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Poop Voucher

It is just something my husband started.

He would be looking for me in the house and I would be in the bathroom and he would say through the door,”Are you pooping again? Do you have a poop voucher for that?”

What is a poop voucher? I asked myself and him the same question. It is just some imaginary tool he invented to torture me with. So, then I played the game to try and get back at him.

“Are you pooping? You used up all your poop vouchers for this week (or month, etc.),” I would hassle him.

“I am borrowing from next week,” he would reply, or something equally smart ass.

There is no strict allowance or number of vouchers that you get for a time period. Because poop vouchers are entirely imaginary.

Until now.

Behold, the Poop Voucher!

In order to get back at my husband, I spent one night designing an actual poop voucher, according to what it looks like in my head. (My husband fell asleep that night before I got it done to show him.)

The next morning I showed him, and he insisted we make copies. He wanted them big. I wanted them small. I printed off a small batch and a medium batch before we felt like it was a waste of printer ink.

My husband made up some lame, arbitrary rules (he says “overly complicated and unnecessary rules”) for how to use them. Like the big vouchers could only be used Thursday through Monday, except on birthdays, religious holidays, anniversaries, reunions, etc. The little vouchers could only be used Tuesday through Monday 1:15PM EST until 11:31AM PST, with the same exceptions, also excepting February 29th of leap years and the first Thursdays of the month. (No pooping on birthdays? That’s harsh. I guess I know what I will wish for when I blow out the candles.) I laughed til I cried and told him there was no way that I could remember all that.

After my son carried a few vouchers around the house, I realized how very not water-resistant poop vouchers are. Then I laminated them with packing tape. (Yes, I realize at this point I have spent an unusually long amount of time on a product that is just an inside joke between my husband and I. But it makes for a great blog, don’t you think?)

Laminated Poop Vouchers. That is a lot of steaming piles of poo…

There is still no hard and fast number of poop vouchers to be allotted each week. We did agree as long as my son is in diapers, he is off the voucher system. We still have no collection arrangement for them–although I think my son’s shape sorter might handle this job nicely. I asked my husband just today when he came out of the bathroom,”Hey, did you use a poop voucher?”

Possible voucher collection device

“It’s in the living room,” he replied.

Why has the legend of the poop voucher persisted in our household?

I think it all comes down to the fact that it just sounds funny to say “poop voucher”. Heeheehee.

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Lookin’ Like a Bum

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Everyone has those days. Where you have carved out time in your busy schedule to clean the bathroom, but you are out of cleaning products. So, you run to the store in your pajamas. Or sweats. Or holey T-shirt you have had since high school and usually use to wax the car in. You try to get in and out as fast as possible, because you don’t really want anyone you know to spot you out of the house like that.

Or it happens at 9:30PM at night. You are already in your PJs and that ice cream craving hits. You can’t deny it. A run to the store is in order.

Now, these times used to not bother me too much. I have always looked young for my age (I am not bragging. Ask anyone. It is actually a pain sometimes.). I always assumed if I left the house dressed like a bum that people would just assume I am a college student too lazy to find a pair of jeans on my dorm room floor. (For the record, I have never lived in a dorm room. Except one night for orientation. Because the college MADE ME.)

But, the other day, as I cruised Meijer in yoga pants and too big flannel shirt from my grunge phase in 2000 (Yes, I know. Grunge was way over by then), I realized that I may no longer be viewed as a scummy college student anymore. I might just look like a tired mother, out to buy cleanser and ice cream. And that thought saddened me. Don’t get me wrong, I still am not going to dress like I am going to a job interview to go to the store. But I will be sad to think I am too old to fool anyone anymore.

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Like Father, Like Son

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I don’t write much about parenting on my blog. Mostly because my blog is my escape from parenting. Also, I only have one 20-month old son, so what the hell do I know about parenting? I was an only child. I never babysat as a kid. There was never anyone younger than me in my family to take care of. So, my husband and I spend a lot of time winging it.

Today I wanted to talk about how my son is going to take right after his Daddy. My husband loves to disassemble things. He always has. (Ask any of his family members. They will tell you about the television he took apart and didn’t put back together again.) When our TV started smoking a few months ago, my husband had that thing unscrewed before it had even cooled off.

Mostly, I find this be an endearing quality. It is incredibly handy too. When our pipes to our shower burst several winters ago, he moved the tub surround (all one piece, mind you), replaced the pipes and the faucet, insulated them so that they would stop freezing every winter, put the tub surround back, and built a faux wall where before there had been an ill-fitting shelf unit. My passenger-side window in my car got stuck in the down position a week ago. While I didn’t want to put the money into getting the new part to fix it, he took the car door apart and put the window in the up position for me (especially nice since that is our only vehicle with working air conditioning).

There are a million examples like that. He is very handy. For all the things he actually fixes, there are only a handful of things, such as a toy remote control helicopter, mantel clock, or gun, that sit around endlessly, waiting to be reassembled. And usually there is a good reason they are not yet back together. Usually a piece has gone missing. Usually, that piece is a spring.

I can already see these traits of extreme curiosity in my 20 month old son, M. He has a Thomas & Friends book that plays sounds and songs, complete with a steering wheel that turns. Yet, often, I find him with it flipped over, trying to figure out how to get into the battery compartment. Lucky for both of us, it requires a screwdriver. So curious to find out what makes it work.

My child. Highly fascinated by the VCR. “What is this analog?”

The other day, M was laying flat on the living room floor, with both hands in the VCR door, checking it out. Just so you know, it was upstairs and we only recently brought it down. So it is new to M. And apparently, there is great mystery with what goes on inside of it.

The most obvious example of M being like his Daddy happens every time I vacuum the house. I have a Shark Navigator. I believe it is a pretty early incarnation. The one featured in infomercials about two years ago. I hope the company has fixed the design issues that my vacuum has. (One of these is that the sweeper exhaust, that goes through the hepa filter, blows directly in front of it. This caused me endless frustration chasing dog hair around the house I could not catch. So I had to rig it so that it vented to the side instead.) The dust cup is deceptively small. I have two dogs. Sweeping only the downstairs once a week, I have to empty the dust cup five times. And that is when M swoops in.

My Shark Navigator

When you remove the dust cup on my Shark Navigator, two foam filters are exposed. As soon as I walk to the wastebasket with the dust cup, a certain adorable toddler runs over and takes out the foam filters. Then he has dirty little hands and he leaves dirty little hand prints all over the house I am attempting to bring some semblance of clean to. Oy.

I have many more years of disassembling ahead of me. After all, my husband already has a mini bike and a box of random old engines in the garage for M to discover someday. It is a good thing we had a boy so that they can man-boy bond in the garage for years to come. But that will have to wait. For now, the garage is not child-proofed.

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