tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56587413751547021512024-02-07T11:17:30.298-05:00Life From the Dark Side of AuroraKarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.comBlogger56125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-8230115173498767202012-04-10T15:27:00.001-04:002012-04-10T15:29:18.084-04:00If One Drinks From a Bottle Marked Poison<font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><strong>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.</strong><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">After a great deal of thought and frustration, I've decided it's time.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"For if one drinks much from a bottle marked 'Poison', it's almost certain to disagree with one sooner or later." - Alice</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"...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." </font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>---Gene Wilder </em>as<em> Willy Wonka</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> </font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-90995165341628172592012-04-04T15:02:00.001-04:002012-04-04T15:02:07.368-04:00Wit and Wisdom - Wormy Edition<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> Today, as K and I were driving on the beltway we were searching for UPS and FedEx trucks. This is her latest <em>thing</em>. 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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Look Mama, a trash truck!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"No baby. That's a sewage removal truck."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Huh?"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">...hmm, I'll tread lightly on this one, knowing her <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/don-pour-it-down-drain.html" target="_self" title="">drain issues</a>.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"So it comes why we're sleeping?"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Like its Santa or the Easter Bunny.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"No. It doesn't come to our house. We live in the city. It comes to houses where the people live in the country."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Like Elmo's house?"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I don't know if I'm allowed to say this, but clearly she doesn't watch enough tv.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"No baby. Elmo lives in the city on Seasame Street. You know Slimy's cousin Squirmy? Remember? He lives in the country."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Laughing a bit, she says "Yeah, but he lives in an apple. And worms don't have potties."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"No? Why not?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Because Mama. Worms don't have vaginas or bums or penises."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">So there you have it. Now you know. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-87946714469780111712012-04-03T19:34:00.001-04:002012-04-03T19:35:10.444-04:00A Funk<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> I am in a funk. It's confirmed. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">But still, I can't escape the funk and I will write anyway.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">In my house, there's a paticular conversation had more frequently than others. It goes like this...</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"What do you want for dinner?" my husband will ask.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I dunno. I don't want Italian. And I don't want chicken"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I didn't ask what you don't want, I asked what you do want," he'll retort.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><ul><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></li></ul><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">There you have it. Don't worry, funks only last so long. I'm sure in no time at all, K will be <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/01/its-good-day.html" target="_self" title="">drawing murals on the walls</a> or <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/01/milestones.html" target="_self" title="">freaking out about something going down the drain</a>. Ooh, or maybe she will have some super cool, brand new episode I can blog about. Here's to hoping!</font>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-73515511181628192692012-04-02T12:04:00.001-04:002012-04-02T19:05:29.061-04:00We Should've Paid for Delivery<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">This weekend, undue stress was put on my marriage. We bought and moved furniture. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">The challenge was yet to come. </font></strong></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">We decided to forgo store delivery. <em>First mistake.</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. <em>Second mistake.</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Getting the large, boxed up dresser from the car to our second floor bedroom sounded like this...</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"This is really going to be heavy, I'm not sure you're going to be able to do this."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I'll be fine let's just go."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Wait. Stop. Switch with me. I don't want to go backwards."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"You could talk to me nicer. I don't appreciate it." <em>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.</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I can't see anything. You have to tell me when I'm going to run into something."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I can't see what you're running into. Are you going to be able to do this or not?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"You can't just drop it like that!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Sorry, I couldn't go anymore."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"You have to warn me. You're going to hurt my back."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"You're tilting it! Stop tilting it! It's going to fall! You can't tilt it like that."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I can't do this. I can't get it up the steps."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Just get out of the way. Help support it. I'm gonna rotate it up the steps...like its doing a cartwheel."