I know it is good for Seconda and good for me, in theory, but I don’t know if I have the strength to persevere with “Quiet Time” any longer.
For starters, “Quiet Time” is almost never actually quiet, It involves a lot of protesting, whining and crying, all of which is done quite loudly.
On the rare occasion when it is quiet, then I’ve got real trouble on my hands. This was the case the other day
when my daughter stayed in her room without complaining for about a half hour. Then she yelled, “I HAVE TO DO PEEPEE!” and although she is always in her diaper, because I’m too lazy to potty train her, I decided that NOT allowing her to follow through with her own initiative was really egregious, so I told her she could go to the bathroom.
I continued to check my email, figuring she’d call me if she needed me.
Then I heard Primo yell, “MOMMY!!! SECONDA”S EATING HER POOP!!!!”
That got my attention all right.
“DON”T MOVE!” I yelled, rushing over.
Sure enough, on the floor of the bathroom was a very poopy diaper, just lying there, wide open.
And my daughter had smudges of brown around her mouth.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!” I bellowed.
Yet, deep down I had a feeling – call it maternal loyalty -- that even though she was two, and even though she was the wildest, most unruly taboo-breaker of them all, -- my daughter had not eaten her poop. Call me crazy, I just couldn’t believe it. Even Seconda has limits, I thought. She may be a monster, but she’s no animal.
After I cleaned her up and disposed of the dirty diaper, I went into her room to investigate. Then I decided my daughter was an animal, though hopefully not the shit-eating variety. It was like the Sack of Rome in there. It really looked as though a pack of robbers had trashed the place – clothes strewn everywhere, little table and chairs overturned, books ripped to bits and large streaks of Desitin smeared all over Primo’s blanket and toy chest.
Still, no trace of poop, thankfully. And then in the corner, in a tiny little crevice between the dresser and the wall I spotted what I instantly recognized as Seconda’s new secret hiding place. There was a pile of Primo’s precious Monster Little Big Heads, some feathers she ripped off his dream-catcher, a tennis ball and a completely-eaten tube of Mac lipstick.
Brown Mac lipstick.
“HALLEJUIA!” I yelled, “She didn’t eat her poop! She just ate my lipstick!!!!!!”
And there you have it, folks – parenting at its most glamorous.
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