Tonight the little angel accidentally achieved her first potty success.  Inadvertant pissing, you might call it.  A party foul, if you're drunk, but a highlight of the toddler's pottying career.

The little angel will bail from Waddler B and enter the two-year-old room at the Emerald City next month.  We're very relieved, because Waddler B has become divided along party lines between the little angel's camp and Baby M's camp.  Sworn enemies, they are, and the babies in Baby M's camp are outnumbering the little angel's posse more with each day.  Her best friend S., a scant month younger than she, is her remaining ally.  Baby M., of course, is now refusing to recognize her government.  Daycare can be so political.

Tonight she was sitting on her potty chair as I read her the book with bagels as shapes.  She kept standing up, so I thought she wanted to take off her diaper.  I took it off and started drawing her bath.  She stood up and walked over to the bathtub rim right as I turned the water on.  Like clockwork, she started to pee as the water left the faucet.  Just as the stream hit the ugly linoleum, I grabbed her and put her on the potty chair.  Approximately two drops fell in as she shut down faster than Saddam's trial did when he started making that whole "fuck the USA" speech today.

I started cheering for the two drips.  "Yeah!" sayeth I, proclaiming the drips from the mountaintop of our oddly gray toilet (it matches the gray bathtub - where the previous owners shopped for fixtures, I'll never know).  "You put your pee in the potty!  Huzzah!"  The little angel looked shocked.

I pulled the potty stickers from their hiding place, where they have lain in waiting since she was eighteen months old.  "You get your first potty sticker!"

Potty stickers?  Her little face registered.  There are stickers for everything!  What a wonderful world it is.

I placed the potty sticker on the potty itself.  I got this idea from football teams.  Sometimes they cover the helmets with stickers, and I have no idea why they do this.  I suppose maybe they got it from the military.  Or perhaps it ALL started with potty training. How very Freudian. I could go on with this analogy for a while, but I'm sleepy.

So anyway, that was really the end of it, though I'm hoping she'll try again. Benevolent Pediatrician predicted she would actually be potty-trained by her two-year appointment, though I scoffed at the time and still scoff today. Although, stranger things have happened.  Who knows what motivates mice and men?

The class this semester, they crack me up.  To follow up last's week's tattoo-and-piercing conversation, we took on the subject of teething this evening to blow off a little steam before their midterm grammar exam.

Many of the people in my class, men and women alike, ranging in age from nineteen to probably early forties (my best guess - they have aged well), have children. Two, in fact, have four children each.  Another women is pregnant with her second child, and she found out today it is a second son.  She was mulling baby names for her in-utero offspring when another student, a bright young twin who was home-schooled her entire career up until now, brought up that her boss at Famous Dave's has sixteen children. We pondered the issues involved with that many children.  The youngest was an aunt before she was born.  They have a bus to get around.  And how the hell does anyone afford sixteen children when gas is over $60 a barrel?  I haven't heard of any hybrid buses lately. Obviously, the people with whom my students associate know more about money management than I, who bemoans the cost of the Emerald City at any turn to anyone who will listen.

My students know that the little angel is not what you'd call "a sleeper" and has been having some nocturnal rehearsals for toddler Romeo and Juliet lately.  They asked if she'd slept lately.  I told them she has been saying "owie" and pointing to her mouth. This confused me, because I (not so much a dentist), thought that she had all of her teeth.

Pregnant Student:  "Oh, no.  Those molars, they go all the way back, Ms. A.  You're in for it.  M's kids never had a problem, though.  She knows a secret."

Student Two (the one who had a belly-button ring through an entire pregnancy, which we discovered in last week's tattoo-and-piercing conversation):  "I have four children.  You need to put a little whiskey on the gums."

Student Three (M, who runs a daycare center and is now entering the classroom, late - a dockage of three points, but I overlooked it just this once, because we all wanted to hear her secret):  "WHAT?  You can be arrested for that."

Student Two: "Well, no one's come for me yet."

Me: "What's your secret, M?"  (all lean forward eagerly)

Student Three:  "Potato necklaces."

Me:  "WHAT???"

Pregnant Student:  "She does this all the time.  She's insane."

Student Four: (home-schooled twin): "I guess I could see that. They could chew on it, then."

Student Three:  "No, they don't chew on them.  They're just little babies. The potatoes have nutrients that just soak in and those teeth come right out.  None of my three babies had so much as a whimper."

(I consider giving extra credit to whoever can figure out the basis for such an odd practice, but decide that is probably unethical.)

Student Three:  "In a few days, they turn brown.  Then you just switch them out."

Me:  "Doesn't that attract, oh, bugs?"