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Can you go clear a path upstairs?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Why didn't you clear a path upstairs? How do you think we are going to get it past all of <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/it-not-gonna-be-easy.html" target="_self" title="">K's shit in the hall</a>?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I don't know. I was feeding our daughter. Someone has to, you know."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"You can't just stop like that. Just get it up to the landing and then we can rest."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I can't do it. My forearm hurts. The box is rubbing it raw."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Okay, let me go first."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Stop, stop. You're hitting the wall! Damn! Look at that scuff mark you just put on the wall."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Whatever. It's no big deal. Its just paint."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Okay one step at a time."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Yowl! That was my finger. Ohh, my finger."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Well what are you doing?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I dunno. I'm doing the best I can! I'm not sure what you expected! I'm 110lbs!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Just get it to the top and we can rest."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"STOP! You just punctured the box. I hope you didn't scratch it."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Right, I did that. Uh huh. Right."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Can't we just slide it down the hall on the rug? I don't think I can do this." <em>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.</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Just lift it up and carry it."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I can't. When I bend down to pick it up, it rests on my knees and then I can't stand back up."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Well then don't bend down. Come on. Just do it."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">And within seconds, it was in our bedroom. Just like that the horror was over. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-76439334364986810552012-03-29T05:45:00.000-04:002012-03-29T05:45:01.269-04:00Who the Eff is Boba Fett?<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> The time has come. I must come clean. I do not know the first thing about <em>Star Wars</em>. I have never seen a single movie in its entirety.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I will pause for the gasps of shock to subside.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Which brings me to now, 2012, where my 3 year old knows more about <em>Star Wars</em> than I do.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">My daughter is a <em>Star Wars...</em><em>what's the word for those people who are die hard Star Wars fans, oh right...</em>nerds. That's right, my 3 year old princess loving daughter is a <em>Star Wars</em> 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.</font></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Ordinarily this would be no problem, except it's starting to be a problem. </font></strong></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I'm clueless when it comes to <em>Star Wars</em>. 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 <em>Star Wars</em> 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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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? </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">But then, there's K. Is it my job as her mother to know who old Ben Kenobi is?</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></em></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">For the record, K has never watched the movies. And from the </font></em><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">violence in the clips we've watched on YouTube, she won't be watching them any time soon either.</font></em></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-41421768423784936382012-03-28T10:12:00.001-04:002012-03-28T18:16:16.986-04:00I Didn't Want You To Worry Reverb<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> Every once in awhile, something happens that makes you reevaluate everything you thought you knew only moments before.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">There is a significant period of my past that, if it were a blog post would have been titled <em>I Didn't Want You To Worry</em>. 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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Today, I will try to have fun and enjoy my beautiful and charismatic daughter. Maybe we will get ice cream.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-77211769039701986542012-03-27T10:58:00.001-04:002012-03-27T15:13:52.771-04:00Cleverly Defiant<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> It's no secret, my kid's a tad bit defiant. Alright, some days she's a hell of a lot defiant.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">But she's a smart one.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">This morning, for reasons I'm not entirely sure of, she threw her juice cup on the floor when she was finished with it. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"K, come back in here and pick up this cup and put it in the sink."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"No," she said so casually.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"If you don't come pick up this cup, there will be no orange juice with breakfast tomorrow morning."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">In her hap, hap, happiest voice she said, "Oh that's okay Mama. I'm having pink lemonade tomorrow."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">So pleased with her quick witted response, she practically skipped into the next room.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Let it be known though, I am ruler supreme. She did pick up the cup and she even put it in the sink.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-63106606454706355492012-03-26T15:29:00.001-04:002012-03-26T15:29:03.690-04:00I Live in My House<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> 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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I live in my house. I'm not trying to decieve visitors into thinking otherwise.