Flower Girls

Whenever we have a bouquet of flowers in the house it's pretty likely that within days they will be rearranged because my kid just can't help herself.  The thought of all the flowers MIXED TOGETHER drives her little brain crazy.  Almost as much as when her food touches other food on her plate.  Mashed potatoes may NEVER touch the chicken which may NEVER touch the corn; therefore, it makes sense that the daisies cannot touch the lilies.

She will spend HOURS that turn into DAYS rearranging them until they are "just right."  Sometimes they are arranged by size then by type then by color then by how they smell then by something seemingly random that turns out to be "what region they grow naturally in."

I know someone is going to say she's OCD.  TRUST ME if you saw the state of her playroom and backpack and the million little purses she has you wouldn't worry. AT ALL.

The most recent flowers in our house were my Valentine's Day flowers which she spent about two hours rearranging into three different containers.  After she was done she asked to borrow my iPhone to take pictures so I could "post them on my blog"...have I told you how much I love this kid?!?

Just a little note about the next few pictures...there are some strategically placed picnik flowers that are hiding me on the computer reading your blogs. Or buying sex toys.  I'm just kidding about the sexy toys, Mom. Geesh!

She got all fancy on me this time and threw in a little something extra with pieces that have fallen off during the rearrangement process.  (And some that I suspect were deliberately picked off because they were NEEDED for a VERY creative endeavor).

 

Unfortunately flowers not in water don't last very long.

We all know this.

She knows this.

But the next day when I told her that we couldn't keep them much longer you would have thought I said I was going to kill her puppy. And take away all her toys.  And that they decided to cancel television. Forever.

So I told her all she needed to do was to convince her dad to buy me another bouquet of flowers, which would make me happy.

And then she would get to make more flower people, which will make her happy.

And the wilting flower people could go live in the land of flowers and sunshine over the rainbow with the unicorns and fairies, which would make them happy.

And we would all live happily ever after.

Except maybe my husband who has to go out and buy flowers.

Sorry babe.

The Pope, a Lesbian, and a baby.

What do these three things have in common? 

These are all things that might come up while you watch Sister Act. 

That is, if you are my kid. And you like to make me uncomfortable.

It all started innocently enough...but doesn't everything?

The movie was almost over...it was just to the part where they find out that the Pope wants to visit their church to hear the choir. 

Kid:      Who's the Pope?

Hubs:    He's the head of the Catholic Church.

Kid:      What's a Catholic?

Me:       Err, it's a religion.

I can see where this is going so I reach for my for iPhone and the battery is dead. Great.

Kid:      What religion are we?

Me:       Um, I guess if we had to pick one it'd be Christian.

Hubs:    I think Catholics are also part of Christianity.

Me:       Um....err....ah....

Kid:      Well what is Lesbianity?

The hubs and I looked at each other and start laughing.  I do not recommend doing this when your child is being serious.  It kinda pisses them off.  Seriously though, I can't tell you how happy I was that we switched from talking about religion to talking about homosexuality -- something I actually know about! 

Me:      Lesbianity?  That's not a religion.  Or a word.  I think you mean Lesbian.

Kid:      Ok, what's a Lesbian, then?

Me:      It's a woman who is gay.

She knows what gay is...we explained that early on...we love and support our gay friends and family.

Kid:       Well why are they called Lesbians?

Me:        It came from the Greek Island of Lesbos.

Kid:       What are boy lesbians?

Me:        They are usually called gay.

Kid:       They should be Besbians - ya know - Boy Lesbians.  It's much more fancy than just gay.

We worked very hard to stifle the laughter.

Hubs:     That's a nice thought but I'm not sure that they would go for that.

Kid:       Well, I could ask them! They might like it!

Me:        Ok, ok! Chill, baby, chill.

She is sitting right next to me and I goose her and she starts to laugh.  And then I said something I instantly regretted.

Me:        Any other tough questions for us tonight?

I see it on her face.  I know where she is going.  It's too late.  She looks like she's ready to pounce.

