Winds of change

Oh the wind is blowing tonight. Blowing in some changes. Changes to a diaper free winter. We have been back into the potty training circus. All week Turner has worn underwear, not the same pair all day, usually two or so but we're on the way.

While on this journey I have discovered a few things. It is harder to train two than one. One is almost two, one is almost 33. I marvel at what testosterone does to a body. It makes men men. It transforms sweet loving little boys into hairy sweaty men. It can take a skinny boney kid and make a brick wall of a man out of him.

With all it's amazing properties, testosterone does have a few draw backs. The most prominate is the inability to hit the toilet when urinating. This wonderous hormone clouds the mind with thoughts of "What's on Tv?" and the irresistable urge to turn to the right or left when the toilet is clearly dead center in front of you.

We women don't have these obstacles to over come. We sit and contemplate the meanings of life. Enjoy what is often our only time alone for the whole day, or what is never our time alone if we have a toddler. Regaurdless of audience, I have yet to hear of a husband complaining of his wife's habit of pissing on the floor.

I have this on my mind for good reason. I have been having back trouble for a couple weeks now. Gone to 3 different doctors. I am now going to physical therapy, or medieval torture, depends on which end of it your at. Anyway, it seems to be helping. So with a little relief from my back ache I hit the house work hard this week.

The floors, my arch enemy. Always there, always clinging to anything to strengthen their dirt aresenal. I came out swinging. First sweeping, attaking all hairs and papaer bits. Then mopping, die you bastard scuff marks. Did the battle fields of old smell like pinesol after a hard won victory?

Then the heavy artilary was brought out, the Dirtdevil. I spent Sunday afternoon prepairing her for war. Cleaned all of her filters, toothbrushed the inside of the canister, she was ready. I hit every carpeted inch of the 4 bedroom 3 bath 21 stair building that is our home. I was gaining ground.

I always save the bathrooms for last. Get good and dirty cleaning them, then get good and clean in a fresh bathroom. Turner and I share a bathroom. It went really quickly, about 7 minutes and it was fit for a queen and a prince. The guest bath downstairs was a piece of cake. It's never used, so it is more keeping legions of dust bunnies from taking up residience.

Now on to the dragon's liar, Brad's bathroom. My strategy is to take everything out. Take it off the couter tops, off the floor and out of the shower. That way there will be no casualties of a dropped toothbrush or a cologne bottled with splatter marks. The emptieness only makes it more apparent that I need a hasmat suit. I love him, I do, but if I clean up any more black beard clippings that are stuck in the clumps of tooth paste in the sink I may have reason for justifiable hommicide. How do you put tooth paste on your tooth brush, brush your teeth, and still have a completly intact glob of toothpaste to spit in the sink? It's the eighth wonder of the world.

I need to remind him that just by being married to me that his life has been extended for at least 10 years. I would, but he would tell me he'd rather die 10 years earlier than heave to listen to me bitch about how filthy he can be. Such is marriage. I have saved him from living in a biohazardous dump and he has filled my days with the never ending tasks of picking up behind him and being his domstic goddess.