</font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpABNNWc4Xfk4dyQ_vRYOFTuYEfdwF21gHJr20js1RgIVD5p5-8MZ0o7Q0r0ZtUreMR46bYeAanKaY6X3qzlMEK1CCR-NLv1ZioZhxS3eS3EIF07_5SXErVFYJDfIHrSkFbyNDUBPoZvX/s500/Photo%252520Mar%25252026%25252C%2525202012%2525202%25253A35%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqpABNNWc4Xfk4dyQ_vRYOFTuYEfdwF21gHJr20js1RgIVD5p5-8MZ0o7Q0r0ZtUreMR46bYeAanKaY6X3qzlMEK1CCR-NLv1ZioZhxS3eS3EIF07_5SXErVFYJDfIHrSkFbyNDUBPoZvX/s500/Photo%252520Mar%25252026%25252C%2525202012%2525202%25253A35%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1332788330080.2249" class="aligncenter" alt="" width="299" height="500"></font></a></div><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> This is my fridge moments ago. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I'm sure some would call it cluttered. Eh...so be it. I don't mind.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-37131646103046456392012-03-22T14:54:00.001-04:002012-03-22T15:03:33.966-04:00Not The Watermelon!<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> A few weeks back I wrote about <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/don-pour-it-down-drain.html" target="_self" title="">K's issue with the garbage disposal</a>. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">This time, it came to me out of nowhere.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I followed her eyes as she watched the water go down the drain and then, <strong><em>dun dun dun</em>,</strong> she saw it.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Not the watermelon!!" she wailed. "Get it out, Mama! You have to! Pleeease, Mama!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I will not make that mistake again. I'm learning as we go.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">There it sat. Down in sink purgatory. Just waiting to be pulverized.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">And of course...she would see it.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-43091978801668249742012-03-21T14:54:00.001-04:002012-03-21T15:00:50.711-04:00The Hunger Games aka The Laundry, Dishes, and Dirt Piled Up<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">All I have read about on Twitter for weeks is <em>The Hunger Games</em>. Seriously. I had no clue what it even<em> </em>was<em>. </em>A book? A movie? A cult? </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Yes. Yes. And yes.</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">My plan backfired.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">For 40 hours, I read whenever possible. I even dreamed about Katniss. We were BFFs.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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." </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Sigh</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-22902167578546015222012-03-19T14:38:00.001-04:002012-03-19T14:46:21.840-04:00The Sky is Falling, Henny Penny<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I had to go to Home Depot on Saturday. Thrilling, I know.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><strong><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">It had an effing tail! A freaking mouse fell from the ceiling! Holy shit! Oh my gosh! It could have landed on my head!</font></em></strong></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I look up and survey the scene, wondering if hundreds of mice are now going to fall down on us. I've seen <em>Infested </em>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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Well, I think you have a mouse problem up there. One just fell on us and ran away."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>It's like National Geographic in</em> <em>Home Depot.</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Anything else I can help you with?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p> </p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-6427267171717445482012-03-16T15:12:00.001-04:002012-03-16T21:59:56.079-04:00Awkward Moments<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">The love scene.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>The Little Mermaid</em>...the scene with Eric and Ariel in the boat almost kissing.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Tangled</em>...again, the boat scene with Flynn and Rapunzel kissing. As well as the end scene when Rapunzel holds dying Flynn in her arms.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Peter Pan</em>...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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Toy Story 3</em>...the scene when Barbie and Ken are first introduced.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Just look away if it makes you feel funny."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-15007721194258624792012-03-15T22:28:00.001-04:002012-03-15T23:15:38.032-04:00Drumline<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">It goes without saying, I love my dear, sweet daughter. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Most of the showers I've taken since she's been born have been anything but peaceful. </font></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">This morning takes the cake.</font></strong></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">A few Christmases ago, we gave K a <a target="_blank" href="http://www.amazon.com/Plan-Toys-640800-Musical-Band/dp/B000ULIYLQ/?_encoding=UTF8&s=toys-and-games&tag=liffrothedars-20&linkCode=ur2&qid=1331867368&camp=1789&sr=1-1&creative=9325">mini wooden drum set</a><img src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=liffrothedars-20&l=ur2&o=1" id="blogsy-1331867655305.4907" class="" alt="" width="1" height="1">. Cute as anything. But really, for the love of Reese's Pieces, what were we thinking?!</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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 <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/it-not-gonna-be-easy.html" target="_self" title="">staging area in the hallway</a>, 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.</font></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">BANG! BANG! BANG!</font></strong></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">She doesn't seem to have the musical gift. It's just loud, irritating noise, not music. And she was ruining my shower.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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."</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Seriously? Let me fill the bathroom with a marching band the next time you're trying to have a peaceful 15 minute shower.