If One Drinks From a Bottle Marked Poison

I blog for two reasons, to chronicle K's life and for cathartic purposes. I knew when I wrote my first word I didn't want to be limited. I wanted to express what I felt, regardless of how it affected others. I also knew that was selfish and unrealistic. As much as I wanted to have freedom to say what I wanted, I didn't want it at the expense of those I love.

Before I published my first entry, I asked my husband what was off limits. He mentioned just a few things and I have stuck to my word and never wrote about them. At the time, months ago, he must have given very little thought to his true feelings regarding his privacy. Because here I am, writing this post.

The post informing my faithful few followers that I can no longer continue blogging Life From the Dark Side of Aurora. Or at least I can no longer blog it here, at this address.

As a resut of a battle I did not want to win, I deleted a recent blog entry. It hurt me to do it. But it seemed it was going to hurt my husband more if I kept it published. So I allowed him to censor me yet again.

After a great deal of thought and frustration, I've decided it's time.

"For if one drinks much from a bottle marked 'Poison', it's almost certain to disagree with one sooner or later." - Alice

I made the grave mistake of telling a few people in my life about my blog. At the time, I wanted them to be able to enjoy reading bits about K that ordinarily they wouldn't get to hear. They will no longer get this window into K's world and that makes me sad. Family members reading my personal thoughts didn't bother me. But it sure did bother my husband.

I must do what is necessary for me. I will continue blogging, anonymously this time. I will create a new site, with a new name written under a pseudonym. I will write freely and it will most certainly agree with me.

I thank you for reading and laughing about K's antics. I appreciated all of your comments. And for the compassion I received on a few emotional posts, thank you.

"...it's time to say good-bye. No, no. Don't speak. For some moments in life, there are no words. Run along now. Adieu, adieu, parting is such sweet sorrow."

---Gene Wilder as Willy Wonka

Wit and Wisdom - Wormy Edition

Today, as K and I were driving on the beltway we were searching for UPS and FedEx trucks. This is her latest thing. She is fascinated by the delivery trucks. Maybe it's her future calling or just her hope that the trucks all contain Amazon boxes filled with princess paraphernalia just waiting to be delivered to her doorstep. Regardless, that's what we were doing until she spotted what she thought was a garbage truck.

"Look Mama, a trash truck!"

"No baby. That's a sewage removal truck."

"Huh?"

...hmm, I'll tread lightly on this one, knowing her drain issues.

"Well, it's a truck that takes the stuff people put down the drains, like the potty. It takes it away to be cleaned," I tell her.

"So it comes why we're sleeping?"

Like its Santa or the Easter Bunny.

"No. It doesn't come to our house. We live in the city. It comes to houses where the people live in the country."

"Like Elmo's house?"

I don't know if I'm allowed to say this, but clearly she doesn't watch enough tv.

"No baby. Elmo lives in the city on Seasame Street. You know Slimy's cousin Squirmy? Remember? He lives in the country."

Laughing a bit, she says "Yeah, but he lives in an apple. And worms don't have potties."

"No? Why not?"

"Because Mama. Worms don't have vaginas or bums or penises."

So there you have it. Now you know.

Her innocence will believe Slimy, from Oscar the Grouch's trash can, has a cousin who lives in an apple in the country. But the idea that he could have a potty is entirely too far fetched for her.

A Funk

I am in a funk. It's confirmed.

I could sit and write a diatribe about my worries. Except, it would not be a good read. I could only disclose bits and pieces, leaving you, my loyal reader confused. And you would likely leave and not look back, because no matter how entertaining my daughter's antics are, no one enjoys being confused.

But still, I can't escape the funk and I will write anyway.

In my house, there's a paticular conversation had more frequently than others. It goes like this...

"What do you want for dinner?" my husband will ask.

"I dunno. I don't want Italian. And I don't want chicken"

"I didn't ask what you don't want, I asked what you do want," he'll retort.

And I get his point, but that's just the way I work. I am often a glass half empty kind of girl. That doesn't mean I don't love life and try to live it to its fullest. It just means I'm more apt to see the bottle of wine and think, damn there's only a third of it left. I better refill my glass now before he drinks it all.

So in honor of a good funk, I will give you the list of half empty thoughts I had in my car, driving the 13 minutes home from Barnes and Noble.

• If you see me in the parking lot, dragging a crying child in one hand and my other is loaded down with bags, you have no right to express your impatience with me that I'm not vacating the spot you covet fast enough. Pick another spot or deal.
• I hate when daffodil blooms die, you can't cut them back or you'll affect the blooms the following season. It's unsightly. When they're done flowering, I just want to get rid of them.
• I don't like speed cameras. But the ones I really hate are the moveable box ones that may or may not be there the day you drive by them. They should all be permanent.
• If your grass is that lush and green this time of year, you use too much water and too many chemicals. You need to cut back on your consumption of both.
• I despise when my child is in the car and I have to play games and sing songs to keep her from falling asleep. Yet, at home she avoids sleep like the plague. It's a very unfair aspect of parenting.
• I don't like the lawn bag displays in some neighborhoods. I have no real valid reason. I just don't. I don't like driving through a neighborhood and seeing brown paper bag after bag neatly lined up next to the side walk waiting to be disposed of. It seems Iike a rediculous contest in which home owners see who can out bag each other.

There you have it. Don't worry, funks only last so long. I'm sure in no time at all, K will be drawing murals on the walls or freaking out about something going down the drain. Ooh, or maybe she will have some super cool, brand new episode I can blog about. Here's to hoping!

We Should've Paid for Delivery

This weekend, undue stress was put on my marriage. We bought and moved furniture.

I have to give us props, normally making big purchases is not exactly our strong suit. We were out shopping. I saw a dresser I loved and it was easy. Within a matter of minutes it was decided, we were purchasing the dresser and a nightstand. No second guessing myself, no convincing my husband to agree to the purchase. Cake.

The challenge was yet to come.

We decided to forgo store delivery. First mistake.

In the moments before we drove to pick up the dresser my husband suggested maybe we ask a friend for help getting the dresser from the car up the stairs. I grew up on a farm carrying 50lb bags of feed and bales of hay daily. Him and I alone moved a 427lb, big ass computer cabinet up to our second floor apartment at least twice. It was a bitch, but we did it. It's been said I'm freakishly strong and ridiculously stubborn. I instantly shot him down. Second mistake.

Getting the large, boxed up dresser from the car to our second floor bedroom sounded like this...

"This is really going to be heavy, I'm not sure you're going to be able to do this."

