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.

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.

 

Lights Out

"And the hits just keep on coming." 

 Tom Cruise -- A Few Good Men 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

She let it slip. 

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

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

Her: I'll climb over it and reach.

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

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

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

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

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

It's a Good Day

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

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

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

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

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

And after her most recent stunt...

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

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

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

Retribution

Dearest Mom,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love always,

Your favorite daughter

xoxoxo

Wheel of Terror...Day 2

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

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

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

Which means, WE HAVE A WINNER!!!!

:::Crowd goes wild:::

 

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

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

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

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

Wheel of Terror

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, I surveyed the damage. 

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

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

Yup. She had gotten into my craft cart.

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

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

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

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

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