Friday, January 11, 2013

Oui. Non. Special Feature: An Inanimate Object to Which I Object.

While my new feature, "Oui, Non" will typically involve harshly criticizing the appearances of attractive people with Yay or Nay spot decisions and residual gripes from the subjective discrimination of my own eyes, for no practical edification,  I am compelled to issue an official Oui/Non to an inanimate object.

I was pregnant back in the 20th century, and gave birth 16 days after the universe collective sighed in relief that absolutely nothing happened after the Y2K panic, people who stock-piled canned goods felt like dweebs, & GET THIS: The iPod wasn't yet on the market and the iPad wasn't even a zygote jewel of Steve Jobs' belly button. I know, right?

In the ensuing years, Craig and I changed literally thousands of diapers before our son (if memory serves) began potty training (I think) at age 2 (if you say so!). It was hit or miss (literally) and to be honest, we ended up sending him to Pre-Kindergarten when he was 3 years old, still wearing Pull-Ups, though he had the decency, sense and control not to soil himself during the half-days he was at school, which relieved his teacher.

Potty training is tough, y'all, and kids don't get it right away, both from a physical control standpoint as well as a mental/emotional view. Similar to training an animal pet, kids perform better at this task when there's some kind of reward involved, because otherwise, what incentive do little people have to schlep to the bathroom when it's way more convenient to wizz-and-go or poop-and-run from the friendly confines of their own clothing and protective undergarments?

Potty Training a'la 2002: Luke. Oui.

Kickin' it old school. Above, you find our son getting the gist of utilizing a training toilet. Perhaps we were too metaphorical when we said that "Poo(h) goes in the potty." While depicted in our living room, yes, we taught Luke to go in the bathroom, and if he wanted to spend an hour in there, he had books, or Spin, or Al Franken, you know, whatever by which to be entertained and distracted.

Color Luke confused, as he adjusts the padded seat (with handles) atop his beautiful blond curly ringlets. Color us ignorant for trying to teach him to use a toilet while wearing a zip-up one-piece pajama set instead of separate pants. Color it all immaterial, because eventually, we must have succeeded at our training mission because he'll be able to drive a car in a couple of years and defecates properly in the bathroom. Woot!

Potty Training a'la 2013: The iPotty. Non.

Moms and Dads, Moms and Moms and Dads and Dads!

Why entrust your child with, like, a board book or Highlights magazine, ya know, when you can whip out your goddamn iPad and place about $700 worth of electronics in front of a kid who can't even fucking aim waste into the little hole featured on this chair? 

Has anyone who's actually toilet trained a child SEEN the resulting mess a young child frequently makes during the experience of using a practice potty? If so, do you REALLY want your iPad in the same room, touched by the same toxic hands, and oh my God. No, no, no. And if your Wee One ruins your iPad (Oh, I don't know, with water, or piss, soap, crap, the douche you obviously left lying around or tossing it into the bathtub, just guessing), do you punish him/her or chalk it up as your own fucking fault for having this stupid fucking iPotty in the first place? I'd sooner hang myself.

You know I'm not (that) old and crotchety (Old? I'm only 40. The part of Crotchety today is being played by Guy Friend.) to the point of not welcoming new and innovative ways to bring up baby in a nouveaux fashion as I continue to age myself, count gray hairs and attempt to remember my parenting days of yore. 

Don't even get me started on the ridiculousness that is a Bugaboo stroller. Why don't you just drip your baby in diamonds, asshole?

As if it wasn't already obvious, I'm ticked off today.

Carry on, with the toilet seat on your head.

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