What better way to avoid the inevitable move and all the packing that entails than to physically remove ourselves?
It’s called “avoidance.”
And we’re openly embracing it with a big, sweaty, open mouthed kiss induced by all the glorious warmth and humidity down south.
We spent all yesterday traveling and the kids were remarkably good. Very little to report save these two interactions James and I experienced with Sunny during separate bathroom tours of duty during our layover in Charlotte.
Episode #1: While in the female restroom during attempt number two to go number 2
Her: MAMA! I’M TRYING TO PUSH A BIG POOP OUT!!!
Me: Good job, sweetie… There’s no need to yell.
Her: LOOK! A REALLY BIG POOP! I PUSHED IT OUT! SEE?!?
She’s saying it loud and proud, folks.
Episode #2: In the men’s restroom with James, going number 2, again. Apparently she was so overcome with pride the first time, she got distracted and hadn’t fully emptied her bowels.
Her: Daddy, YOU HAVE A PEANUT!
Him: Yes, kiddo. Why don’t you focus on pooping, okay?
Her: Does everyone in here have peanuts except for Sunny?!?
Him: Yep. Let’s keep it down, please.
Her: I DON’T HAVE ANY PEANUTS!
Him: That’s true. Now focus on the poop.
I’m sure all the gentlemen in the bathroom were thrilled to have their genitalia referred to as “peanuts.”
Also? Observation: The “Family Bathroom” is apparently code for “Place Grown Men Poop.”
Neither James nor I could gain entry into this single bathroom as there was always a trail of dudes waiting their turn at a private movement. Seriously guys?!? You have to co-opt the bathroom intended for adults laden with demanding dependents?!
Oy vey.
Anyway, now we’re here and I’ll be posting up a storm on Instagram (IGalaCart). Go follow along there for more of this…
We hear her cry out in a panic in the wee hours of the morning each day. Her small frame fumbles out of her bed and across the hall to the bathroom. 29 pounds has never sounded so heavy plodding across the floor. We find her clutching the base of the toilet bowl, her arms trembling, her pajama shirt exposing that tiny, disappearing waist.
A two-year old should not be able to predict this feeling, should not know how to control those muscles until she’s safely hunched over the toilet. And yet, because of the past three weeks, she does.
The deep gutterall moans of pain are like that of a tortured, old soul. A person with far more years of life and heartache under her belt. They come from a place deep within. Scared. Pained. At the mercy of whatever is attacking her little body.
I rub her back.
You’re so brave. I’m so proud of you. You’re so brave. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…
They’re spoken to reassure me, more than they are her.
I press her slight figure against my own, willing whatever it is that is causing this pain – this rejection of all food and nourishment – to enter my body. I want to suck it out of her so that her eyes can once again sparkle. So that her skin won’t showcase every vain and rib. So that we no longer have to be awoken by such panic. And those moans… those awful, gut-wrenching moans.
Her spirit is as light as her body. And for this I am grateful. What she has lost in sustenance, she makes up for in spunk and resolve.
Mommy, can I maybe have some icecream when I have a solid poop again? I think that would be really good.
Yes, sweetie, yes. We can swim in a pool filled with raspberry ice cream when you are all better. When we’ve fixed that belly.
I yearn for her strength, as I fearfully crawl into James’ arms after each waking and my mind swells with terrible, frightening possibilities.
She curls up on her bed of towels, her face softening into the profile of the baby she once was. Of my baby that she will always be.
We breath together. I brush that long, silken hair from her cheeks and repeat, It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay… I will fix you. We will fix your belly. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay…
I’ve had this post sitting in my drafts folder for months. As in, before-Courtland-was-born months. So over a half a year.
It’s a topic I think about quite a bit given the various reactions I’ve fielded about my own children’s names. As with so much of maternity, something that is so personal is somehow open to public opinion and judgement.
And I totally fall into that trap. I’ve found myself scoffing and passing judgement on some of the baby names I’ve seen land in my Facebook stream or make their way into Sunny’s extracurricular activities.
How dare X spell her kid’s name that way!
My god, that name is so boring.
Seriously? That name? That spelling? What were they thinking?
I have shared in some variation of those statements and had some variation of those statements thrust upon me since become a mother.