"I'll be fine let's just go."

"Wait. Stop. Switch with me. I don't want to go backwards."

"You could talk to me nicer. I don't appreciate it." This was dear husband. I'm not exactly sure what I sounded like but he said it to me no less than twice during the incident.

"I can't see anything. You have to tell me when I'm going to run into something."

"I can't see what you're running into. Are you going to be able to do this or not?"

"You can't just drop it like that!"

"Sorry, I couldn't go anymore."

"You have to warn me. You're going to hurt my back."

"You're tilting it! Stop tilting it! It's going to fall! You can't tilt it like that."

"I can't do this. I can't get it up the steps."

"Just get out of the way. Help support it. I'm gonna rotate it up the steps...like its doing a cartwheel."

"Can you go clear a path upstairs?"

"Why didn't you clear a path upstairs? How do you think we are going to get it past all of K's shit in the hall?"

"I don't know. I was feeding our daughter. Someone has to, you know."

"You can't just stop like that. Just get it up to the landing and then we can rest."

"I can't do it. My forearm hurts. The box is rubbing it raw."

"Okay, let me go first."

"Stop, stop. You're hitting the wall! Damn! Look at that scuff mark you just put on the wall."

"Whatever. It's no big deal. Its just paint."

"Okay one step at a time."

"Yowl! That was my finger. Ohh, my finger."

"Well what are you doing?"

"I dunno. I'm doing the best I can! I'm not sure what you expected! I'm 110lbs!"

"Just get it to the top and we can rest."

"STOP! You just punctured the box. I hope you didn't scratch it."

"Right, I did that. Uh huh. Right."

"Can't we just slide it down the hall on the rug? I don't think I can do this." At this point, I felt slightly similar to how I felt after 20 hours of labor and 4 hours of pushing...I doubted my ability to finish the job. I wanted help. I needed help. But just like childbirth, I got myself into the situation, I was going to have to get myself out.

"Just lift it up and carry it."

"I can't. When I bend down to pick it up, it rests on my knees and then I can't stand back up."

"Well then don't bend down. Come on. Just do it."

And within seconds, it was in our bedroom. Just like that the horror was over.

I learned I don't like moving heavy, awkward objects with my husband. It's not good for either of us. Him and I could never win Amazing Race, for sure we would kill each other.

Who the Eff is Boba Fett?

The time has come. I must come clean. I do not know the first thing about Star Wars. I have never seen a single movie in its entirety.

I will pause for the gasps of shock to subside.

Throughout my childhood, I do remember seeing bits and pieces, but I guess I was just too busy swimming in our pool or cutting the grass or plotting attempts to run away from home with my sister to watch one from start to finish.

Which brings me to now, 2012, where my 3 year old knows more about Star Wars than I do.

My daughter is a Star Wars...what's the word for those people who are die hard Star Wars fans, oh right...nerds. That's right, my 3 year old princess loving daughter is a Star Wars nerd. The Darth Vader action figure her aunt and uncle gave her in lieu of flowers at her first ballet recital is in her top three all time favorite toys. She walks around humming The Imperial March like it's the soundtrack for her life. No joke. It's actually a touch scary, like those kids who sleep with their eyes open. Thanks to the influences of her uncle, she already has her eyes set on Boba Fett for her birthday.

Ordinarily this would be no problem, except it's starting to be a problem.

I'm clueless when it comes to Star Wars. I didn't actually know who Boba Fett was until a few moments ago when I googled him. Apparently he's just as dark and villainous as Vader. We check out Star Wars books from the library and I'm expected to read them. Except they seem to be written in a language I'm not privy to. I butcher name after name and have to endure my dear husband shouting in corrections from the other room. When playing, K will tell me the rules of the game and I'm supposed to play Han Solo or Luke Skywalker, yet I have no idea who they are nor the difference between them.

So I'm faced with a dilemma, do I watch the movies in order to educate myself on my daughter's passion or pass the buck to her father and uncle and politely concede defeat?

My dear husband is in favor of me watching the movies but he has his own weird experimental agenda where that's concerned. He wants me to watch the movies in chronological order, not in order of release. I personally feel I've made it to 31 without watching them, why start now.

But then, there's K. Is it my job as her mother to know who old Ben Kenobi is?

For the record, K has never watched the movies. And from the violence in the clips we've watched on YouTube, she won't be watching them any time soon either.

I Didn't Want You To Worry Reverb

Every once in awhile, something happens that makes you reevaluate everything you thought you knew only moments before.

My schema was shook up late last night. I can not go into details, it's too personal. But I can say that after a few confusing texts at 1:30am, my view on the world was different.

I'd realized I had been walking through my life, my interactions with family, with blinders on. I'm still not sure if I was the one who put the blinders on or if they were put on me by someone else. Regardless, I had been a naive little girl. I saw what was pleasant.

There is a significant period of my past that, if it were a blog post would have been titled I Didn't Want You To Worry. This recent event feels an awful lot like that, just a smaller scale. Well meaning family members elect to keep information secret in order to spare other people pain and worry. I do not know of any situation where this plan has had the intended result. In my personal experiences, it has always left me hurt.

Now, the morning after my awakening, I'm hurt and worried. My small family is strong, and we have managed far worse than this. Nonetheless, I'm so very worried about the future. How will this current information affect those I love so deeply? It forces me to look at the inevitable nature of life and what lies in the future.

Today, I will try to have fun and enjoy my beautiful and charismatic daughter. Maybe we will get ice cream.

Cleverly Defiant

It's no secret, my kid's a tad bit defiant. Alright, some days she's a hell of a lot defiant.

But she's a smart one.

This morning, for reasons I'm not entirely sure of, she threw her juice cup on the floor when she was finished with it.

"K, come back in here and pick up this cup and put it in the sink."

"No," she said so casually.

My gut reaction was to pick up the cup and launch it in her direction, but I did some deep breathing and counted to ten to think it through. In the end I decided to use my big girl words instead.

"If you don't come pick up this cup, there will be no orange juice with breakfast tomorrow morning."

In her hap, hap, happiest voice she said, "Oh that's okay Mama. I'm having pink lemonade tomorrow."

So pleased with her quick witted response, she practically skipped into the next room.

Let it be known though, I am ruler supreme. She did pick up the cup and she even put it in the sink.

I Live in My House

I had a conversation with a friend recently on whether a house should appear lived in. I have to say, I was slightly taken aback.

I live in my house. I'm not trying to decieve visitors into thinking otherwise.

This is my fridge moments ago.

