French Toast...Find Your Own Way to the Fridge, Please

 Habits...we all have 'em. Good habits, like flossing and writing thank you notes (no and no.) Bad habits like nail biting and leaving the french toast in the oven. Yup. That's me. I bite my nails and constantly forget about the french toast.

Last night, I'm making dinner, yummy portobello salad sandwiches. I open the preheated oven to toast the baguette...surprise!

 This happens to me all the time. Seriously, I just don't get it. I make french toast every week. I always make extra to reheat for K's lunch or snack. And for some reason, unbeknownst to me, I can't remember to put the french toast in the fridge. I put it on the oven racks to cool and there it sits. It's like I have some affliction that makes it impossible for me to complete the sequence of events properly. I've got the french toast cooking down to a science, but after that it gets all screwy. I've even opened the Tupperware cabinet and found a container of french toast. I had managed to remember it on the oven racks, but then it's like I had a brain malfunction. I've been in bed at night, reflecting over the day, when it hits me...oh snap, I forgot the french toast in the toaster oven.

It's so common in my house, I laugh about it now. I'm furious when I misplace my keys. Livid when I forget my sunglasses. But the french toast I've accepted. I admit defeat. I'm not sure why or what it is that makes it impossible for me to follow through. I can't even come up with a logical excuse. I'm a great mom, bad at remembering the french toast. That's all there is to it.

Plasma and Platelets

I've never given blood. When I was pregnant, I had blood removed from my body by force multiple times for various tests. That's about it.

At some point in my life, probably college, I was first introduced to the idea of blood donation. I weighed 108lbs. And if any of you know the rules to blood donation, that meant I couldn't donate.

Holy what?! Seriously? I had been given a free pass, an out!!  Hell yeah!

Now, let me be the first to say, please donate. It's necessary. Donors of all types are heroes. Period. My husband donates blood on a regular basis. He did it today. I'm very proud of him for that. When my mother was still alive, she benefited greatly from the generosity of others. I will always feel a sense of gratitude to the anonymous blood donors that made it possible to enjoy one more day with my mother.

Phew. Now that I've got that PSA out of the way...

That fateful day back in college was life changing. From then on, it has been my goal to never be able to give blood. I'm fearful of needles. I don't like the idea of being hooked up to some machine to suction my blood from my body. I faint easily. Seriously. I do. It's not the sight of blood that's the problem, but instead the loss of blood. It's my blood. I guess I'm selfish.

Every time I step on a scale, it's the only thought I have.

Please let it be under 110. Please let it be under 110. Please, please, please.

My weight is good if I can't donate blood. Now, don't get me wrong...I'm always right on the border. I know there are days every month that I could definitely give blood. But until my weight is consistently above the 110 mark, I'm riding the wave. For as long as I can. Because, one day my free pass will be up. I will no longer have an out. I will have to suck it up, roll up my sleeve, and donate.   

Nine Lives

So it's official. My cat, Ellie, is not dead. And it appears, she's not dying anytime soon either. Obviously, this is good news, unless you're not a cat lover like a certain member of my house. I think he-who-will-not-be-named actually did a vet bill price comparison to determine which would have been cheaper, getting Ellie well or getting her cremated. Thankfully, today she's well on her way to being healthy.  

This is Ellie...sleeping in my ficus tree. There will be dirt on my floor when she's done napping.


















Last Saturday, things took a very peculiar turn for Ellie. Peculiar in the sense that my husband and I were convinced she was dying. It happened suddenly. One second she was relatively normal, the next she was spinning in circles.

I wanted to blog about it during the calamity, but just couldn't bring myself to do it for fear she was actually going to die. I had to wait it out. I knew I couldn't write an honest portrayal of the events. I would have given a skewed depiction of what really happened, to protect her memory...you know, in case she died.

But, she didn't die. So here's the truth. Ellie was possessed. She could only go left. For a full 72 hours she was capable of doing two things, spinning in a tight circle to the left or hugging the wall heading left. For 72 hours she was like an ant, on a mission. She had no say in her mission, it just had to be done. She had to walk, she couldn't stop. She was not capable of stopping. The most bizarre thing to watch. She would spin and spin and spin...always to the left, mind you. And when she finally was able to walk herself out of the spin, the mission was not complete. She had to keep walking, to the left, against the wall, at all cost. No matter what was in the way, she had to persevere. In 72 hours, she successfully got herself stuck behind a bookshelf, in a dollhouse, in between the hot furnace pipes, behind a radiator, behind the fridge, and in countless corners. If it hadn't been so all consuming, it would have been hysterical. Like YouTube funny.