Judgement is so much a part of maternity and parenthood, and something that James and I find ourselves falling victim to and also perpetuating on a regular basis. When we previewed preschools for Sunny, we experienced a particularly loaded and judgey period. We’re constantly reminding ourselves that just because we’re not doing it X’s way, or just because Y doesn’t make the same decision as us, there isn’t a right or wrong answer when it comes to parenthood and raising a family.
I’m really trying to get better about reserving judgement, because lord knows it hurts when I find myself facing it from others.
ANYWAY, rant about judgement done.
For now.
On to my babies’ names.
As demonstrated by a breakfast discussion with Sunny regarding our family’s names, it’s a rather complicated state of affairs.
So let’s start with our family name, Cart, shall we?
I never thought I’d take my spouse’s last name. After a college schedule full to the brim with Women and Gender Studies courses, I graduated assuming I would keep my last name, regardless of my marital status. Why should I give up my name when dude man isn’t expected to? Why would I perpetuate this patriarchal system of naming? “Not I!,” I thought, “I’m a liberated, independent woman!”
When it came time to be married and discuss the surname situation, James and I batted around a number of ideas. I could remain “Ulmer,” and James, “Cart.” But when we had children, what then? I much preferred the idea of a common family name, a name that tied each of us together as a unit. We could be the “Ulmer-Carts,” but hyphenated names are so cumbersome and then what would my potential daughters do when they were wed? Even more hyphens? The hyphens could circle the Earth three times generations from now! Egads! Then I proposed hybrid names. Ulmart? Yeeeeeah, no. Carter? Then James would be James Carter, as in Jimmy Carter. He gave me a big thumbs down. And he continually stressed the affinity he felt toward his family name.
I was lamenting the situation to my father and he commented, “The name that you are considering holding on to is a product of your father’s father’s father’s father and so on … what special affinity do you feel to that? Why not think about what it is about your name that you identify with?”
Such a smart man. Because when it comes down to it, I identify much more with my middle name “Weeks,” which is my mother’s mother’s mother’s surname and has been passed down as a middle name to the first born woman of each new generation for the past four generations. So I bagged the Ulmer. Kept the Weeks. And I now present myself as Ashley Weeks Cart. Boom! Problem solved.
On to the naming of our first born.
James and I knew that we were going to name our first child Addison long before we’d even started seriously talking about having children. It was a name I was drawn to because it was gender neutral, and I could use it for a male or female baby. I also liked it because it was a nod to my mother’s name, Allison, without being a direct reference. When I mentioned that I liked the name for a son or daughter, James immediately agreed. And we thought that such quick mutual agreement on a name was a good sign. Our first child was to be an Addison.
Except then Grey’s Anatomy became super popular and the name Addison took off for girls. And we had a family member tell us that we were giving our child the name of a disease.
I mean it’s not like we were going with Parkinson or Leukemia. But, again. Opinions. Everyone’s got ‘em.
We held fast to our decision despite its popularity and the negative commentary of others. Had Sunny been a boy, he would still have been named Addison. The middle name, however, was dependent on the sex of the baby. Weeks for a girl, because, as I mentioned above, it’s been the middle name for every first born female for generations. And Whaley for a boy, because it’s James’ middle name, and his father’s, and his father’s father. And given the common initial with either choice, the baby would have my initials – AWC – which was a nice nod to me when the last name was always going to be a nod to James.
And so she became Addison Weeks Cart. With Sunny as a nickname because my mother’s nickname growing up was Sunny. She wasn’t an Allie, and I didn’t want my daughter being an Addie. And knowing that she was going to grow up with a generation of Addisons, at least the nickname would set her apart.
On to our second born!
We had two old family names in mind for Courtland. I asked my mother for a list of older family names, as again, since the baby was going to have James’ surname AND his middle name (we knew we were going to use Whaley for the second child since it hadn’t been used with the first), I wanted a name from my side of the family to connect this baby to those generations.
We ultimately liked Pennington and Courtland, because both of the names were gender neutral and could be used for a boy or girl. If we went with Pennington, we would have a son, Penn, or a daughter, Penny. I still love the name and could see using it if we ever expand our family further.