Student Three:  "My mama did it on my and my sisters.  She also rubbed diapers on our faces to cure yeast problems."

Student Five:  "I heard some people rub the diapers on their tongues to cure thrush.  But you have to do that when they're really young."

(I begin to wonder if these people have little voo-doo dolls of me at home for when they get bad grades.  My palms begin to sweat just a bit.  My midterm is sort of hard.)

Pregnant Student:  "Yeah, I guess.  I've heard that.  Well, she does the potatoes.  Me, I just use Oragel."

Yesterday was my first day back in a real office, with real cubes, real dusty, germ-ridden telephones and real public restrooms.  I was of two minds all day.  On the one side, it was so nice to see all of my old friends!  Other working mamas!  But on the other side, I missed bitterly the extra hour and a half I used to have with the little angel.  There used to be no frantic rush in the morning to get both of us dressed at the EXACT SAME TIME, no little angel being last at pick-up because it takes Mama 85 years to unentangle herself from the construction site that is downtown Kansas City to get back to pick her up.  I resented having to do Pilates with the little angel begging for my attention, tossing dirty laundry willy-nilly around the living room. 

I resented the fact that my beloved didn't get home until an hour after I picked her up. 

I resented being back in an office, any office, but particularly that office so much that when the little angel accidentally head-butted me while we were playing Tent downstairs that I burst into tears that took me about ten minutes from which to recover.  I'm not sure why I was crying, but I think losing my angel time was part of it.  I was so tired yesterday - the little angel was up from one to two-thirty in the morning on Sunday night, and I with her - and so confused about how I was feeling and whether I was scared the contract ended in 90 days or relieved it did - and what will I do next?  I have no idea what I will do next.  All of it has been weighing heavily lately.

I went to bed early last night, and the little angel mercifully let us sleep until the alarm went off at 6:30 this morning.  I'm hoping to have an improved attitude today.  I feel sort of like a spectator in my own life right now.  I'm also hoping that changes.

Sybil went in for her well-kitty check-up yesterday. Since she's sixteen, we have cat health insurance.  Yes, you may laugh, but yesterday's check-up would have cost us $350 if we did not have insurance. I paid $42.  Yea, thank you Banfield Pet Hospital for this miraculous invention for those of us specializing in geriatric pet ownership.

If you recall, Sybil developed a thyroid problem six months ago.  Since then, we have been giving her thyroid pills once a day.  They also told us that she had a heart murmur.  We were terrified, but she's been taking her pills like a good kitty, and we think she's doing fairly well.

When we went to pick her up last night,the Morose Veterinarian came out.  I think she was shocked Sybil had managed to drag herself through the past six months since she was last seen.

Morose Vet:  "Well, she seems to be doing okay.  The murmur is not as audible now."

Me:  "Oh, good. So she's in the clear."

MV:  "Well, she IS sixteen.  We gave her another thyroid test.  The results should be back in a few days."

Me:  "Is her weight up?"

MV:  (very seriously) "She's holding steady.  We had a thirteen-year-old cat in here today who was only five pounds. He was a boy." (looks solemnly at Sybil)  "He should've weighed more than her."

Me:  "She weighs eight pounds.  She's good."

MV:  "For now."

My beloved wandered over with the little angel from where they had been examining the fishies swimming in their technicolor tanks. 

Beloved:  "What are these?"

Me:  "Those are the cat chews they recommended for Sybil's tartar."  (Until this point, I had not questioned this purchase.)

Beloved:  "How much were these?"

Me:  (starting to feel stupid) "Thirteen dollars."

He holds up the bag in disbelief.  "There are only thirty chews in here."

We take Sybil in her carrier out to the car, where my beloved starts griping about the size of the parking spaces, which he insists on referring to as "parkin' spaces." His capricious Iowan dropping of the end "g" in words drives me insane for some reason.

Beloved:  "So, we're talking like forty-three cents a chew here. I bet they told you to give her like two chews a day.  (Imitating Morose Vet) 'Even though we sell the greenies, we really think that this more expensive product is much, much better. In fact, we think the greenies might actually be made of left-over nuclear waste.'"

Me:  "Why are you so hung up on this?"

Beloved:  "I think that vet is just like an insurance agent.  Every time we go in there she manages to tack on like five extra things."

Me:  (preoccupied with my firstborn's health) "Do you think Sybil's okay?"

Beloved:  "That vet is like Jiffy Lube.  Every time you go in there, they tell you a belt's about to snap or your oil filter looks like hell.  It's all about the add-ons with vets and oil-change places."

Me: "She needs the chews.  Gingivitis is very dangerous for the elderly."

Sybil:  "Meow.  MEOW!!!!"