$290 later, a vet confirmed she wasn't possessed after all. She also didn't have a brain tumor or lesion, like all my intelligent internet research had determined. Instead, she had a double ear infection. Boring.

**Disclaimer: He-who-will-not-be-named does in fact love my cats. He does not really wish them dead, at least I don't think he does. And I thank him very much for taking poor Ellie to the vet. 

Lights Out

"And the hits just keep on coming." 

 Tom Cruise -- A Few Good Men 

I'm not heartless. I get it. The dark can be a scary thing to kids. Hell, even as a teenager, when I got home from work late at night, I would run from my car to the front door. In my defense, I lived on a farm in East Jabip and it was extremely dark in the evening.

But I swear, K has taken it to a whole new level this time.

She has successfully suckered me into giving her not one, not two, but four light sources in her room at bedtime. For her first birthday, she received a ladybug that shines constellations on the ceiling. Then, when she started potty training and needed to go to the potty after bedtime, she picked out an angel that lights up and she can hold it and carry it around. She named it La La. Really, I think it's just another doll to her, but nonetheless, it glows. After that scam, she demanded that we leave the hall light outside her room on at night. And finally, after Christmas was over, she had grown so accustomed to the lights on the little tree in her room, I removed the lights from the tree and wrapped them around a feature on her dresser.

For sure, this is enough light for one little 3 year old and her fears. With all of the light in her room, she could read books, play dolls, build a rocket. But, no...my lovely Veruca Salt insists her bedroom light be left on. And if I'm not going to leave the light on for her, she will take matters into her own hands. See, she can't reach the light switch yet, not quite tall enough. But if she climbs into her stuffed animal basket...bingo. Once that was discovered, of course I removed the basket from her room. K was not discouraged. She tried to build a tower of books to stand on. I don't think she was ever successful with that plan, but occasionally I still see a stack of books under the light switch. So clearly, she's still trying to work out the kinks in that method. Then came her sneak outs to the bathroom to get the stool. Usually she would be discovered. But I'm sure in her mind it was still a success. 

And then...sigh...and then, she got really smart. She almost outwitted me. Actually, she had outwitted me. 

 About a week ago was the first time we noticed her dresser was broken. 

 

We blamed it on cheap craftsmanship. My husband fixed it and we went about our day. The top drawer broke again yesterday. Once more, I blamed it on a faulty product. But, still I knew K had a hand in it. I had no idea the extent until tonight. 

She let it slip. 

 Her: If you don't put the stool in here, I'll just climb over the drawer.

Me: Wait. What? What do you mean, you'll climb over the drawer?

Her: I'll climb over it and reach.

Aha! (lightbulb moment) Is she freakin climbing her dresser to turn the light on? She broke her dresser drawer climbing to the top? No way! She's too cautious to do that. No freakin way!!

Me:  Show me. Show me how you turn the light on.

And damned if she didn't. She started to put one foot on the pull to the bottom drawer. One hand on the top of the dresser. Second foot on the other bottom drawer pull. I saw it happening...with my own two eyes. My daughter had been climbing her dresser like a mountain to reach her light switch.

She had me. I had two choices. Remove her dresser from her room or give her a stool. 

It's 10pm, 3 hours past bedtime, and here we sit, in a stand off. Me blogging my frustrations away. Her still awake, doing God only knows what, in her room...with the light on.  

How to Get in Shape

It's no secret, I want to get in shape. I'm not concerned about the number on the scale. In fact, it's the same number today that it was before I had K, give or take a pound. But...things don't quite look the same. Some parts are a little, um, squishier than they used to be.

So I thought I'd share with you my personal, no fail, 23 point How to Not Get in Shape list.