But we chose Courtland because of an experience I had at a Kinko’s in Washington, D.C. I kid you not. You see, I was down in The District on a business trip while five months pregnant. I ran to a local Kinko’s to make some copies for a presentation I was giving and when I approached the counter I told the guy at the register that I was there to pick up an order for “Cart.” He responded, “Courtland Cart?” I paused. Startled. I had never encountered a Courtland in real life, and I thought I might be hearing things since that very name had been on my mind. I said, “Excuse me?” and he repeated, “Courtland Cart?”
It felt like the Universe was telling me something. Courtland Whaley Cart she would be. We had great debates about spelling, as of course we could have gone with “Cortland,” after the Berkshire apple. And I have had more than one person ask me if we named her Courtland because we were trying to be like Gwyneth Paltrow. I would have had to name her “Banana” or “Cherry” if I was mimicking Gwyenth’s naming style, but regardless, these are indeed queries that I have fielded.
Oh my, and her nickname. Her nickname has by far received the most judgement and sideways glances of any of these choices.
We knew we didn’t want to go with Court, because Court Cart seemed too alliterative for even my tastes (and I’m definitely down with alliterations).
Corey and Callie were offered up by well meaning family members who shuddered when they heard we were using Kaki.
I’ve always adored the nickname Kaki. It’s preppy as hell, just like my upbringing. I know it’s traditionally a nickname for Catherine, but why not for Courtland? And, most importantly, Addison could pronounce it. And since Courtland was such a mouthful for her toddler vocabulary, we went with it. And all the baggage and judgement that goes with it.
Ultimately, all that matters is that James and I absolutely adore our daughters’ names. We realize that they may ultimately decide to refer to themselves differently than Sunny or Kaki as they grow up - in fact, these days Addison insists that her name is “Kiddo” - but for now, we are relishing our Sunny and Kaki and all the preppy, personal goodness that they embody.
And I’m working on the judgey thing, because I sure know how much it sucks to be on the receiving end. Name your kid “Blue Ivy” or “Sage Moonblood” or “Blanket” and I’ll smile and nod knowing that there is undoubtedly a very personal, good reason why these children have those names. And it’s ultimately none of my dang business because these names are not my own children’s names. It’s not like I have a kid who’s name is Apple Cart…. oh wait…
The title of this post could be the opening line to any parent’s life. There is nothing unique about the story I’m about to tell. Nothing novel or special. It is the reality for any human being caring for young dependents. It’s the story of parenthood.
But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to tell it with as much hyperbole and mellow drama as possible.
So it’s been awhile. I feel that you all are due for some good, bodily fluid filled writing.
Of course this bodily fluid filled writing was postponed because I was gifted with the very same illness that was cause for this writing in the first place. I spent Sunday and Monday writhing around in bed and over the porcelain throne, proving, yet again, that my 2 year old handles throwing up with far more grace than her mother. Just hold back my hair and tell me I’m pretty, damn it!
As you may have gathered from last week’s posts, Sunny was sent home from pre-school on Wednesday afternoon for vomiting, and she threw up a handful more times, causing her to miss school on Friday as well.
By Saturday, however, it seemed that we were in the clear. She was on the mend. James and I were still holding down lunch. Our washing machine was still standing. All was right in the world.
James and I even booked our sitter to come to the house Saturday evening so that we could go out on a proper date. Complete with wine, and live music, and the holding of hands and the rubbing of thumbs, and the promises of some adult romance upon our return home.
We should have known that the cosmos was conspiring against us, however, when Hanna, our super mutt, decided to empty her entire bladder all over the carpet upon seeing our babysitter’s husband enter the house. This dog is particularly submissive with men and has been known to piddle here or there when overwhelmed with excitement and submission, but this pee, it was big enough to fill Lake Eerie. So there we are, all dolled up for romance, wiping up a sea of Hanna piss before even leaving on our date.
And that was just a teaser for what was to come…
When we returned home at 11pm, we opened the door to Donna, our sitter, standing in the hallway with a pillow dripping in vomit, and Sunny standing over the toilet with a puke-mustache.
So there’s that. Apparently letting Addison eat an entire pot of macaroni and cheese for dinner on the tail end of a stomach bug was not the brightest of parenting decisions.