I'm sure some would call it cluttered. Eh...so be it. I don't mind.

Space in this house is hard to come by, we use what we have. The lower half, devoted to K. The upper half, full of usefullness. Bottle opener? Got it. Peditricans number? Check. Coupon to Bed, Bath, & Beyond? Yup.

To the proponents of making your house appear "open house ready" at all times, sure I could give K a cookie sheet to play with her magnets and tuck it neatly away in the cabinet. I could file the coupons and important numbers in a drawer, rid the fridge of all objects. But, why? I guess I just don't understand the importance.

I think you can tell a lot about people by the contents of their fridge and the magnets on the exterior. Maybe I'll show you the inside another day. But it's clear, the exterior of my fridge says I'm not a neat freak and we live here.

Not The Watermelon!

A few weeks back I wrote about K's issue with the garbage disposal.

Yes...I'm sad to say, it's still going on. Daily. Hourly, even. She's still freaking out about food scraps going into the dreaded disposal.

This time, it came to me out of nowhere.

We had been playing outside. Seeing it was getting late, I suggested we come in and get ready for dinner. I pulled the stool up to the kitchen sink and K climbed up to wash her hands. I turned the water on and she started rinsing her hands.

I followed her eyes as she watched the water go down the drain and then, dun dun dun, she saw it.

"Not the watermelon!!" she wailed. "Get it out, Mama! You have to! Pleeease, Mama!"

She had watermelon with her lunch. But, since it had started to turn slimy she refused to eat it. I avoided the post lunch meltdown by just setting the bowl of spoiled watermelon on the counter. I waited until later when she was "napping" to clean up the dishes. I must have forgotten to turn on the disposal.

I will not make that mistake again. I'm learning as we go.

There it sat. Down in sink purgatory. Just waiting to be pulverized.

And of course...she would see it.

Darth Vader's been missing for three days now, and she can't seem to find him. But she has no problem spotting three cubes of watermelon deep down in the depths of the disposal.

The Hunger Games aka The Laundry, Dishes, and Dirt Piled Up

All I have read about on Twitter for weeks is The Hunger Games. Seriously. I had no clue what it even was. A book? A movie? A cult?

Yes. Yes. And yes.

On Monday evening, I decided I'd had enough. I had been out of the loop for far too long. To exist as an intelligent human being, a functioning member of society, I needed to know what this Hunger Games mess was all about.

Little did I know, from the moment I downloaded it to my iPad Monday evening until 1 o'clock today, I would cease to exist as a functioning member of society.

My plan backfired.

For 40 hours, I read whenever possible. I even dreamed about Katniss. We were BFFs.

I abandoned my position as mother and allowed Dora and the Neverland Pirates to take over. K ate breakfast watching tv while I sat by, with my coffee, reading. I allowed her to nap until 6:30 yesterday because I couldn't bring myself to stop reading. Naps past 5 o'clock are strictly forbidden when I'm on duty. Today, I put her lunch on the table and started reading, oblivious to whether or not she actually ate anything. I would have known if she had choked, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, the laundry piled up. So did the dishes. Apparently, if you don't keep up with that crap, you will run out of clean spoons and clean pajamas. Thankfully, dear husband went grocery shopping yesterday so we didn't starve during my "absence."

I'm sure the members of my house are glad I finished the book so quickly. Though, it turns out, I'm not finished. Evidently, this cult book is a trilogy.

Sigh

I am now faced with a dilemma, do I take a break and regroup or download the next book? Life is full of such tough decisions.

The Sky is Falling, Henny Penny

I had to go to Home Depot on Saturday. Thrilling, I know.

After a tantrum over appropriate Home Depot footwear and another over whether or not K should eat pizza for lunch, we found ourselves standing in the pest removal section of the store.

We live in an old city rowhouse, we get bugs. We've seen a cockroach or two in our basement and we generally get ants this time of year.

My husband and I are standing in the aisle staring at the selection of products to kill anything unwanted in anyway you want. We're having a discussion on whether it would be worth it to kill the cockroaches if it also kills the cats, when from the sky something falls down on us, well, nearly on us. It falls inches in front of us...and then scurries away.

It had an effing tail! A freaking mouse fell from the ceiling! Holy shit! Oh my gosh! It could have landed on my head!

I look up and survey the scene, wondering if hundreds of mice are now going to fall down on us. I've seen Infested on Animal Planet. I saw footage of the Australian mouse plague of 1993. I've watched the opening scene of Ratatouille. Where there is one of these rodents, there are hundreds.

Up above the rodent and pest removal aisle, high up on a platform was a pallet of grass seed. It was wrapped in plastic which the mice had chewed through to build a nest, have lunch or whatever the hell a colony of mice does in a pallet of grass seed. I look down in front of my feet, sure enough, grass seed.

As my husband and I are sharing this bonding moment where I was almost pelted in the head by a mouse, discussing the irony of the mouse falling a foot from hundreds of mouse traps, a Home Depot sales guy in the orange apron stumbles upon us asking if he could help with anything.

"Well, I think you have a mouse problem up there. One just fell on us and ran away."

With a straight face he says, "Oh, yeah, I know. We had a hawk in here for a little while. That helped out a bit."

It's like National Geographic in Home Depot.

"Anything else I can help you with?"

I was stunned. I guess I expected him to be concerned about my well being. Maybe get on his walkie talkie and page a supervisor. Feign interest just to pacify a customer. But nope, that wasn't going to happen. He didn't even appreciate the irony of the mouse landing in the rodent removal aisle. I guess this was just far too common place. Maybe over in plumbing a raccoon was wandering around.

 

Awkward Moments

My 3 year old may just be in the running for the most peculiar one I know. Just putting that out there for you to ponder.

No surprise, K has a fondness for princesses. And since Disney is a mastermind at marketing, her preference is for the Disney Princesses. She likes them all, even Mulan and Pocahontas, the less popular princesses. We own and watch with regularity a handful of the Disney movies.

I have it down to a science, the scene in each movie where K will turn and spit, hit or kick at me or her father. Without fail. She's also been known to tell us to be quiet when we aren't even speaking. It's always the same.

The love scene.

The Little Mermaid...the scene with Eric and Ariel in the boat almost kissing.

Tangled...again, the boat scene with Flynn and Rapunzel kissing. As well as the end scene when Rapunzel holds dying Flynn in her arms.

Peter Pan...not a princess movie, but this one is full of awkward moments for K. The scene when the mermaids gush over Peter and various scenes of Tinker Bell expressing her jealous, animosity for Wendy.

