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.

Moo Moo Fatty Patty Spaghetti

Today, I would like to extend my gratitude to someone who works his magic behind the scenes of the Dark Side of Aurora. He loves unconditionally and there is no end to his tolerance. He's often overlooked, but is crucial for any attempt at daily harmony. I would like to offer my kudos and a round of applause to, none other than, the famous...Moo, aka Moo Moo Kitty and Moo Moo Fatty Patty Spaghetti!

Moo has been K's best friend since conception. Literally. I'm not joking. It was obvious. Moo is not my favorite cat. I find him to be obnoxious and ridiculously mean to his sister, Ellie. I'm sure he picks up on the vibe. But when I was pregnant, he wouldn't leave me alone. As soon as I sat down, he was in my lap, laying on my stomach, purring. Just what any fat, pregnant woman wants, a hairy creature smushing her already crowded belly. He was so persistent, I eventually gave in. It became a nightly ritual, he would lay with K. It was obvious, it wasn't me he was interested in, it was her.

Since then, they have been best buds. Partners in crime. He was her alibi the day she pulled this stunt. He sleeps with her at night, misses her terribly when she leaves, and is waiting by the door when she returns. He's never scratched or bitten her, and as many have witnessed, she's not alway the nicest to Moo. In fact, sometimes, she blatantly abuses him. He never complains. She pulls his tail, he comes back for more. If she wants to play dress up, he's in. No objections.

No one wears a necklace better than Moo. Or hair bows, barrettes, bunny ears, reindeer antlers, tutus, tiaras, or fairy wings. No matter the event, Moo Moo's dressed to the nines. And a look is never complete without makeup.

Moo proudly wears makeup, imaginary of course. Face paint too, if it pleases her. He never gripes. He would walk through fire, wearing plastic princess heels, if she asked him to.

To sweet, patient Moo...I would like to say thank you. Thank you for following her around the house, being the most loyal playmate a little girl could ask for. Thank you for playing countless games and embarking on endless imaginary journeys with K. Thanks for braving her tantrums, often bearing the brunt of her anger and sadness. You are her best friend. Gracias.

***Out of respect for K's tabby cat, I will not, at this time go into the details of the heinous acts of molestation inflicted upon poor, poor Ellie. But let it be known, if he wasn't so amazing with K...him and I would have major issues.

Confession

I have two confessions. I'm ready to come clean.

Deep breath

I have a junk drawer and I'm a hypocrite.

Wow! That feels good. Glad to get it off my chest. Yup, world, I have random junk that finds it's way into the very large utensil drawer in my kitchen. I open the drawer at least a dozen times a day and the junk laughs at me, but I don't care. And really...I don't. Everyone has a drunk drawer, right? Neat freak, Monica Gellar, had a whole junk closet. But, there's an aspect of my junk drawer that I have a teensy, tiny problem with...the butcher's knife.

Which brings me to confession number two. I'm a hypocrite. I stand on my pedestal, claiming I'd never have a gun in my house with kids. It's just so dangerous. You never know what may happen...blah, blah, blah. And here I am, with a butcher's knife in my junk drawer. There's no safety lock on the drawer, oh no, that would be too smart. But, in case you're wondering, there are 2 child safety locks inside the drawer, just waiting to be used. You wanna know the real hypocritical part of it all, oh it's a shocker?! When I finally decided to clean the drawer out, it wasn't because I was worried my daughter would get hurt. Nope, I was concerned that I was going to be hurt riffling in the drawer. She gets a straw out of the drawer daily, and it's my well being I was looking out for.

Hanging my head in shame. Waiting for the stones to be thrown.

But, it's over. I've been to confession. Said my Hail Mary's. I've cleaned out the drawer.

And the tally, among other really special items...

Wanna grow a garden? 4 packets of seeds

Build a chopstick house? 13 take out chopsticks

Secure the aforementioned house together? 36 screws

Draw all over an heirloom desk? 3 sharpies

Poison a small child? 5 bottles of various medicines and vitamins

Tie dye shirts for your family? 21 rubber bands

And finally...

Arm yourself against rape and pillage? A chef's knife, a carving knife, 3 paring knives, and a meat fork

Glad that's over.

 

Mouth Buggies

There's a ginormous amount of tension in the air at my house. K's antics are taking a toll on everyone. I'm in need of lighthearted amusement. Or really good wine.

Hopefully this post will brighten my heart a little...

