Wit and Wisdom - Wormy Edition

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

"Look Mama, a trash truck!"

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

"Huh?"

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

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

"So it comes why we're sleeping?"

Like its Santa or the Easter Bunny.

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

"Like Elmo's house?"

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

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

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

"No? Why not?"

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

So there you have it. Now you know.

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

Who the Eff is Boba Fett?

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

I will pause for the gasps of shock to subside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cleverly Defiant

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

But she's a smart one.

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

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

"No," she said so casually.

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

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

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

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

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

Not The Watermelon!

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

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

This time, it came to me out of nowhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course...she would see it.

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

Awkward Moments

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

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

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

The love scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drumline

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

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

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

This morning takes the cake.

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

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

BANG! BANG! BANG!

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

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

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

Five minutes of that racket feels like an eternity.

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

But, boy do I love her.

 

Note: This post contains an Amazon Affiliate link.

My Daughter Is Not A Dog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"K! ENOUGH! Go to sleep!"

"It's poop, Mama!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, she's crying.

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

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

"I hope no one sees me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Day She Threw Her Shoe At Me

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

- Oprah

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

And then I have a day like today.

Today was a day from hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wit and Wisdom - Sleepers Edition

My daughter has discovered the wonders of salt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hmm...interesting.

Let's Make a Deal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But that's not MY deeeealll!"

I guess she feels my deal's a zonk.

Marley My Love

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

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

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

Dear Humans,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why must I always be forced to share?

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

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

I demand to be talked to respectfully.

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

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

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

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

Lots of kisses,

Marley

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

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

Dear Marley,

Touché.

Love,

Your Human Mother

P.S.

I allow K to go out looking like this regularly.

And she gets home cuts, too. Just saying.

Heaven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did your mom make you eat lima beans?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

 

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.

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.