1.   Stand naked in front of the mirror and assess damage.
2.   Decide with great gusto to finally get back in shape.
3.   Think about setting a start date.
4.   Notice a cool calorie counter app. Download.
5.   Track calories for 2 days. Get discouraged when app repeatedly asks you to input exercise.
6.   Uninstall calorie counter app.
7.   Locate exercise ball from the fourth circle of hell (aka the basement.)
8.   Start a nice and effective before bed exercise routine.
9.   Decide to reward yourself for your hard work with a night off.
10. Roll exercise ball out of the way. Pretend you don't see it anymore. Routine broken.
11. Let a month pass without making any progress on your original goal. Repeat steps 1 and 2.
12. Decide to finally use the Elliptical located in the fourth circle of hell.
13. Exercise for 3 days. Declare basement entirely too dark and depressing to produce a good workout.
14. Notice a Groupon for a month membership at a nearby athletic club.
15. Buy Groupon. Read it doesn't expire until July. Plan to procrastinate on redeeming Groupon.
16. Talk a good game about signing up for a 5k.
17.  Do no research and make no plans.
18. See a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in pantry. Intentionally eat the entire rest of the bag with the rationale that if they are gone from the pantry, you can't be tempted by them anymore.
19. Feel discouraged. Silently curse the person who bought said Doritos.
20. Find yourself awake at zero dark thirty. Decide it would be a great time to go for a run. Think hard about putting running shoes on. Wonder if they're in the closet or downstairs. Think about checking the weather on your phone. Check twitter instead.
21. Decide to start running another time.
22. Allow another month to pass.
23. Revisit steps 1 and 2.

I figure at this rate, I should have my pre-pregnancy body back in no time. I'm just sure of it.

Sidetracked

I was writing about my favorite cat, Ellie, when I experienced the best case of sidetrack. Ever.

I needed a picture of Ellie. How could I blog about her most recent trials and tribulations without showing the world (or the miniscule fraction that reads this blog) her regal face? And usually I just go to my phone and upload what I need, but for some reason, today it wouldn't upload. I was going to be forced to break out the laptop. Ugh. I could go into great detail about my detestation for the laptop, but I will simplify and say its cumbersome and unreliable.

Since I was being forced to use the laptop, I thought to myself...

Maybe I can make this annoyance work to my advantage. I'm sure there's a picture of Ellie on the laptop that really shows off her best features.

And that is where I went wrong.

Here I sit, at least an hour later, writing a completely different post. Ellie's post, still not written. Upon first glance, it looks like I have successfully wasted productivity during K's nap time. Ah, but maybe not. While I was sidetracked in photo land, I had an epiphany.

I had an amazingly, awesome 2011 with K. Spectacular, really. 

See, because of the unreliable nature of the laptop, we were not able to unload any pictures off the camera for the better half of 2011. After taking two pictures the morning of December 25th, it finally happened, the memory card was full. Pictures were forced to be unloaded in a hurry and that was that.
:::note to self, always check the memory card before the biggest picture taking holiday:::

So, prior to an hour ago, I hadn't really looked at the pictures I had taken throughout the year. It's not that I had forgotten that K and I went to the butterfly conservatory or the pumpkin patch, but seeing the images transported me back to the moment. And it was good.

Sometimes it's so easy to be overwhelmed by the day to day struggles. I find myself losing sight of what's important, what really matters. So this...this sidetrack...was very much needed, to put it all back in prospective. To see the smiling face of my beautiful daughter over and over again. To watch her hair grow from short, wispy toddler hair to long big-kid hair all in a matter of months. To remember again, to relive every holiday, special occasion, and random camera worthy moment. It was so gratifying to be reminded of all the good I have experienced in the past year with such a charismatic, little girl. 

She is, without a doubt, my sun and my moon.

You Can Run but You Can't Hide

Recently I had a conversation with a friend of mine.

Me: You feel like an adult yet?

Him: No, I don't want to.

Me: It's inevitable.

Him: I can be an adult without feeling like one.

Me: For awhile, yes. But then one night it will hit you when you realize you can't go see The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo cause it's 2 hours and 38 minutes long and it doesn't start until 9pm.

That's my reality. I am an adult, and I most definitely feel like one. I'm reminded every morning when I look at the puffy, dark circles under my eyes and the wrinkles on my face that weren't there 5 years ago.

I give him props for thinking he can forever feel young. After all, he is still in his 20's. But don't you worry, my friend, one day you're going to look at yourself and think, dear God when did it happen? Maybe it will be a night when you're out with friends and you look around and discover you're the old guy at the bar. Or maybe it will be the morning after a late night drinking, you wake up feeling like death and realize your body can't handle it quite like it used to. Possibly it will hit you when you debate whether or not to call the cops on the noisy college kids partying on their porch too late in the evening. And if by some chance you don't have a scenario that is your Aha moment, I guarantee one day you will look at yourself naked in the mirror and see things that make it impossible to not feel like an adult. Metabolisms go, things shift and wrinkle, gravity takes over. This is inevitable.