Donna and her husband swiftly departed, and I took to cleaning up Sunny, while James tended to her bedroom.
As we waited for James to finish up in Sunny’s room, I snuggled Addison into our bed. I repeatedly asked if she still felt sick or like she wanted to throw up, as she had been really good about giving us warnings earlier in the week. She insisted no. She just wanted to go sleep in her bed.
As James appeared to carry her back to her bedroom, she frantically proclaimed, “I’m gonna throw up!”
The whole situation transpired in slow motion. Like some horrible, puke-filled drama.
I grabbed Addison and flung her little body across my chest as a rainbow of vomit rained down across me and our bed, all in an attempt to get her to throw up on our hardwood floor rather than the soft, cushy, impossible to launder King comforter.
I hadn’t really thought this through. Clearly.
But guess who happened to be lying directly by the side of the bed, filling in for said hardwood floor?
None other than the Pee Pee Machine herself!
So the crazy super mutt got completely covered in throw up, which caused her to freak out and run for our bedroom door. She looked like she’d just been slimed as a contestant on Double Dare. Not exactly the kind of being you want racing through your home. James managed to tackle her to the ground to keep her from exiting the bedroom, as I finally got Sunny planted on the hardwood.
Then, James and I were frozen. Staring at each other. And we had this moment where through no words, but merely the shock and horror of our faces, we expressed a “Holy Vomit Batman! Now what?!’
You see, as a child I thought that my parents had it all figured out. That they always knew what to do in every situation. However, now, as a parent myself, I realize that we’re all just making this shit up as we go.
So, there we were, improv-ing our way through a room full of vomit.
During our shock, Sunny decided she needed to puke again. Honestly, we just sat there and let her have at it all over the floor as we still had yet to figure out how to untangle this mess in the least destructive manner possible.
I eventually stripped Sunny of her pajamas and offered them to James as dog towels. We then got to triaging our way through the rest of the clean up.
I think James’ series of tweets post-The Incident most succinctly and accurately sum it all up:
Lesson learned. No romantic dates for us. Come back, 10 years.
On Wednesday, I went to pick up Sunny from preschool and noted that she was wearing different pants than the ones I had dropped her off in that morning.
I assumed that they were yet another victim of the potty-training regression that has occurred since she started going to school.
Hey, she sees all her peers pooping their pants, so why shouldn’t she demand that someone still wipe her ass. Many a new pair of underwear has fallen prey to this line of thinking.
I asked Sunny if she’d had an accident and she very matter-of-factly told me, “No.”
One of the teachers chimed in:
This afternoon, I turned around after nap time and Sunny was running around the classroom without any pants on. We asked her where her pants were and she claimed that she’d had an accident. I went to her cubby to get fresh pants, but when I picked up her old ones, they were bone dry. I didn’t want to contradict her, so I put the new pants on, assuming that she simply wanted to wear different pants.
<Sigh>
If only that were the reasoning.
“No, no,” I explained, “She just didn’t want to be wearing pants. Period. This is an ongoing battle at home. She’s lied to me on more than one occasion, crying wolf about an accident to explain why she has removed her below-the-waist attire.”
But I didn’t stop there. Oh no, my horrible inability to act with grace and restraint kept my thought process steaming ahead and I found myself saying: “I blame myself. I’m really not the best role model on this front.”
<Awkward pause>
<Blink blink>
<The raising of heads (and eyebrows) from every parent in the classroom>
<Uncomfortable laughter>
I continued, at this point trying to explain why pants-wearing role modeling might be an issue for a grown woman:
You know, because I’ve been on maternity leave and all. And who has time for pants with a new baby in the house? AM I RIGHT? HA HA! Fortunately, I’m back to work! So *fingers crossed* you’ll see improvement from her on this front.
I finished shoving Sunny’s lunch into her bag and scrambled away before anyone could question me further.
GUYS! I’VE BEEN FOUND OUT! IN REAL LIFE!
I suppose I should just circulate a memo to the entire staff and parent community with a link to this blog. That will avoid any further surprise when it comes to my child’s behavior.
Also, I’m blaming my mother. And she can then pass along blame to her mother, the root of this Weeks Women propensity to operate sans culottes.
