Tobias lay blissfully napping, unware of our progeny's Heinous Fecal Misdeeds.

I said loudly and clearly, "Get up. You need to see this."

He looked about blearily, but obligingly climbed out of bed and staggered to Espen's room.

"Careful." I warned as he went to lean against the door. "There's poop everywhere."

Tobias is a pretty low maintenence man when it comes to personal hygiene and domestic cleanliness, but poop kicks him into action everytime.

"Where's Espen?" he said. "Does he still have poop on him?"

"Oh probably," I said wearily. "There's just so much POOP EVERYWHERE."

And at that, our roles became clear. Tobias took off after Espen's Nudie Poopness and I laid into the Shitscape formerly known as Espen's room.

The kid went straight into the bathtub and I went straight into silent shock.

His pillow cases were smeared with poop. His blanket was full of secret stashes of excrement. His stuffed kangaroo lay nose down in a pile of feces decorating the entrance to his closet. The air was redolent with the scent of mostly digested oatmeal and fishsticks.

Meanwhile, I could hear Tobias telling Espen that he must NEVER EVER do that again. To which Espen Camino responded joyously, "I WILL do it again! Oh yes!"

After scrubbing everything down with bleach twice and sanitizing Lord Poopington, I headed out to teach a yoga class on staying grounded and finding your center. Which I had planned out 15 minutes before the Poopocalypse descended. What are the chances.

I returned home to the dishwasher making horrible noises and Espen hollering away in his room. This all transpiring about 30 minutes after he should normally be in bed. I looked at Tobias.

"What happened to the dishwasher."

He gazed at me placidly and opened the door, revealing a cavern of bubbles.
"Espen put dish soap in the dishwasher. When we got back from Chinese food, the entire kitchen was full of suds."

Le sigh.

He goes on to say that they DID have a lovely time at the Chinese restaurant drinking tea and checking out the police officers in the booth next to them.

Meanwhile, Espen howls on in the background. Which is weird because normally he goes straight to sleep on no nap days.

But oh wait. Did Tobias say they had tea at a Chinese Restaurant?

"You know they serve black teas at said establishments right?" I ask Tobias.

He stares at me.

"I...let me confirm this." and furiously searches the internet. Says nothing.

"Did your research confirm my information?" I ask.

"Welll....it wasn't black tea."

"What was it?"

"Oolong or green tea...?"

"So, caffeinated."

Finally, around 8.30 Espen the Cafeinated Poopertrator of Dishwasher Doom succumbed to the demands of sleep.

Meanwhile, the dishwasher groaned until 9.25 when Tobias vanquished the last of the dish soap suds and reinstalled the panel he had wrested from behind the machine.

I gotz no wisdom here. There is absolutely no way to comprehend the logic or simple abandon in smearing your shit on every available surface before moving onto your body as canvas. I can only say that I didn't scream or beat my child. I just went dead silent. And for now, that's what it's gonna have to be until I can come up with a more elegant response to poop as paint.

But I bet you, Espen will be raring to go in the morning like he's pooping for the very first time.

Pool Chemicals Cleverly Disguised as Take Out Are Bad for Business and Toddlers

As you may already be guessing, there was some harrowing ingestion of dubious substances over the MLK weekend.

Espen has a penchant for exploring various ways to experience forbidden or unknown substances as you might remember from the Dragon Pill Escapade. His fingers and mouth get more nimble by the day and in new environments, he is in particularly fine form.

So there we were, in our rented cabin in Welches, Oregon, mere minutes from snow heaven, Mt. Hood. We had food, good friends and plenty of ambition to take The Littles skiing for their first time.


Finn and Espen are exactly one week apart in age and have been a Force since birth. This has only intensified as they have grown, moving from activities like leaping off ottomans to trying to eat each other when one is not looking. Or willing.

It usually takes a minute for them to re-calibrate their brains to a reality with another creature their size and general shape, but once that settles in, a whole new probability emerges.

Which brings us back to the first morning of our Fabulous Ski Weekend. Like sensible parents, we had stayed up very late the previous night making merry and reveling in our lovely adult reality of Four Bigs and Two Littles. Pure luxury.

The next morning, we sensibly decided to go for an easy morning of sledding and to hit the slopes the following day.

Amid coffee and antsy kids, we progressed towards departure. Sent the boys outside to muck about in the contained back yard. Began humping the voluminous snow outfits and sleds to the cars.