It's a Good Day

If my calculations are correct, I have exactly 224 days, 11 hours, and 30 minutes until I can drop K off at preschool.

That's a very significant amount of time left, and I'm starting to become a little concerned. Scratch that, a lot concerned. For my house. And my sanity.

When K was a baby, some aspects of parenthood were easy. I could put her on a blanket, go run a marathon (I, too, am laughing at that. Me run a marathon, ha!) come back and be certain she was still laying on the blanket, mesmerized by the ceiling fan.

When she was a toddler, I knew what I was in for. We childproofed the cabinets, gated the steps, and put breakables out of reach. The worse that would happen was she would knock over stacks of magazines or chew on her books. Again, easy.

But this stage we're in now, anything but easy. Bathing both of my cats every day for a month would be easy compared to this. I think I've pinpointed the reason the vandalism has reached an all time high in my house, K is not on lock down in solitary confinement similar to the programs in place at San Quentin or Pelican Bay. Unfortunately for me, she's free to roam around the house like a normal preschooler. Another problem, she's growing. She can now climb furniture and reach my hiding spots. I'm being forced to scale counters and furniture myself, just to place things out of her reach.

And after her most recent stunt...

That's chalk. On the walls in my guest room. I needed clarification as to what exactly I was looking at. I'm not sure what you see, but my husband and I had an identical initial reaction. She said the drawing on the right is Rapunzel, apparently you can see her crown. Below Rapunzel is her dress. And, of course, spanning the length of two walls, is Rapunzel's hair. The figure on the left wall is the beloved Flynn Rider. Yeah, that's not what I saw.

Anyway.  In an effort to preserve my sanity, I've decided I need to think outside of the box on this one. Maybe K isn't being a naughty 3 year old.  Maybe, just maybe, my artsy daughter is trying to tell me something. This room needs art. And if I'm not going to take care of the matter, she will take care of it for me.

I'm not sure, but I know that every day her and I don't hurt each other is a good day. 

Old and Crotchety

I live next to an empty parking lot. Approximately 5 days a year, the lot is used as overflow parking for the neighborhood festivals. The other 360 days, the lot is not being used for it's intended purpose.

When I first moved to this house, I watched a son and a dad play baseball in the empty parking lot. And I thought to my pregnant self...Geesh! That's just lazy! Can't they walk to a park and play in the grass! When my baby's born, I wont be making her play in a parking lot. I'm above that! I know we live in the city, but come on!

I eat my words.

I love living next to the empty lot. K loves living next to the empty lot. She can ride her bike whenever she wants and all we have to do is walk across the street. We take sidewalk chalk to the lot and create huge masterpieces. We've flown kites in the lot. When there's snow, neighborhood kids flock to the big hill that empties into the lot. And I'm proud to say, we've even used the lot to play soccer and softball.

Last night I did not love the lot. See, there is one problem with living next to an empty parking lot. When the small kids go to bed, the big kids come out to take their turn playing in the lot. And I hate the damn kids for turning me into that old lady, cell phone in hand ready to call the cops. Somehow I don't find it enjoyable to be awoken at 2:45am by morons, drunk no doubt, doing doughnuts in the icy parking lot, tires spinning as loud as possible in an attempt to free their car from the ice. Maybe I'm just becoming old and crotchety. I'm also not a fan of the fireworks displays the empty lot is known for. Or the motorcycle races. Or the truck races. Really, I see no reason for any vehicles to be in the parking lot. I know...its a parking lot...but it's supposed to be an empty parking lot.

That's the beauty of it. 
 

Retribution

Dearest Mom,

Are you looking down on me, having a good laugh? Are you taking great pleasure from watching your granddaughter challenge me the way she does? Were you watching her, Sharpie in hand as she graffitied my childhood desk? 

I'm sure you were. And all I have to ask is...

What in the hell did I ever do as a child to deserve this?!

I've asked everyone in the family, they all say I was sweet and easy going as a young child. They must be wrong. This must payback. It's the only thing that makes sense. The others in the family must not know what you know. At home, alone with you, I must have been a terror. Mischievous. Outright naughty. And now I know what it must have felt like to be you.

