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.

Espen Camino- Dragon Slayer

I've always had a pretty good imagination.

As a child, I used to imagine I had a portal to Neverland hidden in a glittery rainbow mobile that hung above my mirror. All I had to do was whisper, "I'm Peter Pan in Neverland." over and over until Tinkerbell arrived.

So, you can bet that Espen has already been exposed to a pantheon of unicorns, fairies and...dragon pills.

The thing is, these pills are legitimately called "Dragon Pills", which made them even more appealing in my eyes, and apparently, his too.

For the last year, I've been working with a Tibetan doctor to boost my immune system through an ongoing series of tiny little black pills that contain a variety of magical herbs that have been collected by monks and prayed over by nuns high in the Himalaya before being shipped to my door.

Being a responsible, though whimsical parent, I  have been clear with Espen that these little beauties are medicine and for mom only unless he is sick and mom gives him one.

And in my folly, yet again, I assumed that the heretofore uncrossed frontier of self-administering Dragon Pills would remain untested when I stepped into my morning shower.

For the last three months, we have had a routine. We wake up in the morning, we make breakfast, we eat, Tobias leaves for work, I clean up, I shower, Espen plays while I shower, life is beautifully rhythmic.

On this particular Friday, I had been in the shower for all of five minutes, when Espen came cackling into the bathroom.

This is fairly typical.

What was not, was the midnight colored drool ribbon-ing down the corner of his mouth and off his jaw.

He smiled at me, his mouth a black hole that looked like it had recently licked a cinder bucket.

I tried to stay calm. My voice may have lowered several octaves and become unnaturally slow.

"Espen, What. Is. In. Your. Mouth."

He laughed at me, gleefully raising his hands. "Dragon Pills, Mama!"


Some people leap into a flurry of activity when the world begins to crumble around them. Me? I just stood there in the warm shower, thinking for a split second that I could freeze time, just like I did in childhood.

Then Espen spoke. "Mama! Me get more!"

There is little magic on earth more potent than a toddler's declaration of intent.

I flew out of the shower as Espen careened from the bathroom and back towards the kitchen.
Somewhere in the midst of this, I managed to grab a small towel.

Hot on his heels, I charged into the hall and beheld the full extent of his intrepid foraging.

Speech rarely fails me, but on this occasion, I was utterly gobsmacked.

And completely nude.

Stretching from one end of the house to the other, a sea of tiny black spheres sat placidly on the surface of the floor.

As though carefully placed by an individual mastermind...or violently cast from the top of the previously inaccessible kitchen counter.

The only clue to the crime was a step ladder in front of the counter that had been mere decoration until this day.

It gleamed quietly, decoration, no longer--now elevated to the dubious heights of Accessory to Disorder.

What does one do in these moments?

My best guess was to immobilize the child.

Espen tried to skate on top of the Dragon Pills.
I began silently repeating my commitment to non-violent parenting.

Into the car seat went Espen Camino with a bevy of books and toys.
Back into the shower went I.

One has to collect one's thoughts before venturing into Utter Carnage, lest one be overwhelmed by the sheer destruction.

Once clean, I dressed myself with the resignation of a suicide bomber and headed back into the kitchen.

For the next hour I crawled about on hands and knees plucking each Dragon Pill off the ground.

Now, I knew from previous experience, that Tibetan herbs are not going to re-tool one's gut flora if ingested without authorization. I was also hoping Espen might puke just A LITTLE, if only to emphasize the importance of ONLY EATING PILLS ADMINISTERED BY A PARENT...but no such luck.

He babbled and chatted away in the car seat without any signals of impending physical distress. I repeatedly impressed upon him how utterly NO NO it was to eat pills. He demanded his release.

I, on the other hand, was experiencing significant levels of distress.

Everyone with any imagination knows that if toddlers were the physical size of adults, the world would be doomed. With little to no impulse control and the flexibility of a rubber band, there is nothing they could not or would not attempt. Respect and healthy fear would never enter the choice making equation.

Just so, I wondered, laboring over the hundreds of anonymous Dragon Pills,

How do you make the point that taking pills is a bad idea until you are at LEAST old enough to read directions?

Finally, the floor clean, I emancipated Espen from his car seat and took a moment to breathe. Two seconds later, he was on his scooter barreling down the hallway.

"Mama! My find Dragon Pill!"

"Bring it to me."

Silence.

I raced around the corner to behold my offspring drooling the black drool and smiling.

In my attempt to get his attention AND scoop the pill from his mouth, Espen began to laugh. And in this moment, realizing there was no way in hell he was going to pay attention to words, I clapped my hand solidly onto his behind. Just once. Just firmly enough to get his attention. And I said with my very firmest mom voice:

"Espen, you must NEVER EVER eat pills without mom giving them to you. Do you understand?"



He laughed again.

And I thought, "Have mercy."

Childproof Door Locks Are The New Atlantis

Many people think that a simple solution to your toddler escaping first bed, then room, is to purchase childproof door locks. They sound so fool proof on Amazon.com.

They look even more effective due to their draconian, confusing curlicues and deceptively blase' design. They even leave a large gap in the door so you and your kid can stare each other down.

And for the first application, they may be visually arresting to the point of immobilizing your wanderlusty 2 year old. 

But the luster of newness fades quickly. Soon they get down to the business of solving this new barrier to their freedom.

If Espen were to be cast as a dinosaur, he would be Velociraptor. You can actually see his brain figuring out how to bring down authority, door locks, and anything else standing between him and his objective. 

Case in point, last week I was home alone with the little raptor. It was Naptime and the child was not interested. His plans involved more bagels, more sand, more  freedom. Certainly not sleeping. 

Mom: Come on, Wesp. It's time for naps.

Espen: Why.

Mom: Because rest helps you get bigger and stronger.

Espen: My babe-o! (which means, "I'm Babe-o. Which means he's about to flip into his interpretation of what babies are like. Usually this involves a high pitched sustained sound like a siren.)

Mom: Ok. Babe-oes need rest even more than big boys because they are so small and growing.

Espen: Mama, go away.

Mom: Alright, but you need to stay in your bed and sleep.

Espen: Mama, go away. No put lock on door.

Mom: I won't as long as you stay in bed.

Espen: Ok. Mama go away.

So I leave, only to have him bound out of his room two minutes later.

Espen: Helloooooo mama!

Mom: Ok, now we are going back to your room and mom is putting the lock on.

Espen: (Wails) Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?!?!?!?!?!

Mom: Because that was the deal. You knew this.

Espen: NO PUT LOCK ON DOOR!!!

Mom: Next time you can chose to stay in your bedroom and we won't put the lock on.

Deposited in his room, with the lock on, the door has about 2 inch gap between the door and the door jamb. It's a big crack.

Up to this point in time, Espen has responded to the door lock by throwing himself on his bed and ragefully crying until he burns up the excess energy and falls peacefully to sleep.

Today, there was only silence. And the occasional sound of something scraping along the floor. I chose to ignore it as the only thing movable in his room is the large reading chair. 

You would think I'd have learned by now that ignoring strange noises leads to nothing productive.

Mais, non.

Ten minutes pass. Espen giggles. Makes jiggling sounds. Then silence. 

I tiptoe to his room. The door is closed with a tiny crack, just the way he likes it. The childproof door lock is lying quietly on his wooden horsie that I have removed to enhance boredom leading to sleep.

I crack the door. The chair is pushed up against it. Espen is sound asleep.

Not a word, not a "HA HA! MOMMA!" 

Just silent proof that you can't tame a wild animal.