Toy Story 3...the scene when Barbie and Ken are first introduced.

I don't have any idea what's going on in her ginormous brain, but watching the mushy, lovey-dovey scenes makes her feel awkward.

I know when the scenes are coming, I'm on heightened alert. I try to head off the mini tantrum before it even starts. I warn her of the impending romanticism.

"Just look away if it makes you feel funny."

I have no idea what this drama is about, but regardless, I'm scared...terrified even, for what's to come many years from now when boys enter the picture.

Drumline

It goes without saying, I love my dear, sweet daughter.

Nevertheless, I'm normal. I miss certain aspects of my "pre K" life. I miss being able to listen to raunchy morning shows on the radio. I yearn for the days when I could sleep in. But, more than anything, I long for uninterrupted, peaceful showers.

Most of the showers I've taken since she's been born have been anything but peaceful.

This morning takes the cake.

A few Christmases ago, we gave K a mini wooden drum set. Cute as anything. But really, for the love of Reese's Pieces, what were we thinking?!

This morning, as I was getting ready to shower, she felt it necessary to throw the drum set into the bathroom and start banging on it. She didn't even have the drumsticks. The sticks where somewhere in the staging area in the hallway, I'm sure. She had taken apart the drum set and was using the cymbal stand as a stick. Oh so freakin obnoxious. The exact opposite of peaceful.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

She doesn't seem to have the musical gift. It's just loud, irritating noise, not music. And she was ruining my shower.

Later, when I was bitching to my dear husband about the less than stellar shower I experienced, his response was something along the lines of, "Oh, she wasn't in there the whole time."

Seriously? Let me fill the bathroom with a marching band the next time you're trying to have a peaceful 15 minute shower.

Five minutes of that racket feels like an eternity.

I've heard comforting words from fellow moms that eventually the kids go off to college and showers can once again be peaceful and uninterrupted. K hasn't even started preschool and already I'm counting down the days till college.

But, boy do I love her.

 

Note: This post contains an Amazon Affiliate link.

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Sports enthusiasts need not apply.

If bracket, elite eight, seed, selection Sunday, or sweet sixteen are words in your standard March vocabulary, your application will not be considered.

You Look Like You Could Be Pregnant

Let me begin by saying, I'm not pregnant. Not even a little bit.

So you can imagine my surprise when a nurse, which I will refer to as Maleficent, said to my face, "Then you look like you could be pregnant."

Let me tell you the back story to really confuse you.

I was in the waiting room at the doctors office when Maleficent called me back. She took my height and weight. 113lbs. I don't think that number puts me in the "most likely pregnant" category.

Evil Maleficent asked me the standard questions. What brings you in? When was your last tetanus shot? And, when was the start date of your last menstrual period?

I imagine I am like most women, I have a general idea but not the exact date for this answer.

I tell her, "Um...about two week ago."

Not good enough, apparently. She wants me to give her a date.

"Well. I don't know exactly. What's today's date?"

"March 12th," Maleficent tells me.

"Well, then, maybe the 1st."

Her words, and I quote, "Well that's not a good date because, then you look like you could be pregnant."

Hmmm.

I'm not even sure what to say. Was it the information I provided her with or my physical appearance that caused Maleficent to accuse me of looking pregnant?

To shut her up quickly, I grabbed my phone, opened the app, and gave her the exact date. I was 3 days off.

"Well that's much better."

Apparently, 3 days is the exact difference in looking pregnant and not.

Bitch.

My Daughter Is Not A Dog

I was initiated into the most awesome, super duper club ever this week. Motherhood.

A fellow mother and I decided the best way to spend our day was to drive our two small children to a children's museum in Philadelphia. And really, the day was a blast. We didn't lose them in the museum. Neither child burst into tears...wait, I forgot, mine did, over which carousel horse she wanted to ride. Regardless, the day was a success.

My initiation came a little later in the day, on the ride home.

It was nap time. They needed to sleep on the ride home. My friend's child was very compliant, mine...not so much. K did everything she could to keep herself awake. She kicked, she cried, she begged for food and drink. Then...it began.

"Mama! I have to go potty. Bad!"

"K, you went potty before we left the museum. You're fine. Hold it. Go to sleep."

"I can't Mama! I can't hold it!"

"K! ENOUGH! Go to sleep!"

"It's poop, Mama!"

Now, at this point I'm still thinking she's playing me. She pooped at the museum. We just left a half hour ago. There's no way she has to go again.

"It's coming Mama. The poop, it's coming!"

"Hold it please, K. We can't stop here. Look around, do you see any bathrooms? Do you want to poop on the road?"

"MAAMAA! I can't hold it. The poop, it's coming!"

Alright, maybe she's serious. Maybe we should start looking for an exit. I'm still not sure, but I certainly don't want to clean up shit.

"K, please try to hold it. We can't stop now. You have to hold it."

"Mama, noo!! I can't hold it. The poop is coming! I can't stop it! MAMA!!"

Okay, she's serious. She's arching her body trying to get up out of her carseat. We need to get her to a bathroom, fast.

"Okay, K. As soon as we can, we will stop. Hold on, we're looking. We're trying."

"Hurry, Mama! The poop wants to come out, now!"

Finally, an exit. We pull off I95 and head toward the fast food restaurants. But we don't see anything. We're in back country. Houses, trees, tractors...nothing.

"It's coming. NOW! I can't stop it!!"

Executive decision, we're stopping right here. We either stop here in the middle of nothing and let her out or she's shitting in her leggings.

"Okay, K. We're stopping. You will have to poop here. In the grass."

Now, she's crying.

"I'm not a dog, Mama. I can't poop in the grass."

"No. You're not a dog, but you have to go and there are no bathrooms anywhere. You have to."

"I hope no one sees me."

"Oh baby, no one will see you. I'll use the door to block you. You'll be fine. It's okay."

And it was. She pooped fine. Just like a dog.

Back in the car, heading south on 95, K calls to me.

"Mama? Why didn't we use a bag and pick up my poop?"

Wait...didn't she just tell me she wasn't a dog?

So there you have it, my initiation into motherhood. My kid pooped on the side of the road. It sure was swell.

 

The Day She Threw Her Shoe At Me

"I always say moms have the toughest job in the world if you're doing it right."

- Oprah

Today, without a doubt, I believe that quote. I don't always feel that way. The toughest job? I'm sure I could think of a few tougher.

And then I have a day like today.

Today was a day from hell.

Today I was wishing I had dropped my daughter off at daycare and worked in an office with adults.