So, my amazing mother, I want to apologize to you for whatever horrible acts I did as a child. I'm sorry. So very sorry. Can we call it a truce? Can you accept my apology and start helping me from above? I'm sure there's someway you can intervene the next time K decides to vandalize my belongings. Maybe you could visit her while she's sleeping and send her positive affirmations. Or if that doesn't work, and I'm just brainstorming here, maybe you could haunt her a bit. Scare her straight, if you know what I mean. Just a thought. I'll leave it up to you to decide the best way to involve yourself.

Mom, I really am so very sorry for making your life challenging. And for not appreciating all the hugs and kisses you gave me, because I now know what that's all about, too. 

Love always,

Your favorite daughter

xoxoxo

Wheel of Terror...Day 2

 Welcome to a new game of The Wheel of Terror! What will it be today? Grab a peg and give the wheel a big spin!

Tick.tick.tick.tick.tick..tick..tick...tick....tick.......tick......tick........tick..............tick.................tick...................tick

You landed on "Squeezes shampoo, conditioner, and body wash all over her bed." 

Which means, WE HAVE A WINNER!!!!

:::Crowd goes wild:::

 

Yup. This is what I saw first thing this morning. Her defense when I confronted her...

"But Mama, I didn't get into this one or that one."

Right, cause you're 3 and couldn't unscrew the lid. Not because you were showing restraint.

Is it too late to put her back in a crib? Baby gate is going in front of her bedroom door tonight!

Wheel of Terror

Have you ever wondered...hmm, just how multi purpose is this new hand cream I bought? Can I, say, clean my hardwood floors with it? No? Never? A member of my household did.

K is, um, hmm...a creative child. Yes, i believe that's the nicest way i can describe her at this juncture. She has expressed her creativity so many times, it was recently suggested we create a game out of it. The Wheel of Terror! It would be a wheel divided like a pie into all the wonderful situations K finds herself in. It would be filled with things like, Paints her face with mascara, Colors her baby doll's head with purple marker, Applies lip gloss to all of her dolls, Draws bracelets on her arms with marker, or (my favorite) Paints her face and hands with brown nail polish. The rules haven't been finalized yet, but I believe it would go something like this...before entering the room K's in, all players would take a spin on the wheel, whomever's spin is closest to K's devastation wins. What do they win? The right to walk out the front door laughing at the others who are left to clean up the wreckage. Sounds fun.

Up until this weekend, K's defacement has been limited to her own body and her own belongings. So even though it's very frustrating, I've been able to laugh it off. Ha ha ha...sort of.

But this weekend, the girl crossed the line. The line that makes me think of overseas boarding schools or dog crates.

Imagine my shock. I enter my bedroom, expecting to find an angelic child curled up, sleeping in my bed only to find her smearing thick hand cream all over the hardwood floor. I mean all over! Thick layers of slippery lotion all over the entire bedroom, smeared in a circular manner. She didn't miss a single floor board. And there was that moment in my head that went something like this...

"What the eff?? Oh my god! OH MY GOD! I'm gonna hurt her! Are you effing kidding me!"

And then, I surveyed the damage. 

I didn't know what I should be more concerned about, the fact that my 3 year old was using my scissors unsupervised or that she was defacing Godly things. This couldn't be a good omen, right?

My eyes continued to survey the damage. My mouth was saying things like...
"Oh my God! What did you do? Are you kidding me, K? What did you do? Is this lotion? My new lotion? Oh my God! Look at this! Scissors? You were playing with scissors? And my bed! You smeared lotion all over my bed! What were you thinking? Why would you rub lotion all over my bed? Is this marker? Oh my God!"

Yup. She had gotten into my craft cart.

She decided to practice her calligraphy all over my sheets and duvet cover. Great. With that pen, she crossed the line. 

Me:  "You got into my stuff? My pens! My markers! My scissors!"

K:  "Yes, but not this. I couldn't get it open. And this (points to decoupage bottle) is empty. I shook it and squeezed it but nothing came out."

And for a moment, I remember how incredibly, adorable my little girl is. But just for a moment, because during that moment I moved in for a closer look at the sheets only to find this.

She cut her hair! The same girl who was freaking out about hair loss yesterday, cut her hair. I was speechless. Literally speechless. And with that I picked her up, whisked her away, and put her in the empty bathtub and shut the door. The only place I could think of where she couldn't get into trouble and couldn't have any fun. And with a smile on my face, I imagined leaving her there for days. Don't worry, I would at least send in food under the door.