</font></em></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Five minutes of that racket feels like an eternity.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">But, boy do I love her.</font></p><p> </p><p>Note: This post contains an Amazon Affiliate link.</p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-27762708518397781422012-03-13T15:34:00.001-04:002012-03-13T20:00:50.184-04:00Temporary Husband Position<p class="blogsyText" style="text-align: center;"><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">ISO Temporary Husband</font></strong></p><p class="blogsyText" style="text-align: center;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">******************</font></p><p class="blogsyText" style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Start date - Immediate</font></p><p class="blogsyText" style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Must be available for the duration of the NCAA basketball tournament, with an option for additional hours during the 2012-2013 NFL season.</font></p><p class="blogsyText" style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Must posses husband skills, including but not limited to</font></p><ul><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Grocery shopping </font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Daily salad making</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">General childcare</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Dinner prep</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Mixology</font></li><li><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Conversation contributor</font></li></ul><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Applicant with handy man qualifications preferred.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Sports enthusiasts need not apply.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">If bracket, elite eight, seed, selection Sunday, or sweet sixteen are words in your standard March vocabulary, your application will not be considered.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-35897718228807054722012-03-12T22:24:00.001-04:002012-03-12T22:24:35.111-04:00You Look Like You Could Be Pregnant<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> Let me begin by saying, I'm not pregnant. Not even a little bit.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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." </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Let me tell you the back story to really confuse you.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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?</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I imagine I am like most women, I have a general idea but not the exact date for this answer.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I tell her, "Um...about two week ago."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Not good enough, apparently. She wants me to give her a date.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Well. I don't know exactly. What's today's date?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"March 12th," Maleficent tells me.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Well, then, maybe the 1st."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Her words, and I quote, "Well that's not a good date because, then you look like you could be pregnant."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Hmmm</em>.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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?</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">To shut her up quickly, I grabbed my phone, opened the app, and gave her the exact date. I was 3 days off.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Well that's much better."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Apparently, 3 days is the exact difference in looking pregnant and not.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Bitch.</font></em></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-79243781099769492972012-03-10T10:47:00.001-05:002012-03-10T10:55:47.162-05:00My Daughter Is Not A Dog<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I was initiated into the most awesome, super duper club ever this week. Motherhood.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">My initiation came a little later in the day, on the ride home.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Mama! I have to go potty. Bad!" </font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"K, you went potty before we left the museum. You're fine. Hold it. Go to sleep."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I can't Mama! I can't hold it!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"K! ENOUGH! Go to sleep!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"It's poop, Mama!"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"It's coming Mama. The poop, it's coming!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Hold it please, K. We can't stop here. Look around, do you see any bathrooms? Do you want to poop on the road?"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"MAAMAA! I can't hold it. The poop, it's coming!"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"K, please try to hold it. We can't stop now. You have to hold it."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Mama, noo!! I can't hold it. The poop is coming! I can't stop it! MAMA!!"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Okay, K. As soon as we can, we will stop. Hold on, we're looking. We're trying."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Hurry, Mama! The poop wants to come out, now!"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"It's coming. NOW! I can't stop it!!"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Okay, K. We're stopping. You will have to poop here. In the grass."</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Now, she's crying.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I'm not a dog, Mama. I can't poop in the grass."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"No. You're not a dog, but you have to go and there are no bathrooms anywhere. You have to."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I hope no one sees me."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Oh baby, no one will see you. I'll use the door to block you. You'll be fine. It's okay."</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">And it was. She pooped fine. Just like a dog.</font></em></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Back in the car, heading south on 95, K calls to me.