I sit here and think...where did the day go so wrong? Where did I go wrong? It was a beautiful 70 degree pre-spring day. Meltdowns and tantrums aren't supposed to happen on those days. I had simple, enjoyable plans. A morning trip to the library and then spend the rest of the time, before nap, at the playground, including a picnic. Not a tough day. I had even agreed to drive to the playground with the sandbox, her favorite.

I will not rehash the pivitol moment in the morning. I know this will come as a great disappointment to the readers who relish in hearing my trials and tribulations with dear, sweet K, but I just can't do it today. I will say I was searching for a specific book on raising the spirited child when the fireworks began.

Spirited. Hmm...I can think of a few other words.

The tantrum continued as I forced K out of the library, crying the whole way. Library book bag empty. No fun day spent playing in the sandbox. No swings. No picnic. She screamed and sobbed the entire ride home. She even threw her shoe at me.

K doesn't embarrass me in public often. She generally saves the naughtiness for home. Today was rough, for both of us.

We talked this afternoon, agreed to be bestest best friends from now on. We will try the fun plan again tomorrow, minus the 70 degree weather. Here's to hoping the library book bag will come back full and I won't be placing an Amazon order for the spirited child book during nap time.

Wit and Wisdom - Sleepers Edition

My daughter has discovered the wonders of salt.

Now, with her scrambled eggs she'd like a side of salt, please and thank you.

Needless to say, the most recent car conversation didn't come as a surprise to me.

Here for your reading pleasure, I present you with the latest installment of the wit and wisdom of a 3 year old.

K: Mama? Sleepers are like salt. Except you can't eat them.

Me: Right, don't eat them. How are they like salt?

K: Well, they're itty bitty round like little pieces of salt. I bet if I did eat them, they'd even taste like salt. And if they were yucky, I could just spit them out.

Hmm...interesting.

Let's Make a Deal

My 3 year old thinks her life is a big game of Let's Make a Deal. Except, without farm animals and appliance prizes.

"Here's the deal," I say, trying to rationalize with her.

I'll wait while everyone laughs at me trying to rationalize with a 3 year old....Okay, good, you're done.

"You can either put your pajamas on now and have time to read books before bed. Or you can dilly dally and waste all of your book reading time."

"Well, here's my deal," she tells me with much attitude and her hands on her hips. "First, I'm going to do a big jete and then a spiderman handstand. Then, I'll put my pajamas on. And then, you can read me books."

Obviously, she doesn't understand in Let's Make a Deal the audience isn't allowed to create their own deals.

"K, if you dilly dally I won't have any time to read you books. Put your pajamas on NOW," I tell her so kindly with an abundance of patience.

"But that's not MY deeeealll!"

I guess she feels my deal's a zonk.

Self Taught Meteorologist

I have amazing news to tell you.

I am a meteorologist.

I didn't study meteorology. Apparently, it's not needed. I have a degree in Elementary Education. In my husband's eyes I guess that qualifies me to forecast the weather.

Nearly every freakin day he asks me about the weather.

Usually in the morning as he's dressing for work, I'll hear, "What's it gonna be like today? Is it supposed to rain?"

I'm not sure what he thinks I know, that he doesn't. Maybe he thinks I have charts and graphs in the basement where I plot out the barometric pressure and the current weather conditions. For the record, I don't. I have apps.

On days he forgot to ask me in the morning or when he just wants an updated prediction, I'll get a text.

Him: Not supposed to rain, is it?

Me: Rain? I think yes.

Him: Seriously though, it is supposed to rain?

Me: I'm not sure. I think so.

Me: Yes. Rain tonight. But later. Not sure when it will start.

Over the weekend, I finally asked. "Does Blackberry not have a weather app?"

"Oh, no, they do," he tells me. "I just never liked it very much."

I see. There are countless ways to get your daily weather, but none are as good as your very own personal meteorologist.

I was not surprised when I got a text from him a few hours ago, he must have forgot to ask this morning.

Him: Is it supposed to rain later? Thinking about if I can grill dinner.

Me: No rain. 20% chance of snow today, not tonight.

And an hour later, I received this text.

Him: Snowing here.

Evidently, I'm a very good meteorologist.

 

Marley My Love

I would like to introduce to you a lovely being. Someone who has more brain power than my daughter did for the entire first year of her life. When they designed this piece of flair they had our dog, Marley, in mind. That's just how brillant she is.

This morning, I asked Marley if she would be a doll and write a guest post for me. You know, telling her view on the dark side of Aurora. Naturally, she jumped at the chance.

**************************

Dear Humans,

Can someone please tell me what the eff has happened to my life?

I used to be honored around these parts. I was revered. I was living the good life. Then you brought home that...that, thing. Life has never been the same since.

Tell me, was I not good enough? Did I not jump high enough when I was catching the Frisbee? I think I can rule that out. I've seen that thing attempt to catch, and she has hands. It's laughable, really. Did I not provide you with enough entertainment when it was time to perform tricks? I could have learned to pirouette, I'm sure of it.

But no, you went ahead and brought that thing home. I live here too, you know! I have a voice. I thought life was fine just the way it was.

Just think back to the good old days for a moment. Ah, those were the days. Remember when we would all go out for happy hour? Now, the best I get is Yappy Hour at the SPCA, where, lets face it, you're likely just checking out the drop off policy.

I used to look good, back then. I had regular spa appointments. I'd come home feeling refreshed, smelling good, and with a new toy to boot. Now? Seriously? Look at me.

Do you see what you allow me to look like? Do you see my fur? It hasn't seen professional clippers in years. I do not appreciate the home cuts. Check out my color! I'm supposed to be white and black, not a dingy shade of ecru. And don't even get me started on that heart stuck to my paw. I heard you people laughing about it. I am not a joke! Do not laugh at my misfortune. To top it off, you didn't even remove it for another day or so. Shame on you. You would never allow that thing to go out looking like that.

Now let's discuss the matter of sleeping arrangements. I hear you tell that thing, "Everyone sleeps in their own bed." Well...where's my bed?

Why must I always be forced to share?

I've decided it's time my voice be heard! I will no longer tolerate a subpar standard of living! I expect the same rights as that thing. I am 11 years old, I demand respect, damn it!

I demand more walks, more long hikes, and more dog park time. Some prison inmates see more fresh air than me.

I demand to be talked to respectfully.

Stop yelling at me to get out of the kitchen. I'm just trying to help, the more crumbs I eat the less you have to vacuum.

Stop yelling at me to hurry when I'm outside. I'm old, I don't move as quickly as I used to. The sooner you accept it, the better off things will be.