Renewed Interest

I have a car. Well, I guess technically I have a small suv. It's neither male nor female. It does not have a name, and as long as I'm the owner, it wont. I don't love it. I don't hate it. It's just a car. It gets me from A to B. And isn't that really a cars only purpose?

I am not one who needs a fancy car. A fellow mom accidentally let her door swing open a little hard on a windy day and dented the door of my car. I was not concerned. I did not lose sleep over the dent. Because, as I said, it's just a car.

However, a few weeks ago, I was reminded that a car is not merely a car. My kindhearted brother in-law called my car a mom car.

::Shudder::

A mom car?? It's not a mini-van. But then, I opened my eyes to what he saw from his back seat vantage point. The floor of my car was littered with nature...as he so kindly pointed out, from every season.  There was sand and seashells on the floor. Yes, you read that correctly. I had two seashells on the floor under the brake pedal. Actually, I think one was a clam shell and the other a pretty, purple tinted shell. K is a collector of things, I blame the shells on her. There were Ginkgo leaves and pine needles. And dirt. Lots of dirt. Not just on the floor. Dirt in crevices. I'm not sure how much experience you have with dirt in car crevices, I have a ton. And from my extensive knowledge, I've learned that dirt in crevices mixed with drops of coffee, water, milk, and apple juice turns into gunk. My car's crevices are filled with gunk.

My car, sadly, wasn't just littered with nature. There was, among other things, a camping parking pass (pretty sure I didn't go camping in 2011,) the rubber head of a mallet (???,) a roll of paper towels, a box of Kleenex, 3 flashlights (you really can never be too prepared,) 2 pairs of Dora underwear, and approximately 47 hair ties.

I needed help. But I wasn't quite ready to do anything about it yet. Enter birds. God awful, berry eating birds.


They left me no choice. And after multiple neighbors commented on the state of my car, I had to go to the car wash. It was time. I am a mom, true. But maybe I don't have to drive a mom car. 

So, it seems I have a renewed interest in my car, for now anyway. I've cleaned it inside and out. I've removed all shells and mallets, receipts and magazines. There is still gunk, but I'm working on it. Be damned, I will not have a mom car! Goldfishies...you have met your match!  

Milestones

I'm proud to say dear, sweet K has reached another milestone over the weekend. We really are so proud of her!

Stifles laughter

She's fearful of the drains...bathtub drains, bathroom and kitchen sink drains, and even the toilet. Aww, isn't that just so wonderful!

This fear has reached epidemic proportions in the house. It's consuming her innocent little mind, and, as sad as it is, I can't help laughing.

See, she's not worried that she might actually get sucked down the drain. No, she's too smart for that. She's all hung up on hair. Yes, you read that right, hair. She's freaked out about the hair on her head falling out and getting sucked down the drain or flushed down the toilet. And not just her hair, she's looking out for my hair as well.

It all started Friday night.

"Mama! Mama! Get it out quick! Hurry Mama! A hair in the potty, in my pee!"

I attempted to explain to her that hair falls out all the time, no big deal. She clearly was not buying my crazy talk.

"Mama NO! Don't flush it down! Get it! GET IT MAMA!"

Now, she's thinking entirely too hard about the probability of more hair going down the drain if she takes a bath or a shower. She's convinced herself that if she just poops in the big potty and pees in the kid potty, she will save more of her hair from its untimely fate.

I've been fielding questions left and right about what can fit down the drain and where everything goes.

"So the bath water goes to the bay? Like with the fish, but not the sharks? Right Mama? The drain doesn't go to the sharks?"

I can see her little mind picturing the scariest scene ever, vicious man eating sharks swimming around in a full head of her hair.

My husband, trying to help matters or get her to shut up, told her that he could see new hair growing in the holes the old hair fell out of. So to add to the all consuming nature of the original fear, now she thinks she has super hair. She walks around, periodically flipping her head upside down.

"Can you see it growing, Mama?"

I've decided to wait this phase out. There's no reasoning with someone who wants to gather her fallen hair into a pile to save.

Spot of Tea

Yesterday, I was playing tea party with K. The rules are simple, which I like. I have a hard time keeping up with the ever changing rules to the other games in her life.

The party's going well. She turns to me with cup and saucer in hand.

"Mama, would you like a spot of tea?"

What the eff? Who is this child?

Let me remind you she's 3 1/2 and we don't have a British nanny. And as far as I know, I don't say spot of tea. Where does she get this stuff?