 

How many of you fine readers have ever thought...Gee, I sure do wish I could be a fly on Kara's sticky car wall. Seriously? None of you are going to raise your hand? I just finished telling you how rough things are and you can't throw me a bone? Whatever. A lot of really funny shit is said in my car. Here's a sample from this mornings car ride, the wit and wisdom of K.

K: Mama? Do I have buggies in my teeth?

Me: I can't look right now, I'm driving? 

But I do look. In the rear view, I see her, mouth wide open.

Me: I don't see any bugs.

K: My tooth hurts. It's probably the buggies. You know we all have buggies in our mouth, Mama?

Me: I know.

K: They're probably trying to build a nest in my mouth. Maybe if I drink my orange juice, the buggies will go away.

I contemplate asking her where the bugs will go when she drinks her juice. But decide against it, for fear she will infer that the bugs would go into her tummy. Knowing her insane phobia of insects, she may stop eating all together.

K: I don't want the buggies building nestses in my teeth. They're probably all working hard in my mouth building lots of nestses. Maybe a whole city. That's probably why my tooth hurts. All the building. You think the buggies like it in my mouth, Mama?

Me: Probably. 

K: You think they're going to be mad when I brush my teeth tonight? I'm gonna spit their nestses right out.

 

Aww...my thought provoking, little girl. Every now and again, she makes it all worth it. 

Spit Happens

Toddlers and preschoolers are not merely small people. They are their own breed, with their own set of laws governing their world. Understanding this helps me find patience for irrational hair loss fears and chalk drawn murals.

But, I believe, my patience has reached its boiling point. When confronted with an undesirable situation, some young kids hit, others bite. K has chosen to spit.

In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Violet Beauregarde informs Willy Wonka, "Spitting's a nasty habit," to which he retorts, "I know a worse one." I'm calling your bluff candy man. I would give anything to be writing about K having a boogie picking addiction.

Instead, here I am describing a battle I am losing. I'm just moments away from waving the white flag. 

Incase you don't have much experience with spitting preschoolers, let me fill you in on what it's like.

Backseat of the car, I'm buckling her in her car seat.

She demands, "I want my lollipop NOW!" 

"Not how you ask, and you know the rules. No lollipops in the car," I rationally explain.

And just like that, spit in my face. Directly in my face.

Now I'm a good mom. But at that moment, it takes all the willpower I possess to not slap her across the face. Lucky for her, I see the big picture. She's a little girl, who is really, really mad at me for telling her no. And the first way her little brain can think to convey this anger is to spit. She doesn't sit around thinking up all the ways she can disrespect me. She doesn't plot a plan of action to send me crazy. But let me tell you, incase you've never experienced it first hand, the knowledge of why doesn't make it any easier to endure.

She's a spitter. What next? That's where we're at. 

I've googled. Babycenter says its a normal phase, one of those "this too shall pass" ones. Once she perfects her language skills, it should fade away on it own. Countless yahoo members offer little to no help, but they sure can share their own "been there, done that" stories. K's pediatrician offers his advice, when she spits give her as little attention as possible, theorizing that she's doing it for attention. We've taken away privileges. Removed toys. I've been putting into practice techniques I learned in my Elementary Education classes from years past. 

I've had countless conversations like...

"I understand you're angry cause Mama said its bedtime. Instead of spitting is there anything else you could do to let Mama know you're mad? Could you stomp your foot and say argh? Take 5 deep breaths? Could you use your words and tell me that you're mad?"

Nothing is working. She's still spitting. 

A recent conversation with a friend inspired our most current effort to curb the spitting. It's a marble in the jar plan. Anytime K is caught handling her anger the proper way, she gets a marble in the jar. Anytime she spits instead, she loses a marble. Five marbles earns a prize. This plan has been in affect since February 1. She hasn't earned a prize yet. At the present moment, there are 3 marbles in the jar. Not writing it off yet, but the plan doesn't seem to be helping. 

I'm considering alternative solutions. My husband wants to run away to Jamaica when K hits puberty. I say I present a nice, effective trade. I go first and leave him with the spitter. I promise I'll come back...probably. Eventually.

Trumpets, Doves, and Vomit

 My baby's no longer a baby.

Cue the trumpets! Release the doves!

I knew someday it would happen. And, in the only way that really matters, K turned into a big girl over the weekend.