I went to check on the boys. Found them by the hot tub, holding something.
Espen and Finn smiled at me.
Espen lifted a take-out dip container up to me with the lid off.
"Look mama!" he said proudly. inserting his finger into the fine white powder and placing it directly on his tongue.

Now, I know we didn't have take out the night before and that there was no way that container had ANYTHING in it I wanted Espen eating, so I did what any reasonable parent did.
I moved in slow motion and hollered.
"Espen! NOOOOOO!"

My mind was thinking, "Oh my god, he's eating two week old ranch. Or some left over cocaine from the last group to rent this place. Or a bunch of raw table salt. OH MY GOD."

That's my range. I'm not proud, it's just the spectrum I've learned to live with.

I grabbed the container, grabbed Espen, and raced into the cabin yelling, "SPIT! SPIT!"

I then proceeded to wash out his mouth whilst yelling at Tobias, "TASTE IT! FIND OUT WHAT IT IS!!!" Very cool. Very calm.

Espen thinks this is all very interesting, especially the part where I keep telling him to "Put water in your mouth but don't swallow! Swish and spit!"

Tobias comes over, says, "I put some on my tongue, it's kind of bitter and flat and hard to tell what it is. It doesn't seem particularly cholorine-y."

This barely registers in my brain. Why would any responsible person leave chemicals in a take out container at toddler height, knowing that toddlers were coming to the property?

Espen seems fine, so we load up and head into town for more coffee. Along the way, we decide to call poison control, just to be on the safe side. I try the substance on my tongue. It kind of tingles and tastes a bit like ascorbic acid, but it's definitely not a normal consumable.

We call the rental company Vacasa, to find out what the take out container held, but it's an answering service and we get no response.

Our conversation with poison control was pretty straight-forward.

"Hi. Our toddler ate an unidentified white powdery substance by a hot tub at a cabin we are staying at. We washed his mouth out. What now?"

Observation was the recommended course of action. And not going any further into the wilderness. Either we could watch him or a hospital could watch him. Sledding was out. Espen laughed happily in the back seat and demanded hot chocolate.

So we sent our friends to sled and Espen got to go to a park and run around in the rain while we watched him. And watched him. And watched a little more.

The little man played on, oblivious to our bird of prey parenting.

"Why aren't we on Mt. Hood?!" he yelled.
"Because you ate a random substance out of a take out container you found in a strange back yard."
"Why!"
"That's a good question. You must never, never eat things out of containers you find without asking an adult."
"Ok. I promise. Let's go to Mt. Hood."

We never did find out what the chemicals were because the company never called us back. You gotta love good customer service.

Short Boobs

Espen and I are sitting in bed reading stories. This is post bath and he has requested to be "nudie". Alright, no peeing in the bed, ok? Ok. Full speed ahead.

This is one of his favorite tales. Father Bear Comes Home. At the height of the story's arc, the part when mermaids could make an appearance at ANY MOMENT, Espen freezes.

He touches his nipple. Looks at me, aghast.

"Mama. I. have. a. BOO-BOO!"

That's Espen speak for boob. Not owie.

I nod. "You do! How about that!"

He tries to look at it. Hard task. But the evidence is undeniable.

"Mama! You have biggie boo-boos!"

Relatively speaking, this is true.

Then he looks at his right side.

"I HAVE ANOTHER BOO-BOO!?!"

Mind, blown.

I step in. "That's right! Two boo-boos! How do you feel about that?"

The child is not easily overcome for long. He smiles serenely and puts his fingers together in typical "little bit" fashion.

"Good. I have short boo-boos. Mama you have biggie ones."

And like that, we were back into the story, mermaids and all.

Only now I can't stop thinking about short boo-boos.

Kids Have Needs Too, Damnit.

Espen has a flock of stuffed animals he refers to as his "Pals", "Guys", or "Friends" depending on their situational function.

At night, they are his friends. He requires them by his side, ostensibly to keep things cozy... At least that's what he tries to sell us.

Being cozy is an inalienable right for anyone of Danish blood and Espen has claimed his right to interpret "cozy" as 15 plush toys.

A LOT (as Espen likes to say when asked how many blueberries or treats he wants) of vistas are opening up for him these days... He has learned to sing the dreidel song, yell on purpose, and clearly say things of great import, "Get UP, mommy!!"