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Mama? Why didn't we use a bag and pick up my poop?"</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Wait...didn't she just tell me she wasn't a dog?</font></em></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><strong>So there you have it, my initiation into motherhood. My kid pooped on the side of the road. It sure was swell.</strong></font></p><p> </p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-12394844496403855972012-03-08T22:02:00.001-05:002012-03-08T22:10:04.472-05:00The Day She Threw Her Shoe At Me<p style="text-align: center;"><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"I always say moms have the toughest job in the world if you're doing it right."<br></font></strong></p><p style="text-align: center;"><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">- Oprah</font></strong></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">And then I have a day like today.</font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><strong><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Today was a day from hell.</font></em></strong></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Today I was wishing I had dropped my daughter off at daycare and worked in an office with adults.</font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Spirited. Hmm...I can think of a few other words.</font></em></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K doesn't embarrass me in public often. She generally saves the naughtiness for home. Today was rough, for both of us.</font></p><p style="text-align: left;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-41755822891814366942012-03-07T19:02:00.001-05:002012-03-07T19:03:28.409-05:00Wit and Wisdom - Sleepers Edition<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> My daughter has discovered the wonders of salt.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Now, with her scrambled eggs she'd like a side of salt, please and thank you.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Needless to say, the most recent car conversation didn't come as a surprise to me.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Here for your reading pleasure, I present you with the latest installment of the wit and wisdom of a 3 year old.<br></font></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K: Mama? Sleepers are like salt. Except you can't eat them.</font></strong></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: Right, don't eat them. How are they like salt?</font></strong></p><p><strong><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></strong></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Hmm...interesting.</font></em></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-44993840404470051262012-03-06T16:45:00.001-05:002012-03-07T18:40:53.243-05:00Let's Make a Deal<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> My 3 year old thinks her life is a big game of <em>Let's Make a Deal</em>. Except, without farm animals and appliance prizes.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"Here's the deal," I say, trying to rationalize with her. </font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I'll wait while everyone laughs at me trying to rationalize with a 3 year old....Okay, good, you're done.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"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."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"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."</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Obviously, she doesn't understand in <em>Let's Make a Deal</em> the audience isn't allowed to create their own deals.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">"But that's not MY deeeealll!"</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I guess she feels my deal's a zonk.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-58248224307201876632012-03-05T13:56:00.001-05:002012-03-05T20:44:08.411-05:00Self Taught Meteorologist<font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I have amazing news to tell you. </font><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="5"> I am a meteorologist.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> 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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> Nearly every freakin day he asks me about the weather.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> Usually in the morning as he's dressing for work, I'll hear, <em>"What's it gonna be like today? Is it supposed to rain?"</em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> 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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> On days he forgot to ask me in the morning or when he just wants an updated prediction, I'll get a text.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Him: Not supposed to rain, is it?</font></em><br></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Me: Rain? I think yes.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Him: Seriously though, it is supposed to rain?</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Me: I'm not sure. I think so.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Me: Yes. Rain tonight. But later. Not sure when it will start.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Over the weekend, I finally asked. <em>"Does Blackberry not have a weather app?"</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>"Oh, no, they do," </em>he tells me. <em>"I just never liked it very much."</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I see. There are countless ways to get your daily weather, but none are as good as your very own personal meteorologist.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> I was not surprised when I got a text from him a few hours ago, he must have forgot to ask this morning.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> </font><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Him: Is it supposed to rain later? Thinking about if I can grill dinner.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Me: No rain. 20% chance of snow today, not tonight.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> And an hour later, I received this text.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> </font><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Him: Snowing here.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> Evidently, I'm a very good meteorologist.