Stop yelling at me to get out of the way. That thing scares me shitless! Surely, she's out to get me. I spend the majority of her waking hours terrified. Two inches from your feet is the safest place in the house. Sorry for the inconvenience, but remember, you were the one who wanted her.

I do not think I'm asking for much. I only want what I used to have. I know you love me, now it's time you remembered how to show it.

Lots of kisses,

Marley

P.S. I heard you the other day when you were discussing getting another dog. I'm not stupid. I don't need a playmate, I'm 11. I know you're just shopping in advance for my replacement. Real classy.

*****************

Dear Marley,

Touché.

Love,

Your Human Mother

P.S.

I allow K to go out looking like this regularly.

And she gets home cuts, too. Just saying.

Heaven

A mother, by definition, is all knowing. She is said to have eyes in the back of her head. A mother's kiss can cure any ailment. Tell her your problems, she will listen and help you find the best solution. A mother is omniscient.

Except when we're not. I'm finding...I'm not.

My mother died in 2006. She wasn't alive the day I was married. She has never properly met my daughter. But, I believe in angels and an afterlife. I know she was there at the Little White Chapel and again in the delivery room. I'm certain she knows K.

K, on the other hand, does not know my mother, her grandmother.

I have been able to handle every aspect of motherhood to date. Sure, I've had my challenges, but I've handled it. I have a solid childhood education background. I know the research.

But this...I'm finding myself tongue-tied.

I have never wanted my mom to be a mystery. I talk with K about my mom. She knows she's in heaven. Nevertheless, K's 3 and this shit is getting harder to explain by the day. Her questions start off simple.

"Did your mom make you eat lima beans?"

Quickly they progress to the point my eyes are welling and I'm fighting back tears.

"I know you miss your mom. One day, will you go with me to visit her? I think she would want you to come too, with me. Because I'm sure she would want to see you."

I don't know how to answer the questions so she will understand, so she will feel satisfied. Because the questions keep going.

"When can we see your mom? I know that you can't come back from heaven, so when can I see her? I don't want to be sick."

It breaks my heart. Truly. I have not the right answer for my sweet, sweet girl. I'm speechless. I have tears and sadness and I can not convey to her, that which I, don't fully understand myself. I do not understand death. I comprehend the science behind it, but that's it.

I try talking to K about seeing my mother in her dreams, and that helps...me anyway. The image of my mom playing with K in her dream, riding horses together, makes me momentarily smile. Still, I know K has little understanding of dreams. They are as abstract to her as heaven.

Try as I may, the best I can do is make it through the conversations. I can't imagine I am saying anything that makes much sense to her. After all, heaven and death aren't very logical concepts. I offer her truth in the simplest fashion. I don't want her to view my mother as a sad topic and I don't want her to fear death.

The conversations are becoming more frequent and her thoughts, regarding my mom and heaven, are becoming more complex. It's proof she's growing up. She no longer just accepts, "my mom is in heaven."

I miss my mother daily. And in some way, without ever meeting her, K misses her too.

Don't Pour it Down the Drain

A few months ago, I blogged about K's fear of drains. Since it's a popular post, I thought my fine readers deserved an update.

K is still quite fearful of her hair being sucked down the drain. She won't use the big potty without a full-blown tantrum of epic proportions. And, she still flips her head over daily to ask about the status of her hair growth. She's a ball of laughs. Yet, she makes me want to rip my hair out and force her to watch it be flushed down the toilet.

I'd like to brief you on the drain fear manifestation. She's learned about the garbage disposal.

Dear God, why did I teach her about it?! Why?? When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?!

Now, on a daily basis, K's in the kitchen defending the rights of table scraps and spoiled food. It started right after a stomach virus infectected my house. Our fridge was full of produce, yet none of us could eat for days. Strawberries molded and had to be disposed of. K watched as strawberry after strawberry was stuffed down the garbage disposal. To her, I think it sounded like this...

No!! Please don't! We promise to be good. Ahh!! Oh my gosh, please NO! Don't put me in there!! NOOO!

She has quite the imagination. Sweet, huh.

Which brings me to today, she wanted to make hot chocolate. And even though it will be 60 degrees today, I agreed. I bought it thinking after playing all morning in the snow, she would love to come in and warm up with yummy, hot chocolate (look at me being all June Cleaver like.) Except, it hasn't really snowed. And it doesn't appear it's going to. So, if she wants to try hot chocolate for the first time on a balmy February day, that's fine with me.

We made the drink and it was all well and good, until she drank it. I guess I didn't make her wait long enough, and she's clueless about drinking hot drinks. Two gulps at two different times, both spit out all over the table and herself. Hot chocolate fun over, commence tantrum.

K: I'm not drinking anymore. I don't want it. I don't like it. You drink it.

Me: Fine. Don't drink it. But I'm not drinking anymore.

K: You have to! Don't put it in the sink! No Mama, NO! Save it for Papa. No, Mama!

Me: K, I'm not saving it for Papa. I'll take care of it.

Now, at this point, K is sobbing, uncontrollably. Over hot chocolate. At the mere thought of it being poured down the drain.

K: Mama! Pouring it down the drain is NOT taking care of it!! Please, Mama, please! Take care of it! Just take care of it!

I am seriously beside myself. I'm just standing there in awe of the meltdown. I'm not even sure what to say or do. She's serious.

K: Hurry, Mama! It's getting cold. Please! Put it in a different cup and put a lid on it. Mama! Please! Put it in the cabinet. Put it up high, up here, so it's not near the cold! ...sob, sob... Please, Mama, just do it! Please!! Don't put it in the sink! No! NO!! Please, Mama!

I'm not even sure where to go from here. Maybe the psychiatrists office for her...or me? All I know, I'm really freakin glad I didn't give up alcohol.

 

Wit and Wisdom - Sun Edition

Without any ado, I bring to you the latest installment of the wit and wisdom of a 3 year old.

Setting: My car, of course

K: Hey Mama, a jet plane!

Me: I see. It's Southwest. Remember, the orange and blue planes?

For those of you wondering why I feel the need to teach my daughter the airline, it's simple. I'm hoping one day at pre-school, while outside on the playground, a plane will fly over and her intelligence will stun every adult in earshot. I can hear it now...Look, Mrs. Smith! A plane, Southwest, a Boeing 737. You know they have the 737 market cornered, Mrs. Smith?...They will be astounded. They will not believe a princess loving, fancy girl could possess such knowledge.

Anyway.

K: It's really high...I hope it doesn't run into the sun.

