Part 1 Three men and a lady…

As Sean “does his business” in Singapore for a week, I take my job as man of the house very seriously. I decide not to shave my legs, and I’m not getting near my armpits for quite some time. My bras are sitting in a pile at the bottom of the bed, and it’s a lucky day if I make it in the shower before 5 p.m. Bon Jovi “Dead or Alive” plays on the iPod in the background. I gather the boys around me in our usual football huddle and whisper, “This is going to be the greatest week ever in the history of Whiffen family fun.”

“What? Mom? I can’t understand you, can you talk louder?” Drew says, instantly ruining the inspirational moment. “But Dad’s gone.” says Clay.

Suddenly my resolve grows stronger.

I rush the boys into the car for swim lessons yelling orders for towels, snacks, and “don’t forget your Crocs.” I worry that they’ll sink mid-swim because they didn’t eat the scrambled eggs I made them for breakfast. Clay swore he saw the fly that landed on the yellow mound throw up before flying away. Drew and Judd left the table shortly after.

Over the course of the 30-minute swim lesson, Judd has to go potty (just number one) twice. Since I have to take him into the women’s dressing room, I cover his eyes to avoid seeing any naked parts he shouldn’t see. In those visits, we pass the familiar hairball and used band-aid. Just as we flush, I hear the whistle blow signifying the end of the lessons. The boys, wrapped tightly in their towels, baby step it to the car for our marathon day of jubilee not even The Wiggles could endure.



We head to Classic Fun Center fully equipped with water slides, a bounce house, and a jungle. Forty five minutes after entering the B.O. barn, a worthy name for a wet dog smelling, fly attracting fun box full of kids seemingly on speed, Drew yells, “Mom, Judd pooped in the ball pit!” Suddenly the place falls eerily quiet. Every parent looks in my direction, as if I have the scarlet letter painted directly on my forehead. It’s the same response we had last Sunday when we were in church and Judd yells, “What stinks! Ewww, Mom it’s your breath!” I eye Judd deep in the ball pit, three monkey swings, and a zip line away, his swim trunks sagging in the middle. I travail the American Gladiator-like course to rescue him and take him to the restroom. I duck and dodge kids and swinging objects until I finally zip-line my way across the crocodile pit landing on my monkey cheeks next to Judd. I proudly stand up wondering if I should try out to be a navy seal. Just as I bend down to grab Judd, I get whacked in the chest by a kid falling backwards. As we make our way through to the restroom, I hear a child say, “Mom, what smells like manure?” I walk a little faster. We find an empty stall so tiny, my bum presses against the door when I bend over to help Judd get his swim trunks off – my head so close to the toilet seat I see things that I hope aren’t really there. I’m grateful for the mach 2 (may be hydraulic) flushing toilet that cleaned the trunks nearly perfectly in three flushes. I’m happy to say we were “green” about the whole thing. Now, what to do about the SUV…

Alas, what does it take to train a 3-year old to go number 2 in the potty! Apparently it’s not tootsie pops, hulk hands that make growling and smashing noises, Indiana Jones action figures, a trip to Jump On It, a favorite book read-a-thon by mom who is sitting on the big potty next to the trainee on the little potty, pink, glittery jellies with a small heel, or a pleading, desperate mommy claiming she’ll give up her new 3G iPhone just to hear the coveted plop.

We praise the heavens and all the surrounding angels that our bodies weren’t made to go number 3.