</font></p><p> </p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-1363417596914467562012-03-01T17:14:00.001-05:002012-03-01T20:31:44.900-05:00Marley My Love<p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.cafepress.com/+border_collie_smarter_than_36x11_wall_peel,494466187" target="_blank" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" title=""><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPwImsnQArVdICBAwJtw9Rgy36cKPKTQlFcIyH9749y-iVhJAVEokS5_fpWAxr0OHyBZIEAoafcKHu22gkkVQWr_lCZR8vRXyxB6vw8j-tGwzGUZWmahyphenhyphen4IsPfePpMHtseBMvidIkp758k/s361/Photo%252520Mar%2525201%25252C%2525202012%2525203%25253A29%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1330651883580.7578" class="aligncenter" alt="" width="361" height="119"></font></a></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></em></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;clear: both; "><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></em></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;clear: both; "><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">**************************</font></em></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Dear Humans,</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Can someone please tell me what the eff has happened to my life?</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I used to be honored around these parts. I was revered. I was living the good life. Then you brought home <em>that...that, thing</em>. Life has never been the same since. </font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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 <em>that thing</em> 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.</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">But no, you went ahead and brought <em>that thing</em> home. I live here too, you know! I have a voice. I thought life was fine just the way it was. </font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><p class=""><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuN5cwO2HPCiWhVFcGzZN_SK72lTekc0NUKGts09gN8Zztm6U4QgTw-n3o9ESep0sUzyg_AvtOA1fLpmGl8eHh80e2Sc0ohvYc8q0Yt9S20HqBgr43HXKD55OTSPIAGQw8l8Iu9tzwaCNX/s500/Photo%252520Feb%25252028%25252C%2525202012%2525209%25253A45%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1330651883654.9902" class="alignnone" alt="" width="500" height="299"></font></p><p class=""><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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 <em style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); ">that thing</em> to go out looking like that.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Now let's discuss the matter of sleeping arrangements. I hear you tell <em>that thing</em>, "Everyone sleeps in their own bed." Well...where's my bed?</font></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJK9T_FtunCqgtVNgUnRbd8EOtNTncxa0lXhRVnlSjpa4Luay35ulVU1na6b6CiN_K8uL64vCrhoST5C2-XhsMzBQhByGS5qa8E4YE4d_RScgz3RuQSC9LysjAohdrfhx2qcWPoS4LYvb/s500/Photo%252520Nov%2525206%25252C%2525202011%25252011%25253A13%252520PM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFJK9T_FtunCqgtVNgUnRbd8EOtNTncxa0lXhRVnlSjpa4Luay35ulVU1na6b6CiN_K8uL64vCrhoST5C2-XhsMzBQhByGS5qa8E4YE4d_RScgz3RuQSC9LysjAohdrfhx2qcWPoS4LYvb/s258/Photo%252520Nov%2525206%25252C%2525202011%25252011%25253A13%252520PM.jpg" id="blogsy-1330651883597.2996" class="alignnone" alt="" width="258" height="317"></font></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Why must I always be forced to share?</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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 <em>that thing</em>. I am 11 years old, I demand respect, damn it! </font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I demand more walks, more long hikes, and more dog park time. Some prison inmates see more fresh air than me.</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I demand to be talked to respectfully. </font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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. </font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Stop yelling at me to get out of the way. <em>That thing</em></font><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"> 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.</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Lots of kisses,</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Marley</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">*****************</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Dear Marley,</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Touché.</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Love,<br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Your Human Mother</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">P.S.</font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I allow K to go out looking like this regularly.<br></font></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: left;clear: both; "><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjry0eoAhiyMjuDnng5vIJKzHuuRwq21w4lKvBzPIwUyS9xrNFqFo6bX7-az6WsSwjJW6-jVAnymlvf-8kLH1knxRey8oTr-_2XfqBP9H_utsB2GMmOQJnuqBMQd_XO9pxKI1g_ykOJQSfq/s500/Photo%252520Oct%25252023%25252C%2525202011%2525208%25253A35%252520AM.jpg" target="_blank" style=""><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjry0eoAhiyMjuDnng5vIJKzHuuRwq21w4lKvBzPIwUyS9xrNFqFo6bX7-az6WsSwjJW6-jVAnymlvf-8kLH1knxRey8oTr-_2XfqBP9H_utsB2GMmOQJnuqBMQd_XO9pxKI1g_ykOJQSfq/s180/Photo%252520Oct%25252023%25252C%2525202011%2525208%25253A35%252520AM.jpg" id="blogsy-1330651883628.429" class="alignnone" alt="" width="180" height="261"></a></font></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: none;"><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">And she gets home cuts, too. Just saying.</font></div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-30472867521897847452012-02-28T05:30:00.000-05:002012-02-28T10:06:47.216-05:00Heaven<font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Except when we're not. I'm finding...I'm not.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K, on the other hand, does not know my mother, her grandmother.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">But this...I'm finding myself tongue-tied.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><strong>"</strong><em><strong>Did your mom make you eat lima beans?"</strong></em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Quickly they progress to the point my eyes are welling and I'm fighting back tears.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em><strong>"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."</strong></em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I don't know how to answer the questions so she will understand, so she will feel satisfied. Because the questions keep going.