The little angel tries to reach through the holes in the carrier.  They are sitting next to each other in the back seat.

Little Angel:  "Pretty Sybie."

Me:  "Honey, we have to be very nice to Sybie and give her her mousie toys and chews when we get home.  Sybil had a hard day.  She got shaved for her test."

LA:  "Sybie shaved?"

Me:  "Yes, sometimes for medical procedures you have to have your fur shaved." 

The little angel touches her hair thoughtfully.   "Sybie haircut?"

Me:  "Yes, precisely."

Beloved:  "I'm surprised they didn't charge us for a highlight to make her MORE tabby."

Me:  "We love Sybie."

Little Angel:  "Pretty Sybie."

Beloved:  "It's a good thing she's pretty.  Her food costs more than yours does."

Sybil went in for her well-kitty check-up yesterday. Since she's sixteen, we have cat health insurance.  Yes, you may laugh, but yesterday's check-up would have cost us $350 if we did not have insurance. I paid $42.  Yea, thank you Banfield Pet Hospital for this miraculous invention for those of us specializing in geriatric pet ownership.

If you recall, Sybil developed a thyroid problem six months ago.  Since then, we have been giving her thyroid pills once a day.  They also told us that she had a heart murmur.  We were terrified, but she's been taking her pills like a good kitty, and we think she's doing fairly well.

When we went to pick her up last night,the Morose Veterinarian came out.  I think she was shocked Sybil had managed to drag herself through the past six months since she was last seen.

Morose Vet:  "Well, she seems to be doing okay.  The murmur is not as audible now."

Me:  "Oh, good. So she's in the clear."

MV:  "Well, she IS sixteen.  We gave her another thyroid test.  The results should be back in a few days."

Me:  "Is her weight up?"

MV:  (very seriously) "She's holding steady.  We had a thirteen-year-old cat in here today who was only five pounds. He was a boy." (looks solemnly at Sybil)  "He should've weighed more than her."

Me:  "She weighs eight pounds.  She's good."

MV:  "For now."

My beloved wandered over with the little angel from where they had been examining the fishies swimming in their technicolor tanks. 

Beloved:  "What are these?"

Me:  "Those are the cat chews they recommended for Sybil's tartar."  (Until this point, I had not questioned this purchase.)

Beloved:  "How much were these?"

Me:  (starting to feel stupid) "Thirteen dollars."

He holds up the bag in disbelief.  "There are only thirty chews in here."

We take Sybil in her carrier out to the car, where my beloved starts griping about the size of the parking spaces, which he insists on referring to as "parkin' spaces." His capricious Iowan dropping of the end "g" in words drives me insane for some reason.

Beloved:  "So, we're talking like forty-three cents a chew here. I bet they told you to give her like two chews a day.  (Imitating Morose Vet) 'Even though we sell the greenies, we really think that this more expensive product is much, much better. In fact, we think the greenies might actually be made of left-over nuclear waste.'"

Me:  "Why are you so hung up on this?"

Beloved:  "I think that vet is just like an insurance agent.  Every time we go in there she manages to tack on like five extra things."

Me:  (preoccupied with my firstborn's health) "Do you think Sybil's okay?"

Beloved:  "That vet is like Jiffy Lube.  Every time you go in there, they tell you a belt's about to snap or your oil filter looks like hell.  It's all about the add-ons with vets and oil-change places."

Me: "She needs the chews.  Gingivitis is very dangerous for the elderly."

Sybil:  "Meow.  MEOW!!!!"

The little angel tries to reach through the holes in the carrier.  They are sitting next to each other in the back seat.

Little Angel:  "Pretty Sybie."

Me:  "Honey, we have to be very nice to Sybie and give her her mousie toys and chews when we get home.  Sybil had a hard day.  She got shaved for her test."

LA:  "Sybie shaved?"

Me:  "Yes, sometimes for medical procedures you have to have your fur shaved." 

The little angel touches her hair thoughtfully.   "Sybie haircut?"

Me:  "Yes, precisely."

Beloved:  "I'm surprised they didn't charge us for a highlight to make her MORE tabby."

Me:  "We love Sybie."

Little Angel:  "Pretty Sybie."

Beloved:  "It's a good thing she's pretty.  Her food costs more than yours does."

First of all, I got a new contract job (and there was great rejoicing).  Today I'll have the pleasure of quitting my displaced, weird, old job and beginning to prepare myself mentally and physically (where the hell did I put all my office clothes, again?) for the three-month contract that starts on Monday.  What am I going to do AFTER the three-month contract, you ask?  Ha ha - you must be under the mistaken impression that I know what I'm doing with my career.  Silly Internet.

