We Should've Paid for Delivery

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

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

The challenge was yet to come.

We decided to forgo store delivery. First mistake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry, I couldn't go anymore."

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

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

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

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

"Can you go clear a path upstairs?"

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

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

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

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

"Okay, let me go first."

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

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

"Okay one step at a time."

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

"Well what are you doing?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Just lift it up and carry it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes. Yes. And yes.

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

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

My plan backfired.

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

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

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

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

Sigh

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

The Sky is Falling, Henny Penny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's like National Geographic in Home Depot.

"Anything else I can help you with?"

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

 

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.

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.

Don't Pour it Down the Drain

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

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

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

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

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

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

She has quite the imagination. Sweet, huh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Dinner Rolls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confession

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

Deep breath

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanna grow a garden? 4 packets of seeds

Build a chopstick house? 13 take out chopsticks

Secure the aforementioned house together? 36 screws

Draw all over an heirloom desk? 3 sharpies

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

Tie dye shirts for your family? 21 rubber bands

And finally...

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

Glad that's over.

 

Spit Happens

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

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

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

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

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

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

She demands, "I want my lollipop NOW!" 

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

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

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

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

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

I've had countless conversations like...

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

Nothing is working. She's still spitting. 

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

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

Wheel of Terror...Day 2

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

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

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

Which means, WE HAVE A WINNER!!!!

:::Crowd goes wild:::

 

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

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

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

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

Basement Crap

Happy New Year!

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

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

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

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

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

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