Me: Why? What would happen?

I'm just checking to see what knowledge she has on the sun...seemingly, very little.

K: The plane would wake the sun up. And then the sun would drop all the people from the plane down to the road. And that wouldn't be good.

Me: Well, you're right. That certainly wouldn't be good.

So there you have it. Generally, you see the sun depicted as a happy go lucky fellow, always wearing a smile. Clearly, K views the hot ball of plasma in a different light.

 

Censorship

I have bad news. I was censored.

Now I know what it feels like to be George Orwell. Or Eminem.

I was working on yesterday's post. I needed to do some fact checking, so I texted my husband.

Him: But wait - your NOT blogging about (insert censored topic here) - sorry!

Me: Yes.

Him: Sorry - do not blog about (censored topic)...seriously.

Me: I'm not saying you specifically.

Him: Don't care - u can include many things - no (censored topic.) Please don't write about that.

Me: Ugh.

This text exchange continued, and I'd love to share it all. But I fear the wrath if I do. I'm sure dear husband will already not enjoy this post. See, the thing is, I thought the censored topic was harmless. It's 2012, people do and say far worse than what I wanted to write about. I'm not a nip slip or an obscene hand gesture waiting to happen at the Super Bowl. I can be trusted to blog responsibly. But evidently, he feels otherwise.

And during the entire text conversation, I was cursing myself for fact checking. I know my facts. My memory rocks! Why did I even bother to bring him into it. I should have just written the damn, funny post. Dealing with him afterwards would have been worth it. But, as soon as I knew his feelings on the topic, I was effed.

I should have heeded the advice of successful blogger, Marinka from Motherhood in NYC. In a post written in 2009, she offers blog lessons she's learned. Lesson #3, which I clearly did not follow, is Do not tell anyone about your blog.

"The big downside to telling people about your blog is that they will read it and then you can never blog about them. Well, you can never blog about them in THAT way," -- Marinka

Now I'm stuck. Unless, I find a loop hole. Like maybe next year, I'll turn the censored Lent topic into my own personal Lent story. Then, I can blog about it with reckless abandon. Stay tuned, Lent 2013 might be quite funny.

Temporarily Mourning

Today's Fat Tuesday, which makes tomorrow Ash Wednesday.

I'm not über religious. I like to think of myself as spiritual, instead.

I've never observed Lent. It wasn't something that was a part of my childhood. My mother forced my sisters and me to attend church every Sunday. And never do I remember Lent even being discussed. Maybe because I was too busy reading Sweet Valley High. Regardless, we weren't expected to give anything up for Lent.

Enter my Catholic husband and his family. They observe Lent. So for years, I've listened to them give up red meat, coffee, sprite, and cursing.

This year, being the year of improvement and all, I decided I could benefit from giving up a vice for a few weeks. I narrowed it down to alcohol and television. Alcohol was my original choice but I opted out because I really like it. Giving it up would suck. I enjoy sitting on my back porch on the surprise pre-spring warm night with a skinny girl margarita and my iPad or a good beer with pizza and Old Bay wings or a nice glass of red wine at dinner when we visit my inlaws. Besides, I've done the no alcohol thing when I was pregnant.

That left me with tv. I don't watch a ton of tv. It's never just on as background noise. But I do watch more evening tv than I think I should. I've found myself watching Dance Moms and Pawn Stars purely because I didn't want to turn the tv off. I've actually learned character names in both shows. I have actual opinions about Abby Lee. I've been watching crap. So, I'm giving it up. For 40 days. Entire days. And here is what I'll miss, ranked in order of importance.

1. Young and the Restless...oh I'm so sad, already. I've watched the Newman's and Abbott's for as long as I can remember. I know I can skip a week and not be lost, but 6? I'll have to read weekly recaps. My luck someone will get pregnant, have the baby, send it to boarding school, and it'll be grown up before Easter.
   
2. New Girl...I love Zooey Deschanel.
   
3. NBC's Thursday night lineup; Office, Parks and Rec, Up All Night...you will all be sadly missed. I might just wear black this Thursday.
4. Survivor...this is the show my husband and I watch together. Always. We've done it for years. Now what will we do?
   
5. Cougar Town...maybe with all the extra free time, I'll become a penny can master.
6. Whitney
7. Modern Family
8. Netflix...I will no longer need to update the queue. I pass the torch to my husband. This is your opportunity to watch every movie you've ever said to me, "you never want to watch" about. Have fun.

It appears I like sitcoms.

The good news, I've given myself a few outs to make this successful and realistic.

1. Movies in a theater are okay. Anyone want to go to the movies with me? Apparently, I'll watch anything.
   
2. If a natural disaster occurs, I'm allowed to watch the news coverage. I'm not wishing or anything, just thinking ahead.
   
3. TV watching while sick is fair game. No one should have to suffer without mindless television.

Now we shall see what amazingness I can achieve with tv out of the way. I hope to tackle DIY projects, organize every nook and cranny, develop plans for our backyard, and rediscover my craftiness. Or spend my extra free time on Pinterest. It coud go either way.

 

Sweatshop

It's February 20th. Is it time to throw in the towel? I'm not really sure what's protocol in this department.

This is a photo of my kitchen table, taken only moments ago. Valentine's Day was a week back. And, yet, it appears I'm still hoping to send out cards. Better late than never, right? I did my part. I bought the supplies, cut out 12 heart cards, and printed LOVE, on each one. My husband bought stamps. All K had to do was peel and stick hearts and rhinestones and write her name. That was it. I thought this was a cake project.

Holidays can sometimes turn into a sweatshop in my house, mass producing a dozen cards and gifts for family members. I'm the boss and I generally stay in the kitchen for several hours, for several days, barking out reminders to an unenthusiastic child, attempting to keep her focused. 75% of the time it works. I have been known to help her with a few brushstrokes of my own, but projects are mostly completed by K.

This Valentine's Day I decided I wouldn't be the boss. I would take away the pressure and magically that would cause her to want to make her cards. It's seemed like a great plan. I wouldn't be stressed, she would have fun crafting. Sounds perfect!

See how well that plan worked. I'm a genius, clearly.

At dinner last night, as we were trying to find a place to sit and eat, we were discussing the failed card project. K still wants to decorate and mail them. She hasn't crafted a single card today, by the way. My husband thinks I should cut them into eggs and send them out for Easter. I think I should throw some stickers on the hearts, scribble her letters and a few "drawings", and get the ridiculous things out of here.

So, if you receive a Valentine from K this week there's a 1 in 4 chance it was made by her. Maybe you'll be a lucky one.