Kid:      Yeah. (EVIL GRIN) Where do babies come from?

She KNOWS where babies come from.  Not only have I told her EVERYTHING but she watches the Discovery channel.  A lot.  SHE KNOWS IT'S THE SAME PROCESS FOR ALL MAMMALS. I even explained sexually transmitted diseases and did a pretty darn good job of scaring the shit out of her!  I know she didn't forget THAT conversation.  I have a pretty good hunch that she's asking just to make me say words like se-men and va-gin-a.  BRAT! 

Me:      You already know this, missy!  The man and the woman make the baby.

Kid:      But how does the baby get made?

LAUGHING MANIACALLY AT ME.

Me:      The sperm and the egg meet and make a baby.

Kid:      But how does the sperm get in the lady?

GIGGLING UNCONTROLLABLY AT MY OBVIOUS DISCOMFORT.

Me        Do you want to talk about lesbians again?  I'd really like that.

Kid:       No. TELL ME.

Me:       The man puts his thingy in a the ladies hoo-ha.

For the record, we use the REAL words for body parts but I'm terrified of writing them on my blog because I still can't shake the Disney p-O-r-n searches from my first post!

Kid:     Muah-ha-ha-ha.  I already knew that!  I just wanted to make you say it!  Hehehe. Ha.

I can't wait for when it's my turn to ask uncomfortable questions I already know the answer to in front of her friends. 

What a glorious day that will be.

Today is brought to you by the letters T-I-R-E and D.

The kid is still not better.

The King of the Castle is out of town.

I went to work today.

Had to leave work in the middle of a meeting because her school called.

I spent four hours in urgent care while fielding calls from our lawyer's office.

I'll tell you all about the lawyer. At some point. When things are done.

NBC is ruining my sleep schedule because they refuse to show the Olympics live.

I have blisters from the shoes I wore today.

I still haven't bought new shoes. Don't tell my parents.

I've been questioning lots of things lately. Mostly this blog and my writing.

That probably doesn't help with my sleep.

My sister came over and we watched Michael Jackson's This Is It.

We cried.

It left me feeling blessed.

And that I better start facing The (Wo)Man In the Mirror.

There Was A Little Girl

My kid has had very, very curly hair since she first started to grow it.  When dried naturally it produced such cuteness I would find myself staring and touching her curls endlessly.  Here's a picture of when they first started to appear.

Those curls plus her personality made me always think of the poem "There Was A Little Girl" and I would say it to her all the time and she would laugh and giggle.  Then when she got older and realized what I was saying, it annoyed her to no end.  So, of course, I kept saying it.

This lovely hair, when not dried, and flattened, and brushed to perfection, is "puffy."  She doesn't like her "puffy" hair (I ADORE IT and WANT IT FOR MYSELF) so when it's time to go out in public we have to have atleast 15 extra minutes to get it "right".  She's been sick this weekend, which means we haven't gone out in public (missing both softball practice and canceling her sleepover) so her hair has gotten quite "puffy".  I wish the pictures were clearer but I was using my only camera, my iPhone, so they're a little grainy but you can still see that little curl.

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

 Right in the middle of her forehead.

  When she was good,

She was very good indeed.

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

P.S. I learned this poem with line 5 as "She was very, very good" and this is what I say when telling this to my kid (and, Mr. Longfellow, I'm sorry but I think it works much better than your original line); however, I don't think it's right to perpetuate someone's work incorrectly so I've written as he intended.

Valentine's Day

We don't really celebrate Valentine's Day -- no special dinners or gifts - especially this year as the kid is sick and our normal babysitters (aka my Mom and Dad) had plans of their own.  I had gotten him a card when I picked out our anniversary card (about a month and a half ago) and of course I couldn't find it this morning.  So I searched for it while he went to the store for eggs, sudafed for the kid, and chocolate body paint orange juice.

I found the card, luckily, because he came home with these beautiful flowers.

He loves me.

This Is What I Get

Drilling.

Scraping.

Filing.

Packing.

