London
I remember reading, after September 11th 2001, about the Blitz in London. I had no idea that the number of people, civilians, the lumpen proletariat, who were killed was so vast: more than 40,000, if I remember correctly. And a million (One Million) homes were destroyed. And this was in the 1940's. I can imagine those Londoners, with their Monty Python wit and their upper lips stiff, leaving their homes, from which they had already sent their children to live with distant relatives or unknown kind souls in the country, to go and live in the tunnels of the subway until they were told that they could return. The matter-of-factness and the non-complaining nature with which that city shouldered something so unfathomably horrible is something to which any citizens of any great city should aspire. And I hope that modern day Londoners carry on the tradition.
Back to Jack
Tomorrow, Jack officially turns 17 months old. And that scares the pants off me, because it means that next month, he'll be one-and-a-half and I need to do a few things: start potty-training and wean him permanently from his binky. While continuing to encourage him to talk. And getting him to eat better.
This stuff is worse, much worse, than anything that has come before because now, everything falls squarely on my shoulders as a parent. I'm no longer witnessing the natural growth of a baby mammal, like I was with eating solids and rolling over and walking; now I have to do "training" and "teaching." And I'm in a panic.
Pooping on Demand
Jack is no longer challenged in the area of poop, as he once was. He's quite regular. That is, he has at least one, and sometimes many more, poop a day. The problem is that I never have any idea when it's coming until it's almost here. So, when we're in a shop, or at the library, or somewhere where I'm not thinking about poop, he will squat down and look all serious for about a minute and then get up all happy with a huge smile on his face. That's it for warning signals.
The other problem with the poop is its consistency. I have no idea how this stuff would get into a baby potty (or any potty at all) because it is so sticky and tenacious. I think I described it once before as having the consistency of ready-to-spread frosting, and that's still pretty close. Frankly, the idea of scraping poop-scented frosting off of a plastic baby potty makes me gag; I'd rather deal with diapers. Which brings me to
The Crazy Women
If you are a mom who is practicing attachment parenting and has already potty-trained your 6-month-old, please stop reading here, because I'm probably going to say some things about you that you won't like. Not about you, personally, because I am sure that I'd like you personally. But I'm going to make some generalizations that are probably equally based in jealousy and guilt.
OK, so the rest of you: I was reading an article in the Boston Globe (http://www.boston.com/news/globe/living/articles/2005/07/05/look_ma_no_diaper/) this week about moms who potty train their babies as early as 4 months. One of the suggestions was to put junior on an absorbent pad and observe his "elimination schedule." From what I could see from the article, potty-training a 4-month-old looks like it involves carrying around the baby all of the time with a little bucket under its little bottom and being ready to get to a sink tout de suite as necessary.
Um, this is easier than diapers?
Some of the women who are involved in this *movement* (pardon the pun) are concerned about the waste created by disposable diapers. And that's something that I find troubling, too. But not troubling enough to spend my life based on the Number One/Number Two clock of an infant.
Steward of the Earth
So I'm flunking my Earth Day lessons with regards to diapers, however, I've been doing my best to make it up in other ways. Jack has an obsession with trash. He can spot it from yards away: cigarette butts, styrofoam, plastic lids, all sorts of wrappers and bags, bottle caps, smashed aluminum cans, you name it. He finds these things that I don't see (because I'm not looking) and he picks them up before I can stop him and he hands them to me. And I put them in my pocket, because I cannot bring myself to put them back on the ground. This makes for a very interesting time when I empty the pockets when doing laundry. Maybe I should give up blogging and do collage...Naaah. Bits of Dunkin Donuts cups and Heineken bottle caps don't speak to me.
8:34:08 PM 
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