At this point, I determine she's brilliant, even a genius. There is no other explanation. I pat myself on the back. I must be doing an amazing job for her to be this smart.

"Mama? How about a spot of vegetable? Maybe a carrot?"

So, okay. Maybe she's not a genius. But she's still pretty smart. And I'm still killing it at this mother thing. It's obvious I've instilled the love of vegetables in her.

A few moments later, we're still partying. I take a cup and offer it to Marley, our dog. Next thing I know, K spins around, as if possessed by the devil himself, teeth clenched, eyes red possibly even glowing.

She rips the cup from my hand. Marley's now cowering down behind me, likely fearful for her life.

"NO! THIS IS FOR AURORA!"

Sigh. She's just a normal 3 year old. And I'm an adequate mom. Thanks for keeping it real for me.

Bad Boys Finish First

K is hopelessly attracted to bad boys. Scary.

Like, googly eyed, hearts floating around her head attracted.

I remember the day it all began like it was yesterday. She's only 3 1/2, so it was practically yesterday. It was approximately 5:30pm and the mail had just arrived. I know, our mail is ridiculously late. Last night it didn't get here until 6pm. Maybe if our letter carrier didn't spend so much time on her blue tooth, she'd get her mail delivered faster.

There in the box was the coveted red envelope. Tangled, staring Rapunzel and the ruffian, Flynn Rider. From Flynn's first scene on, K was hooked. For those of you lucky enough not to have seen Tangled, let me do the honors...spoiler alert...Bad ass Flynn Rider and his hooligan friends break into the palace to steel the lost princess' tiara.

What a winner, huh! First class! Now you know why I'm so proud that my daughter has found her first true love.

Fast forward a few months. I'm driving, K's in the back holding her Darth Vader action figure in her lap, planning out their wedding I'm sure.

"Mama? Did you know Darth Vader has blue eyes?"

Right. Darth Vader is just so dreamy. She's picked a real jem, a diamond in the rough, I tell you. I'm certainly not a Star Wars expert (thankfully) but even I know he's a shady character. I think I read something about borderline personality disorder, on top of mass murders of course. He's just the kind of guy I want as a future son in-law!

Every now and again I catch her, staring longingly into their eyes. I don't even want to know her thoughts.

I'm saying it now, she's not allowed to date...ever.

Basement Crap

Happy New Year!

I used to make resolutions. I was always unsuccessful. Aren't we all, really? But when I turned 30, I made the best New Year's resolution ever...to stop wasting my time creating resolutions. I suppose in theory, they're good ideas. Perfect chance to make yourself a better person, turn over a new leaf, stop biting your nails. But really they are just guilt and failure waiting for you. Nagging you on January 2nd and again on January 5th. Until January 11th, if you even make it that far, you admit defeat, accept change isn't any fun at all and resume life as usual.

The Container Store is convinced I should have made a resolution this year. They want me to resolve to get organized and clean the crap out of my basement. And, hey, it's not a half bad idea. If they'd like to give me a few hundred in ELFA shelving I'd be up to the challenge. I'm not a hoarder. Yet, my basement is full of crap. All sorts of crap that, if it tragically flooded, I might do a celebratory dance in my head.

This morning, I decided Christmas was over and I wanted my house back. I ventured to the basement to retrieve the Rubbermaid boxes. These boxes were just accessed about 3 weeks ago, and still I had to move a lobster pot, a box of screw drivers, a Fisher Price Laugh & Learn house, and a small box full of unidentified junk just to get to the Rubbermaid boxes.

The box of unidentified junk is really what this whole post is about. Today I stumbled upon a website, Crap at my Parents House. It's a funny site, and I was scared. A handful of years ago, I helped my husband pack up and sort my grandmother in-laws belongings. I will never, ever, in a million years forget that experience. And out of respect to the lovely lady I will not go into detail about what I saw. But suffice it to say, we've all seen an episode or two of TLC's Hoarding. From that moment on, I decided i didn't want any of my children going through my junk after I die, questioning why their crazy mother saved so much ridiculous, worthless shit.

However, it seems I'm not alone in this basement battle. Dear husband has quite a bit of belongings in said basement. Matter of fact, I believe he has several boxes down there from our move 4 years ago, simply labeled JUNK. In his defense, I labeled the boxes. If the label fits...

Thankfully K is still very young. I have quite a few more years to accumulate crap sort through and organize the basement chaos and clutter, so she doesn't have to when I die. Or I could just write in to TLC in advance.