Metal Fillings.

Rubber.

Heat Guns.

Serated Clamps.

Glue.

INSIDE MY MOUTH. IN MY TOOTH.  IN THE CANAL. WHERE MY ROOT IS.

I guess when you joke with your kid that a doctor is going to stick needles in your brain the universe sets you straight and arranges it so that you get more than just needles stuck in your brain in your mouth.

I certainly understand the universe course correcting (I watch LOST so I'm a verifiable EXPERT on this subject).  But what I don't understand is how someone, like perhaps the person that I'm married to, who hasn't been to a dentist since he was FIFTEEN, has only one measly teeny tiny cavity that he didn't even need to have a SHOT to have taken care of because it was so small the dentist used air abrasion while someone like me (who has gone to the dentist twice a year since FOREVER) is the one who is strapped into a chair while large needles are injected into my brain my mouth so that the dentist can drill and scrape and file and do all sorts of other unsavory things.  Anyone???

Since the beginning of the year I've been to Dr. Toothy THREE times and Dr. Rooty TWICE. I've probably used up all of my insurance money for the year and will need to start selling myself flowers on the corner to pay for my bills.

When you see someone that much you start to feel like you're BFF's even though most of your conversations are held when your mouth is full of spit and drills and dry wedges and rubber sheet holders.  It also gets a little awkward when you have to talk money because you know that you're the friend who has to pay for the European vacation and you don't get to go.

Of the two, I get to talk to Dr. Toothy more as he has been our family dentist for twelve years.  So I would say that he is a better BFF than Dr. Rooty.  Even though he is the one who TWICE A YEAR admonishes me for not flossing.

But Dr. Rooty.  Dear, dear, hip, edgy, Dr. Rooty.

He gets the award for being the most entertaining.

We have a circle of trust, me and Dr. Rooty.  He trusts me enough to be in the room as he tells his assistant all about his psychotic breakdown and I trust him enough not to panic as he warns me to keep my eyes closed as they passed a "sharp instrument" over my face.

I also trust that I don't have to remind him to be very liberal with the prescriptions for pain killers.  Especially after he kinda threatened my eyesight.  That might be a different kind of trust, though.

Me + Painkillers + Texting = WTF?



That question is supposed to be "will you be ABLE to go to work tomorrow".  My mother wasn't under the influence of any drugs.  That is just how she texts.

I did pretty well on my first response.  The second one...well...that was supposed to read "Probably" or "Problemly" -- it depends on whether you know who The Bloggess is or not.



Just to clarify that was supposed to read "Can you make them stop barking?" Them being our three dogs who barked for what seemed like two hours straight as I tried to take a drug-induced nap.

And "I'm ready to Jill them" was supposed to read "I'm ready to kill them" because I'm not sure what throwing someone named Jill at them would do.  Unless she's a bad ass ninja-pirate.

Because LET ME TELL YOU there is NOTHING and I mean NOTHING like three Chihuahuas barking incessantly after you've had your face drilled into and are under the influence of a prescribed narcotic to make you turn you into a crazed puppy-killer.

A Needle In Your Brain

The kid's test results came back normal.  The pediatric gastroenterologist, who I will refer to as Dr. Gassy (because it is shorter and easier for me to type), told me that she had "beautiful bowels."

Awkward.

Because he couldn't find anything wrong in her stomach he scheduled an appointment for us with the pediatric neurologist, Dr. Brainy, to see if it was in her head, so to speak.

The kid was, of course, a little apprehensive about the appointment.  She wanted to know what a neurologist does, what he instruments of torture he uses, and what kind of tests he would make her do.

So, of course, I told her that he would poke about ten needles in her brain.

And she, of course, told me to stuff it.

I told her I honestly had no idea what he would do but I knew that it wouldn't be worse than getting needles poked into her brain; when that wouldn't suffice, we went to Dr. Google.