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em><strong>"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."</strong></em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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."<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I miss my mother daily. And in some way, without ever meeting her, K misses her too.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-7843719760579385242012-02-27T15:04:00.001-05:002012-02-27T20:31:03.074-05:00Don't Pour it Down the Drain<font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">A few months ago, I blogged about K's <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/01/milestones.html" target="_self" title="">fear of drains</a>. Since it's a popular post, I thought my fine readers deserved an update.</font><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font><br></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="1"><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I'd like to brief you on the drain fear manifestation. She's learned about the garbage disposal.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="3">Dear God, why did I teach her about it?! Why?? When will I learn to keep my mouth shut?!</font></em><br></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Now, on a daily basis, K's in the kitchen defending the rights of table scraps and spoiled food. It started right after a <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/trumpets-doves-and-vomit.html" target="_self" title="">stomach virus infectected my house</a>. 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...<br></font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">No!! Please don't! We promise to be good. Ahh!! Oh my gosh, please NO! Don't put me in there!! NOOO!</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">She has quite the imagination. Sweet, huh.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K: I'm not drinking anymore. I don't want it. I don't like it. You drink it.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: Fine. Don't drink it. But I'm not drinking anymore.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K: You have to! Don't put it in the sink! No Mama, NO! Save it for Papa. No, Mama!</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: K, I'm not saving it for Papa. I'll take care of it.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Now, at this point, K is sobbing, uncontrollably. Over hot chocolate. At the mere thought of it being poured down the drain.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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! </font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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! <em>...sob, </em><em>sob... </em>Please, Mama, just do it! Please!! Don't put it in the sink! No! NO!! Please, Mama!</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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 <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/temporarily-mourning.html" target="_self" title="">give up alcohol</a>.</font></p><p> </p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-30508181267679772012-02-23T23:37:00.001-05:002012-02-23T23:41:16.696-05:00Wit and Wisdom - Sun Edition<p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Without any ado, I bring to you the latest installment of the wit and wisdom of a 3 year old.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Setting: My car, <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/mouth-buggies.html" target="_self" title="">of course</a></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K: Hey Mama, a jet plane!</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: I see. It's Southwest. Remember, the orange and blue planes?</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>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.</em></font></p><p><em>Anyway.</em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">K: It's really high...I hope it doesn't run into the sun.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: Why? What would happen?</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I'm just checking to see what knowledge she has on the sun...seemingly, very little.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: Well, you're right. That certainly wouldn't be good.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></em></p><p> </p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5658741375154702151.post-105238604067072932012-02-22T15:53:00.001-05:002012-02-23T16:21:24.373-05:00Censorship<font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I have bad news. I was censored.</font><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Now I know what it feels like to be George Orwell. Or Eminem.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I was working on <a href="http://darksideofaurora.blogspot.com/2012/02/temporarily-mourning.html" target="_self" title="">yesterday's post</a>. I needed to do some fact checking, so I texted my husband.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em><br></em></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Him: But wait - your NOT blogging about (insert censored topic here) - sorry!</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Me: Yes.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Him: Sorry - do not blog about (censored topic)...seriously.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Me: I'm not saying you specifically.</em><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><em>Him: Don't care - u can include many things - no (censored topic.)</em><em> Please don't write about that.</em><br></font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">Me: Ugh.</font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.<br></font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">I should have heeded the advice of successful blogger, <a href="http://www.motherhoodinnyc.com/" target="_self" title="">Marinka from Motherhood in NYC</a>. In a <a href="http://www.motherhoodinnyc.com/remedial-blog-school-so-you-started" target="_self" title="">post written in 2009</a>, she offers blog lessons she's learned. Lesson #3, which I clearly did not follow, is Do not tell anyone about your blog.</font></p><p><em><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4"><strong>"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</strong></font></em></p><p><font class="Apple-style-span" size="4">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.</font></p>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06624036637797356970noreply@blogger.com4