Dad vs. the Boys

It was 6:25, time for the Big Game to start, and I gave a start as I looked at the time.

The game was Dad vs. James and Owen, and we play on Wednesday and Thursday nights. J is off at work, and I need to put them to bed myself. I don't exactly how you're supposed to score the Big Game, but I think the Boys are winning.

I gave a start because J needed to be out the door at 6:30, and I had told her at 6:00 that I would only practice for 15 minutes. Despite putting in 40 minutes with a soft mute before anyone got up this morning and going to a BPO rehearsal, I still hadn't even come close to getting through all the rep I was supposed to be looking at. Audition materials for Jacksonville, drone exercises with headphones in, the Broadway book with all the high register playing (where'd my tiny mouthpiece get to?) in two weeks, the BPO brass ensemble concert in a week and a half, let alone the folder for the education rehearsal tomorrow morning.

I lost track of the time. J was rushing out the door with James perched on the potty and Owen lying on the floor. I apologized as best I could and pulled James' diaper back up. We're in the midst of an intense week of potty-training efforts with him. At the risk of compromising this blog's tasteful restraint, here are the details--he'll do a certain act which for the sake of delicacy we'll call "number one" anytime we sit him on his little blue potty. He knows that we don't want him to go in his pull-up, and if we remind him every half-hour, on the half-hour, and set a timer to go off (so that he knows it's official) we can get him through most of the day with a dry diaper.

The other part of potty training, the bit we'd call "number two" isn't coming so easily. We know when he needs to go. He knows when he needs to go. And he refuses to do that in the little blue potty. He still wants to do that in his diaper. And even if we hang over his shoulder all evening asking him whether he needs to go or not, at the first minute someone leaves him alone he'll duck into the corner of the kitchen behind the microwave or behind the couch or into the powder room and take care of "number two" in his own way.

But as I said, I don't like to spell out the gruesome details.

I put James back together, and rescued a whimpering Owen from his spot on the floor. One of the neat things about this stage in Owen's development is that he definitely can recognize Mommy and Daddy individually. One of the not-so-neat things about this stage in Owen's development is that he has a serious preference for Mommy, and is not so thrilled about just Daddy being around. I'm kind of like the optional entertainment that he'll tolerate if J is holding him, but is just a nuisance if she isn't around.

He whined and cranked in my arms as I rooted through the cabinets for some candles to put on the table. Earlier in the day I'd bought a nice bottle of wine and some flowers, and I had a fancy dessert from Wegmans in the fridge. If I could get both kids down to bed by 8 and the house straightened up, all signs pointed towards a good evening with J.

Owen had other plans. He whined louder and louder, and then I smelled him. He had done some "number two" in his diaper. I was actually thrilled about this (and maybe this is why James is confused) because Owen seems to have problems making "number two" happen on a regular basis, and he gets pretty cranky when his plumbing isn't working right. I left James downstairs and took Owen up to get changed, thinking to myself "He'll probably be really relaxed and happy for the rest of the evening, right?"

Not so. He screamed louder than ever as I changed his diaper. I tried to soothe him as I wrapped him back up and took him downstairs, but nothing was working. As soon as I was back down, the timer went off for another James potty-turn.

I should've smelled it before I started to pull down the diaper. James had seized the moment I was gone to change Owen and done in his pants what he so desperately didn't want to do on his little blue potty. I laid Owen down on the floor again, now thoroughly shrieking, put James on the potty and gave him dire warnings not to move at all or to touch his diaper, and ran back upstairs for the wipes and the changing mat.

It was a mess. It was the sort of mess that you want a Haz-Mat suit to work with. Especially if the Haz-Mat suit came with earplugs, because Owen was FREAKING out. James was pretty nonchalant, though. He looked as though he felt a lot more comfortable. I gave him a Fatherly Talking To about Responsibility and Being a Big Boy and how much he would enjoy all the Bribes we promised him if he would please do that in the potty from now on. And Owen screamed on.

Once I washed up I went to work on Owen, but he was already past the point of no return. He could not be calmed, and he certainly would not tolerate me reading a book to James while I jiggled him on my lap or walked him around the living room. I took him upstairs to try to rock him for a bit in his chair, but he screamed even harder once we were up in his room. James also came upstairs to get some of his stuffed friends, and promptly fell down the stairs on his way back down.

By now Owen was producing level 11 noises, and being a 10 volume baby I was worrying for his safety. I decided to bust out the nuclear option--a premature feeding. He'd eaten a little less than two hours ago, so I was pretty sure he wasn't hungry. The frozen breast milk, or as J calls it "liquid gold" is my only safety line on the long Thursdays I have the boys alone. But I needed to calm him down, and he was either hungry, tired, or constipated. I figured a bottle would help him in any of those situations.

It didn't. I got it all warmed up and set James on the task of picking up his toys, but Owen just screamed through the bottle attempt, and also choked on some milk that accidentally ended up in his mouth.

In the end, I think he was just tired. I put him in his swing and let him scream it out, and he fell asleep within five minutes. He isn't supposed to go to bed that early, so I suspect we'll see him again tonight much earlier than his usual 2 AM appointment with J. I also suspect that I might be in a bit of trouble for wasting 3.5 oz of breast milk and guaranteeing that she'll need to get up one more time in the night. Perhaps that dessert will keep in the fridge until Friday or something.