It's Not Going to Be Easy

The season premier of Cougar Town aired this past Tuesday. I'm a fan. It was Valentine's Day and I was elated with my evening plans to stay in with my fishbowl of wine and watch. I'm cool, huh.

If you, like me, are super-duper awesome and already saw the episode, bear with me on this brief recap. Anyway, between season 2 and 3 little Stan grew up. No longer a baby, now a young kid...a devil child. During the episode, Ellie struggles with little Stan and his behavior. They fear him. And it hits her, this is just the kind of kid he is. Maybe she has to accept he's going to grow to be a hell-raiser.

It made me think of lovely K. No, I don't truly think she's the spawn of Satan. But, kids come in all kinds, and maybe she's just the curious, creative, strong-willed, slightly defiant kind. It's very likely I will still be struggling with how to parent her antics when she's a teenager. Maybe she's just not gonna be an easy one.

The other night I walked into her room to see this on her dresser.

Not sure what you're looking at? Here's a close up.

"What the eff? How in the hell did she get chalk."

See, this is what the hallway outside of K's room looks like as of late. It's a staging area, if you will, for the toys that a responsible, trustworthy child should have in her room. But, as we are discovering more and more every week, that is not K. Somewhere in the row of toys is a basket of chalk, because as we know, K can't be trusted alone with chalk.

She's a smart one, that girl. Left with nothing in her room, she still finds creative ways to explore her mischievous side.

This day, my brilliant daughter learned there is more than one way to accomplish a goal. A life lesson, really. I should be proud. Who needs sticks of chalk when you can just smear the palms of your hands on your existing chalk board drawing and, voila, chalk to decorate with.

She did later confide in me that she was upset she messed up Belle and her pretty dress in the mountains. Life lesson #2 for the day, perhaps? Regret.

"But dont worry, Mama, I'll just draw it again."

Nope, no regret.

 

Sleepless in Baltimore

I have a simple request. I really don't think I'm asking for much. I'm not attempting to end world hunger or find alternative energy sources. I'm not even asking for the mail to be delivered earlier and the recycling to be picked up later. I just want to sleep.

I want just one full night of uninterrupted sleep. The kind of sleep you wake up from feeling rested.

I haven't had an amazingly full night of sleep since...I dunno, approximately April 2008. Really, my ob/gyn should have forewarned me. I think that should be part of the standard prenatal advice.

"Now make sure you take your vitamins, lay off the raw oysters, and kiss the dream of sleeping good, ever again, good-bye."

It's my entire household's fault that I don't sleep the recommended amount. 

Let's start with the biggest culprit, K. She's been ruining my chances at a good night sleep since before she was even born. Everyone warns new mothers. Sleep when the baby sleeps, they say. But they forget to mention the millions of reasons toddlers, and then preschoolers, still wake up entirely too much during the night. The excuses K gives when she wanders into my bedroom at odd hours of the night are endless. "I had a bad dream. I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. My tummy hurts. Moo Moo woke me up. I'm wet. Papa woke me up. I threw up." It goes on and on. Every now again, she wakes up about 2am, thinks it's morning, turns her light on and starts playing. I can guarantee that will never happen to me. I will never confuse 2am for 7am. In a desperate attempt to sleep, I taught her a phrase. "When the sun is up, the K is up. When the sun is down, the K is down." I'm not sure it's working, but she seems to enjoy saying it.

Moving right along, my dear husband. He snores. Let me say that again for extra emphasis. HE SNORES! Not every single night. But when does, it's loud. Like, pillow over my head, fingers in my ears, I can still hear it, loud. It's a source of contention in my house. I guess, you could say, I'm not the nicest when I attempt to rouse him. In my defense, I always try once nicely...a gentle touch on the shoulder, hey babe you're snoring. It never works. I'm forced to go to extremes. After all, if he's sleeping I should be allowed to, too. I have shoved, pushed with my foot (I just can't bring myself to write that I've kicked my husband. It sounds awful,) held his nose closed (my personal fav, his most detested,) and I have hit. I'm not proud. I'm not an abusive wife. I just want to sleep.

Next up in the plan to never let me sleep good, the animals. Marley licks her bed. It's like nails on a chalkboard. I can not sleep with that noise. Speaking of nails, when she paces from room to room, it's done with a click click click of her toenails on the hardwood floors. And every single night, Moo decides to pick a fight with Ellie. Literally. Every single night. Have you heard cats fighting? It's a wretched sound.

And now, my contribution to my sleep problems. I'm a light sleeper. Everything wakes me up. If K, still sleeping, cries out from a dream, I wake up. If she rolls over and bumps the rails of her bed, I wake up. If hubby comes to bed after watching a late game, I hear him on the steps. And now, I'm so conditioned, my internal clock wakes me up every few hours, you know, just incase.

I'm not sure how to solve my problem. A bottle of Tylenol PM? Maybe a separate wing of the house just for me? Or it's possible, I have to accept that this is just one of those joys of motherhood everyone is always talking about.

Dinner Rolls

You know the moment...you're sitting with friends at a restaurant, sipping cocktails, and the bread bowl arrives at the table. You unwrap the napkin to unveil the mound of piping hot rolls. You silently count the rolls, 6 rolls...4 people.

Seriously? Mother effer! You've got to be kidding me?! In what sick, cruel world is this ever fair? 

This is the dialogue in my head, every single mother lovin time. Pay attention next time you eat out, it's consistent. The number of rolls is always off. It's like the restaurant industry got together, had a little meeting. 

"Aright, alright. Brainstorm, people! There has to be some vindictive trick we can play on the masses. They can't just snap their fingers at us and demand service! We must passively retaliate!"

"Um, well, we could constantly get their orders wrong, that'll show em, right?"

"No, no, no.  We'll lose business for sure with that plan. Keep thinking, people!"

"How about this, we spit in their food?"

"Have you even heard of a little thing called the Health Department? Am I the only one with my head on straight tonight?"

"I got it boss. How about we mess with the rolls? You know, if it's a couple on a date, give em 3 rolls instead of 4. That way they have to fight about who gets the last roll."

"Brilliant! Genius, really. Someone give that kid a star."

Maybe that's how it happened. I dunno. But I do know that somewhere along the line, something got screwed up. If its a table of 2, it's a no-brainer, either 2 or 4 rolls should go into that basket. No odd number is ever acceptable.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who has been observing this strange roll phenomenon for years?? If I've ever eaten out with you, rest assured, I've counted the dinner rolls and cursed in my head.