Good news? I’m winning on some role modeling fronts. Take a peek at this video. James caught Addison rocking out in the middle of the living room, demonstrating a well-skilled and confident “finger dance.” Also? She’s not really wearing pants. But at least we’d convinced her that tights were okay. Double win! Kind of!
Despite gorgeous scenery and warm weather, this is the closest we came to a decent family picture. HA. That is literally what Sunny and I are saying in that image. HA, indeed.
Now that we’re back in New England, we’re going to somehow snap one for the holidays that doesn’t involve us looking like abominable snowmen. Don’t ask me how. It may involve frostbite.
Perhaps we’ll just use these gems from the plane flight. Because arguably we took more photos on the plane than anywhere else on this trip.
So instead of talking about all the lovely adventures we had, like s’more making, and boat riding, and wine tasting, I’m going to talk to you all about poop. Because, why else do you come here if not for the bodily fluids, eh? And I feel as though I’ve been really letting you down in that area of late.
While the trip was wonderful in so many ways, I have also never spent so much of my life in public restrooms. With a potty-training toddler, a nursing infant, and a post-partum body, a good 50% of my time in South Carolina was spent huddled on or around a public toilet.
Unfortunately, when we needed a public toilet most, we were at a loss.
You see, for one of our days away, we opted to hop a boat and head on over to Hilton Head. What a fantastic trip for the kids! Riding on a boat! Climbing lighthouses! Eating ice cream! All was going to be glorious.
Except it was Day 3 of a stopped-up toddler. She’s done this to us before. I don’t know why we’re surprised that the poop-strikes continue. Her relationship with her bowels has become far more complex now that they must evacuate on an adult toilet, so this has been an ongoing struggle since our transition a few weeks ago. Usually it takes 5-6 visits to the potty to thoroughly empty her lower intestine before the coast is clear.
We knew this. And yet… Hindsight is always 20/20.
In the center of town there were public restrooms aplenty. Many pee breaks, diaper-changing breaks, and change-of-clothes-due-to-spit-up breaks were had in those very restrooms.
My life is pretty glamorous, no?
During one of these trips to the toilet, Sunny went #2. Much applause and praise was lavished upon her, because shitting in an adult potty is a big deal, yo. Especially a public one, away from the confines and comforts of home. Instead of heeding previous #2 experiences, however, James and I thought that this post-poo moment was the ideal time to journey as far away as humanly possible from the public restrooms, to get a view of the harbor. We made it all the way out to the tip of the point, and as we looked up to take in our vista, Addison’s little voice said, “Mommy, Daddy, I need to go poop again.”
James turned and chimed in, “Sweetie, I think you already did.”
Yep, from the look of her pants, we were too late. And we now had the equivalent of five football fields to traverse before we’d be in the safety of a bathroom, away from the judgements of others due to our feces-coated toddler.
I thought that the walk from the hospital entryway to L&D was the longest walk of my life.
I take it back.
THIS was the longest walk of my life.
James and I each grabbed a hand and moved as quickly as possible, dragging Addison along, as streams of brown ran down both sides of her legs. She cried. She protested. It BURNED! STOP!
So there we are. On Hilton Head Island. Manhandling our toddler, our toddler that smells and looks of a pig sty. Shit running down her legs and into the sidewalk that leads to the majestic harbor view. As tourist after tourist watches on in horror.
One gentleman even approached us and said, ever-so-concerned, “You do realize that you’ve missed some on her leg? You should probably clean that up.”
Oh, that enormous shit that is raining down our child’s body? YES! Silly me! I hadn’t noticed!
By the time we got to the restroom, James and I were both laughing so hard that we were crying. Crying from the ridiculousness and humiliation of it all. As James gave Addison a bath thanks to a box of baby wipes, and I dry-heaved into the sink rinsing off her shoes, her pants, her underwear, MY SOUL!, we were once again reminded of this ever-so-special club that we’ve joined. Because prior to May 18, 2009, we could never have envisioned spending our life swimming in another person’s poo in a public restroom. And yet, now? We can’t imagine living without it.
Of course, Courtland blew out her diaper mere moments after we exited the bathroom with a now-clean Sunny. And ya know, cleaning up breast fed baby poo is a cakewalk. Perspective, y’all. I totally have it.