As a result, he inevitably wants to share his progress with his pals at full volume.

So the other day, I put him down for his nap with a full compliment of friends. All is quiet for several moments.

And then.

"A B C D E F G!!!!!!!" splits the air like a supersonic wave.

I wait a moment.

It continues apace with all the joy of a Mardi Gras bacchanal.

This is when I wish I was an auntie or a visiting spectator. It's so darn fun to listen to him holding forth like a tiny, crazed conductor... But naps are important too, right? Jeez. The moral dilemmas parents face.

So I head in. Say, "Alright, Espen. Your pals can't sleep when you are singing to them so I will just put them down in the other room."

He smiles at me. "I can keep Doot-nah?"

"Alright. But you need to settle things down so he can sleep. He is a sleepy bear."

"Ok, mommy."

I walk out, thinking all is well.

Two seconds later, "Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel! I made it out of clay!!!!"

I walk back in, "Espen, I need to put Doot-nah to sleep in the other room."

"Nooooo! Mommy! Who will I TALK to?!?!"

Uh. Well. You won't? That's the point?

"But mommy, I need Doot-nah to TALK TO!!!"

The power of tiny humans showed me its awesome face. How could I take away his ONLY PAL HE CAN TALK TO IN THE WORLD? What kind of cruel sadist am I be for suggesting he labor into sleep without anyone to SPEAK TO.

I took Doot-nah anyway, wondering how *I* would sleep with myself that night.

Two minutes later, Espen was passed out and I remained, watching the filaments of guilt wafting from my shoulders.

Potty Training Monster

Espen has understood the concept of using a toilet for some time. While he is occasionally fascinated by the novelty of peeing into a receptacle, the overall habit has not sufficiently secured his devotion.

We’ve tried various things to inspire a lifelong relationship between Espen and the pissoir- making it a game to race to the potty, getting him ‘big boy pants’ to parade around the house in, switching to pull ups that are so fun to put on and take off…but to no avail.

According to rampant toilet training literature scattered around the web, boys tend to potty train later than girls, but no one really speaks to WHY. I’d think that having a point and shoot accessory of evacuation would rather inspire you to be able to whip it out and shower the toilet bowl with pee.

But no.

Espen likes to inform us when he is peeing. “Mommy, I go pee.” Or pooping. “Mommy! I’m pooping!” But when asked if he would like to use the toilet, he shakes his head as though dismissing an ill-placed suggestion at a restaurant. “No, thank you, mommy.”

He enunciates his toilet-rejection by issuing wild demands in the same breath.  “Go ‘way. Be quiet. No talking!”

So we tip-toe around like we are in the Church of Holy Shit until he finishes.

Then we begin the battle to change him.

“Espen, let’s go to the bathroom and get out of that poo-poo.”

-shrieks-

“Nooooooo!!!! One minute!”

“Espen, we need to change you now. It’s not good for your skin to bathe in poop.”

“Nooooooooooo!!! One minute!”

“Espen, you know that if you went poo in the toilet, you wouldn’t have to be changed. Ever.”

Of course, we win because we are larger, but that won’t last forever.

I comfort myself with the fact that I have never seen a 16 year old in diapers unless there are other complications.

Still, short of pee-targets that I paste in the toilet bowl, I’ve resigned myself to letting Espen pee in diapers until he tires of it. Hopefully public peer shaming will not be the ultimate motivator, but who knows.

So last night, I go to tuck him into bed and realize his comforter smells like day old pee.

I remove it and throw it on the ground.

“Mommy. Why did you throw my blankie on the ground?” Yes, he’s that articulate at times.

“It smells like pee, baby. I need to wash it.”

“WHY pee, mommy?”

“Well, probably because you peed on it, I imagine.”

“I don’t pee on it!”

“Well, I didn’t pee on it.”

Espen hops out of bed and runs to the comforter. He smells it. Laughs.

“Pee!”

Then he runs to the heat register in the ground and mimes peeing.

“Esp, honey, what are you doing?”

He jumps up and down, cackling.

“I pee here!”

I look at the heat register. And Espen. Is he bluffing? Can two year olds bluff? I breathe.

“Where did you pee exactly?”

He points happily at the register. “In here!”

“When did you do this?”

“Two nights!!!”

I picked up the comforter and walked out of the room. Outmaneuvered by a toddler.