Getting kind of down to the wire on Christmas shopping… and Sarah & Jen had someone land on Momalom by Googling “gift for mother of three boys.” Obviously there’s a need for some assistance out there. And I am here to serve. I’ve compiled a list of things that might be helpful, trying to take into account a variety of tastes and budgets. The Mother of Three Boys in your life will be thrilled to find any of the following under the tree on Christmas morning.

Holiday Gift Guide for Mothers of Three Boys

Pink. Anything pink, because there is a good chance that there is nothing pink in her entire home. Bubble gum. Handcuffs. Cadillac. Use your imagination. Just get it in pink. Cost: $0.59 and up.

The Idiot’s Guide to Pokemon and Bakugan and All Those Other Stupid-Ass Trading Card Games with Weird Japanese Cartoon Characters that Elementary-School-Age Boys Love. These games make absolutely no sense to adults. Or females. Cost: paperback $16.95; e-book $9.99.

Plane Tickets. To anywhere, provided they are one-way. Cost: $87 and up, plus about $302 in airline fees.

Four-Shooter Rotating Liquor Dispenser. I know, I said I didn’t want this. But as I thought about it, I realized it was The Perfect Gift for a totally strung-out mother who has three boys running around shooting Nerf guns and farting all the time. Cost: $17.88, plus booze.

Valium Salt Lick. I stole this directly from The Kitchen Witch, because it is an awesome idea. You could also get a Junior size, guaranteed to chill those boys the hell out. If you get both this and the liquor dispenser, you might urge her to exercise caution in using both simultaneously.  Cost: No idea. Maybe a little pricey. Couldn’t tell you what Valium is going for these days.

Georgia O’Keeffe Print. Let’s just say it: there are a lot of penises in her house. This might provide a little balance. And if you don’t understand this one, I’m not gonna explain it. Cost: $22.99; $129.03 framed.

Noise Cancelling Headphones. All she wants is a little peace and quiet, without the constant roar of boy-children yelling out of anger. Or joy. Or hunger. Whatever. Get her a pair of these and she’ll be able to relax no matter what’s going on. (Disclaimer: not responsible if mother fails to hear screams when boy cuts off his brother’s hand with a chainsaw.) Cost: $27.68-399.99.

Imaginary Bullet-Proof Vest. To protect her from all the imaginary bullets that the firearm-obsessed little Rambos are constantly shooting from their imaginary guns. Cost: Free.

Prostitute. For him, not her. To satisfy whatever needs he may have. Because when she goes to bed at night, all she wants to do is sleep. Trust me on this one. Cost: Varies by region. Check Craigslist for current rates in your area. I would advise you to avoid bargain-basement prices, however.

Bathroom Renovation. Toilet training one boy makes your bathroom disgusting. Toilet training two boys makes it unusable except in emergencies. Toilet training three boys results in the need for a floor-to-ceiling decontamination, and requires the use of biohazard suits to enter. Reclaim your home and gut the bathroom. Cost: I dunno. Probably at least a couple grand.

A Year’s Supply of Air Freshener. In case the renovation isn’t in your budget. Cost: $168.

So there are just a few ideas to get you started. Ho. Ho. Ho.

(Oh, and many apologies for the rampant gender stereotypes in this post. In my defense, there is a reason for most of those stereotypes. I know this for a fact.)

I’ve been out of the workforce for a few years. I have a college degree or  two and have some strong experience in my field. But if I were to try to piece together a marketable resume today, I’d be in trouble. Because “2004-Present: Butt-wiper” isn’t going to get me too many interviews.

I’m going to start calling myself a Human Waste Manager. Or maybe a Waste Behavior Specialist. Because dealing with toilet-training issues takes up a good portion of my day, and I may as well adopt a title that reflects that.

Take yesterday evening, for instance.  Poor little Evan was having a great time playing outside. Such a great time, as a matter of fact, that he forgot to come inside to go to the bathroom. He made a valiant last-minute dash, but alas… was too late. I heard a heart-rending cry of disappointment from the garage, and raced to find a puddle on the floor and a devastated little boy with soggy shorts. I went into crisis-management mode, trying to simultaneously comfort Evan, make sure he didn’t track pee into the house, and barricade the puddle so that nobody else ran into the garage and slipped in the mess. (Such a talent may or may not translate well into the workplace.)

He showered (an adventure in itself), and we decided to bathe Caleb while we were at it. I stripped him down and the little punk, who is a few days shy of 20 months old, waddled over to the toilet, lifted the seat, and did his best to imitate his big brothers. He made it abundantly clear that he wanted to use the toilet. My heart sank.

I hate potty-training. Hate it. It is the hardest parental task I have ever undertaken. I would have a million Sex Talks with my kids, would breastfeed indefinitely, would change diapers for the next 25 years… all before I would willingly undertake this last potty-training.

But I can’t really justify not potty-training the poor kid so we got out Caleb’s brand-new potty chair. (In our home, each child gets his own new potty chair. Because after teaching a little boy directional pee control, those chairs qualify as weapons of mass destruction and really should be incinerated so as not to pose a genuine threat to public health and national security.) He sat on it for a while and looked cute and then Jeff plopped him in the tub. Where Caleb immediately peed. Of course. (He probably drank a fair amount of contaminated bath water, too, but I left Jeff in charge and didn’t witness it.)

To summarize: Evan, who is potty-trained, peed all over the garage. Caleb, who is not potty-trained, seems like maybe he wants to be. It took a good 45 minutes to deal with the implications of their bathroom adventures last night. I perform some variation on this waste control at least a couple of times a day (don’t forget last week’s Case of the Mysterious Footprints), and probably will for several more years. Several more years of making sure all the pee and poop winds up in the correct place. Several more years of cleaning up all the stuff that doesn’t make it into the right place. Several more years of decontaminating the biohazardous bathroom where all their pee-related crimes against humanity occur. (I just threw up a little in my mouth.)

Along with being a master of preschool arts and crafts and my so-so (but improving) Guitar Hero skills, this is what I have to recommend me for a  job. It seems a little underwhelming. Something tells me I’m better off just staying unemployed.

“Mo-ommm! Caleb pooped!” Jensen hollered from the other room.

Of course. It all came clear. The trail of little brown footprints I had just discovered across the living room carpet made total sense. Total disgusting sense. I thought they were a little far apart. Caleb must have been taking really big steps. Triple-jumping or something. Whatever. There was a diaper to change and I needed to get him before he walked on every square inch of floor in the house.

I prepared myself for a leaky diaper, and was confused when I found no leak. No dirty feet. Nothing. The diaper was completely intact. Something was wrong.

Enter Evan. Shocking, isn’t it?

Evan (crying dramatically): “There’s poop on my feet!!!”
Me (surprisingly unimpressed): “Of course there is. Why do you have poop on your feet?”
Evan (wailing): “It’s Caleb’s!!! Caleb’s poop is on my feet!”
Me: “How did you get Caleb’s poop on your feet?”
Evan: “I don’t know!”
Me: “Did you touch him?”
Evan: “Noooo!”
Me: “Did he touch you?
Evan: “Noooo!”
Me: “Quit jumping around. So you got Caleb’s poop on your feet and you have no idea how?”
Evan: “I think it was magic.”

And that was it. That is all I know about how how this happened. So we washed his feet. I scrubbed approximately 6327 poop-prints from the carpet. And the mystery remains. The only bright spot is my hope that Caleb’s Magical Poop will make potty training easier.