Our house was hit by a plague-like virus late, late Friday night. I think it was Newton who said, what goes up must come down. Our plague was the opposite. For a good, solid 12 hours, K and I both vomited every bit of liquid and solid we dare put in our body. I had Indian food for dinner Friday night. Let me fill you in on a little lesson I learned...if you think there's a chance you may become deathly ill, don't pick Palak Paneer and shrimp Vindaloo as your last meal.

Pray tell, you ask, what does your grim story of vomit have to do with little K growing up?

In those 12 hours, K vomited half a dozen times. And do you know how many sets of sheets had to be washed? Blankets? Pajamas? Rugs? Heads of hair?  Zero. That's right, zero.

Cue chorus of angels.

It's finally happened, my big girl comprehends the one and only goal when inflicted with a stomach churning illness...aim for the bowl.

Back Britax Driver

 K has started taking an interest in the rules of the road. No longer am I allowed to listen to music and just drive. She's nonstop asking questions. I've educated her on lane markings, turn signals, and highway signs. I've begun instilling in her courtesy and respect for other drivers. Together we read the signs to find our way home. And it's all rather cute. Mostly.

Except when she feels the need for speed, which is becoming far too often. This morning, while waiting safely to turn left, a garbage truck passes by.

"There goes a trash truck. It's like a race. Faster, Mama. Catch up to it."

And scary enough, I find myself accelerating. I want to catch it...for her of course. 

"Hurry, Mama. It's far away."

I speed up. I'm being peer-pressured by a 3 year old. But, luckily the light turns red and reality kicks in. I stop. The trash truck gets away...this time.

We play that game frequently. She locates a car, identifies it and the chase is on. Me driving as fast as I deem safe, her shouting encouraging words. I have to say, I enjoy playing it with the trains the most. With the trains, I know their speed is constant and I only have so much time before the road and the track are no longer parallel. The adrenaline rush as I start closing in on the train is amazing! Both hands tightly on the wheel, I feel my heart pounding...wait, where was I...K's need for speed, right.

When we're not chasing cars, she wants to pass them...all. I believe she subscribes to the Ricky Bobby school of thought, "If you're not first, you're last."

"Mama, we're the car behind, right? So you can go faster."

So I do, usually. I like to make my girl happy.

"Now are we still behind?"

It's a vicious cycle. Eventually I snap out of it and explain that Mama can't go 80 mph though a school zone, that's for the beltway.

I can't wait till she's old enough to drive. That will surely be karmas way of paying me back for the hell I put my father through when I got my license. Good times ahead for sure!

Mmm...Bacon

K's favorite food is bacon. Without a doubt. Ever since it touched her lips the very first time, she was hooked. She's so hooked, it makes me wonder what's in the stuff.

I'm like a 1950's house wife, the amount of bacon I've cooked since she started eating it. If it was up to her, there would be bacon made available at every meal. But, I'm a good mom, so there's not. When I cook a pound of bacon, over the course of the week, K eats 2/3's of it. I'm concerned about my 3 year old's arteries and cholesterol level. I'm not concerned about mine or my husbands, but K's...a little bit.

This is when I feel it's necessary to talk about diet, before you get the wrong impression. Seriously. Hang up the phone. CPS is not needed yet. Other than the bacon, K's diet is very healthy. As a rule, she doesn't eat meat...bacon and shrimp are the exception. She eats a diet centered around fruits and vegetables. Now, she's a picky 3 year old, so the veggies must be raw and she prefers the fruit puréed in smoothie or popsicle form. She loves hard boiled eggs (whites only,) yogurt, and whole grain toast. Bacon is her weakness, her vice.

When we eat out, K assumes bacon is always on the menu. Always.

Chinese restaurant

Me: Do you want Chinese noodles?

K: No. Bacon.

Me: This restaurant doesn't sell bacon. Do you want the long noodles?

K: No. I said I want bacon.

Mexican restaurant

Me: Do you want chips and guacamole or salsa?

K: I want bacon.

Me: ...sigh

Pizza place

Me: Do you want cheese pizza?

K: NO! I don't want pizza. I don't like pizza!

Me: Do you want bacon on the pizza?

K: Yes, but I'm just eating the bacon.

Today, I cooked a pound of bacon. Sidetracked, I overcooked half of it. Who am I kidding? It was black. I burned it. 5 seconds after taking it out of the oven, the smoke detector went off. That's how badly I burned it. I served it to K with her lunch. She wasn't even phased. She loves bacon so much, she'll even eat it charred. She is dedicated to her love of bacon.