I was amazed at all of the things that neurologists treat.  I guess I should have known that since the brain controls everything then neurologists would treat everything too.  The kid kept scanning for "needles" even though she knew I was kidding and I told her I was kidding.  She told me that with me she can never be sure.  I guess we'll be off to the psychologist next.

Dr. Brainy was very nice but still no real diagnosis.  He'd like for us to continue her on the medication that Dr. Gassy prescribed and come back in three months, unless she has another "episode" and then we are to come back to reevaluate our options.

I appreciated that he talked to us, answered our questions, and didn't subject her to any unnecessary tests or medication.  So did she.  She doesn't like tests.  Especially blood tests.  And she loves to talk.  And tell the doctor EVERYTHING.  As in "yeah, I took the medication, remember, when you were on the stairs crying?"  She managed not to reveal too many family secrets at this visit.  I was  appreciative of that too.

Between Dr. Gassy and Dr. Brainy we'll eventually figure out what is causing Miss Bossy to have these episodes of stomachache/headaches and get the proper treatment.

And then we'll all live happily ever after.

The End.

Daycare drama. Not for this mama.

Over the years, I've come to dread daycare pickup.  It's not that I dread picking up my kid.  I don't.  I miss her fiercely.  I feel guilty that she has to be there in the first place.

I dread The Report.

If you have a kid in daycare YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

If you have an active, intelligent, sensitive, take-charge kid who has very specific ideas about how to run things AND is in daycare then YOU REALLY KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

I mean, that on some days, I need a hug and a martini after pickup.

It started when she was 2 and I moved her to a pre-preschool instead of an in-home daycare.

"She bit so-and-so today".  "She isn't using her words".  "She had a tantrum when we took away her pacifier".  "She resents you for working".  You get my drift.

She's older now so the issues are a little different.  She may occasionally get in trouble for rough-housing but generally she gets in trouble for being bossy.  For telling the teacher how to run things.
For yelling at the kids for not putting the dishes back on the right shelf in the home living area AFTER SHE SPENT 15 MINUTES ORGANIZING IT (she fails to see how this is just like when she does this to me in our REAL home).

I try not to let the little reports of her wrong-doings get to me because most of the time they are really minor.  But when I picked her up one night this week and was greeted LOUDLY with her wrong-doings I was NOT happy.  My anxiety level went through the roof.  I had to take a few seconds to calm down before I asked the teacher to please lower her voice and I would gladly listen to her.

The offenses I was bombarded with were not "OH MY GOD PUT HER IN THERAPY RIGHT NOW" but more of "she was being bossy and  then started a tickle fight".

I know watching kids is hard.  It probably sucks being stuck with a bunch of kids ages 5-12 for 10 hours a day for little pay.  But the thing is, I pay them to put up with it.  I am their customer.  Treat me and my kid with respect.  Even if my kid is kind of being an ass.

Take the parent aside to discuss an issue.  Do not loudly talk about any issue, large or small, in front of other children or parents.  It's rude.

Don't tackle me as soon as I walk in the door.  Let me greet my child.  Let me sign her out.  Ask me if I have a minute.  If it was a serious issue, CALL ME AT WORK OR ON MY CELL.  If it's not a serious issue, then perhaps you can wait two seconds.

Don't tell me EVERY. SINGLE. MINOR. OFFENSE. AT. EVERY. SINGLE. PICK UP. My kid was being bossy?  Tell her to knock it off.  She was running around screaming?  Tell her to knock it off.  Your job is to watch my kid and discipline her appropriately.  Parents don't need a list of every offense the child committed that day AT EVERY PICK UP BECAUSE IT MAKES THEM (read: me) STABBY.

So when should you tell me?  Is there a pattern to the bad behavior?  Was it rude/disruptive?  Was it a more serious offense, like, perhaps, she threatened to stab someone with scissors?  Yes?  Tell me.  No? Shut it.  Which brings me to my next point...

If a child threatens to stab another child with scissors YOU TAKE IT SERIOUSLY.  You notify BOTH SETS OF PARENTS.  We need to our children about appropriate behavior and what is okay and not okay to say, even if you are joking.