On to other things.  Last night I taught my class at the community college.  One of my students had just gotten a new tattoo (or really, SERIES of tattoos) on her foot.  It looked like dragonflies or really more like regular flies, but I thought it might be rude to point that out.  I told her it is actually illegal in some states to get a tattoo below your ankle - I know, I have one on the inside of my left heel.  That launched a lot of tattoo talk, and so many of my students were so knowledgeable that I ended up polling them by a show of hands to see how many of them had tattoos.  Ready?  Out of fifteen people aged 18 to probably around 50, NINE had at least one tattoo.  If you count me, ten out of sixteen.  We are a Tattooed Nation, people.

I knew we were hopelessly off-track, but the conversation was fascinating.  One guy (the cage-fighter), said his buddy got a tattoo and they used a machine with 36 needles in it to do the shading.  Some students said they regretted the unfortunate placement of their tattoos, now that they were out trying to get jobs and such.  A slight girl mentioned that her friend had a bunch of biblical stuff tattooed on his body, but he wasn't necessarily religious - he just thought it looked cool.  Considering I've been reading John Irving's Until I Find You, in which the main character's mother is a tattooist, I've been thinking about tattoos more lately than I have in years.

The tattoo conversation then lent itself, as tattoo conversations generally do, to a discussion of piercing.  One of the students in the back, a middle-aged father of two who works at Large Corporate Telecom, joined the discussion of tongue piercing by sticking his pierced tongue out.  It turns out it had been pierced for sixteen years. I'd certainly never noticed. He mentioned most of his back teeth were chipped from him playing with it.  Then we discussed how quickly a tongue piercing can grow shut. One student mentioned his had grown shut when he went to jail. 

Next came the belly-button discussion.  One woman, a mother of four, had kept her belly button ring in all throughout her first pregnancy.  When she had her C-section, they took it out, and apparently the hole grew closed before she could get it back in.  Three kids later, she says she'll get it pierced again in a heartbeat as soon as she gets her figure back.

I had to end the conversation and ask the students to please open their books to page 91 when one student then started to carry the piercing conversation into previously uncharted waters.  I do not want to know EVERYWHERE my students are pierced.

Ahem.  Community college - it's not for amateurs.

Okay, I've been a little busy.  Last Friday, we took off for Iowa City to have a reunion with four of my five college roommates (this time no one was afraid to get on a plane, but my friend N. waited until three days before she needed to leave to try to use a 14-day-advanced-booking free ticket), their husbands (well, one of their husbands, the other one found out the day they were supposed to leave that he had to proctor an exam on Saturday) and their children (all children, including the one in utero, were present and accounted for).  It was LOVELY.  The children played together nicely with each other and Mona the dog.  The adults got to drink lots of wine and watch basketball (well, my beloved did, anyway), and we were able to invoke much unsolicited birth-control on my childless friend by taking her shopping with two under two during dinner time at a hot and crowded mall with a carousel.  Wheee!

On Sunday, it was sleeting in Iowa City. Very cold and icy.  We headed out early, only to find ourselves back in Kansas City at two surrounded by lovely blue sky and 65 degree temperatures.  It was so great outside, in fact, that we stopped at Loose Park with our fully-loaded Ridiculously Large Vehicle and decided to play and visit the ducks. 

As we walked from the playground to the little pond where the ducks were, we encountered young H., the older sister of one of the little angel's former daycare posse.  I have always dreamed that the little angel might aspire to H.'s bright, sunny personality and precociousness.  Every time she sees us, she scampers over, gives the little angel a hug and stops to talk.  She is polite and adorable.  I have always thought she might just be the perfect child. 

This time, we saw H. inadvertently as we inspected the "house" she and her little friend had made under some bushes by the rose garden.  The bushes were of the Japanese-looking type, with a lot of crawl space underneath.  H. asked if she could give the little angel a tour and led her deep into the thicket.  We heard her explaining the house.

H:  "This is the master bedroom, and here's the sink.  This towel is the couch.  See?  You can sit on it and lean back."

(The little angel looks on adoringly.)

My beloved and I exchanged smug glances.  What a little doll H. is!  How nice of her to give the little angel a tour!  Maybe the little angel will be JUST LIKE HER!

H:  "Here's the second bedroom, and there's the back door.  Here's the kitchen, and this is the stove." (Points to a pile of sticks.)

I prepare to walk away, leaving my beloved to collect the little angel. 

H:  "We looked all over the place for matches, but we couldn't find any.  We're still looking, so we can use the stove."

I glance back in horror.  H. catches my eye. 

Me:  (stammering) "I don't think that would be such a good idea."

H:  "Yeah, we don't even have insurance on the house."