Jan
11
JB and I did a major purging of some over-stuffed closets this weekend, and we came across a familiar unwieldy giant triangle crammed under a set of dusty sheets. There it was: the Liberator Wedge.
It’s been a long time since the Liberator has served its original purpose, which I realize is probably more information about my personal life than you ever wanted to know, but what can I say: it’s huge, it’s sprinkled with dog hair, it’s been used as a toddler slide. There is nothing remotely sexy about it anymore, and if you’ve seen its appearance in Burn After Reading you know just how silly it really looks.
(Also, honestly? A few pillows pretty much provide the same helpful assistive technology, and can be re-arranged to their usual innocent tableau afterwards.)
What to do with a large foam wedge, one that could ostensibly be passed off as an enormous reflux pillow or some such except for the telltale Liberator logo on the (washable, obvs) cover? We had amassed several large bags for Goodwill and I briefly considered the ramifications of donating it — would anyone even know? Could I cover up the logo? What sort of tax write-off would that be? — but ultimately decided I couldn’t handle the thought of it lurking in our local thriftstore, balanced on end next to the broken vacuums and deflated beanbag chairs.
I posted my conundrum on Twitter (because there’s something about being limited to 140 characters that leaves me with no shame whatsoever) and the prevailing advice was to put it on Craigslist, which was appealing if only for the chance to write the ad. But of course then there’s the whole awkward situation of having someone come out to your house in order to take away your gently-used sex furniture. I pictured myself handing it over, the brief moment when my hands and a stranger’s hands were simultaneously touching its plush microfiber covering. Or worse: both of us staring at it on the floor.
A crafty person could probably whip up a jolly new cover for the thing and permanently relocate it to the kids’ rooms, but isn’t there just something. . . awful about that? Like glueing fins on your vibrator and giving it to your kid to use as a “rocket” — it’s both a horrific little secret that would surely scar your child for life should they ever learn the story behind Space Shuttle Jack Rabbit’s origins, and a pathetic statement about the less-than-exotic nature of your sex life.
I suppose there’s always the option of hacking up the foam innards and stuffing it, gruesomely dismembered, in the trash. There it will be ferried away to some landfill, probably taking about a thousand years to biodegrade. Crows will pick holes in it, seagulls will spackle it with droppings. The Liberator logo will bleach in the sun. Wall-E will eventually pack it in a cube.
So let my story be a lesson to you: if you’re considering your own bedroom adventure gear purchase, make sure you have ample storage, never let a small child play on the damn thing no matter how much they beg for the “blue slide”, and be prepared to keep it FOREVER.
Jan
10
Three days in a row, people. THREE DAYS IN A ROW. I promise to eventually shut up about this sudden and well-received turd turn of events, but I’ll be honest with you, I NEVER THOUGHT THIS DAY WOULD COME. I truly thought my kid would be the one with the adult-sized Pull-Up under his graduation gown, all because of our epic parental fail on the potty training front, but out of nowhere a flip has been switched and now we’re spending each night cheering him on like we’re spectators at the Pooperbowl.
As promised, we had ourselves a little celebration around here last night, complete with appropriately-colored cupcakes and everything:
And then a festive bout of dual coloring with Riley’s new crayons:
If you’re thinking all the fuss sounds silly, you don’t understand: the last time he pooped in the potty we bought him a bike. That was OVER A YEAR AGO.
I know it’s not like we’re totally done with this or anything, but man, it’s a load (HAR!) off my mind that we’re no longer mired in the Complete and Utter Refusal stage, because it was truly getting us all down in the dumps (HO!) on a nightly basis.
Ever since Dylan was born — unlike when Riley was an infant — I’ve been thinking about how pointless it is to get too wrapped up in milestones and hope that your kid will crawl/walk/talk early because in most cases kids eventually all end up in the same basic place and in the big picture it doesn’t really matter when they first started sitting unassisted or whatever. It all goes by so fast, you blink and they’re no longer babies, and those seemingly-oh-so-important stages are just a fond but fuzzy memory. Did you really want them to learn to walk so badly, now that they can run away from you?
However, I can’t believe this holds true for potty training. I mean, do you ever miss the diapers? Frankly, this is one stage I won’t mind seeing the tail end (HEE!) of.
Hopefully an incipient potty prodigy.
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