When a parent brings a concern to you, say, another child threatened to stab their child with a pair of scissors YOU DO NOT TELL THEM THAT "WELL IF IT HAPPENED THEY ARE JUST KIDDIE SCISSORS"!  Kids are known to exaggerate and stretch the truth and maybe even lie from time to time.  But TRUST ME, if I'm telling you that my kid told me something like that then you can bet I already had the "you better not be lying/exaggerating because it is super serious and someone could get in big trouble" discussion.  Please give me some credit.  Perhaps someone else isn't telling the truth here because they don't want to get in trouble for not handling the situation appropriately?  Because that is what I think.

Parents already feel guilty enough for putting our kids in daycare so give us a break and don't try to shame us when our kids misbehave.  Communicate clearly and quickly on serious issues.  Be honest.

Then maybe I won't need hugs and martinis every night.  Well, I might.  But not for this.

Super Secret Agent Spy

The kid was being a brat particularly difficult one day and wouldn't come out of the bathroom. 

Did I go and get a pin to pick the lock?

Did I threaten to take away every toy she owned if she DID-NOT-OPEN-THE-DOOR-RIGHT-THIS-MINUTE?

No.

I grabbed my super secret agent gadget iPhone and put it under the bathroom door and snapped a few pictures to try to see what was going on. 

She caught on to me before I was able to get anything good.  I need to work on my spy techniques, obvs. 

P.S. I took video too but I've been threatened that if I post it on the Interwebz that my future would include a caretaker than would make Baby Jane look like an angel).

P.P.S. I might have tried to pick the lock first, but, um, didn't know how.  I fail at being a burglar.

P.P.P.S. I might have also threatened to do more than take away some toys.

P.P.P.P.S. I hate postscripts.

Burnt toast for my birthday. Best. Gift. Ever.

We don't have many traditions in our little family but breakfast in bed on your birthday is one of them.  Of course, it would help if we actually had any food in our house in which to make said breakfast but it was my birthday so I totally used that excuse and didn't feel nearly as guilty as I do the other times when we don't have any food in our house to make breakfast. Or lunch. Or dinner. Or. Or. Or.

As I previously stated, this year I really didn't want anything for my birthday.  I told my husband that he didn't have to make me breakfast in bed.  I'd be fine with cereal and laying on the couch (if he went to get milk, that is).  He wouldn't hear of it.  Probably because if he had to go to the store for milk, he might as well get other stuff too.

So, the next morning my loving, wonderful, I-can't-believe-he-puts-up-with-me husband trekked to the grocery store (about a mile from our house - BOTH WAYS) and I stayed in bed (maybe, perhaps, so that I could watch episodes of Lost on Netflix to prep for the big season premiere) because that is the rule.  To stay in bed.  Not watch Lost.  Also, I might have stayed in bed mostly so I could watch Lost.  Not because of any rules.

I could hear the clanging and banging as my breakfast was being prepared.  The smells wafting up the stairs were nothing short of amazing.  I could hardly wait for them to arrive with my tray.

They arrived.

With the tray.  And flowers.  And cards.

Here are the flowers.

And here is my lovely birthday breakfast tray.

My husband made the pancakes with the kid's help.  She made my toast all on her own.

I like my toast extra crispy but this was burned beyond all recognition.  You actually may not have been able to tell that it once been bread.

I know I said I didn't want anything for my birthday.  But I think I needed that burnt toast.  Seeing the proud look on my kid's face as she told me she made it "just for me" melted my cold heart.  It renewed my spirit.  It made me whole (even if it gave me a little heartburn).

Of all the wonderful gifts I received that day (the yummy dinner with the entire fam damily, the "wine", the clothes, the Michael Jackson This Is It DVD, and the cold, hard cash from my parents so that I could "buy some new shoes") the burnt toast reigned supreme.

Thank you, dearest husband, for not listening to me.  This is really the only time that not listening to me is okay.  For the record.

Now I'm off to zappos.com so that I can "buy some new shoes."

Smooches.