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.

A Funk

I am in a funk. It's confirmed.

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.

But still, I can't escape the funk and I will write anyway.

In my house, there's a paticular conversation had more frequently than others. It goes like this...

"What do you want for dinner?" my husband will ask.

"I dunno. I don't want Italian. And I don't want chicken"

"I didn't ask what you don't want, I asked what you do want," he'll retort.

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.

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.

• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.
• 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.

There you have it. Don't worry, funks only last so long. I'm sure in no time at all, K will be drawing murals on the walls or freaking out about something going down the drain. Ooh, or maybe she will have some super cool, brand new episode I can blog about. Here's to hoping!

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 - Sun Edition

Without any ado, I bring to you the latest installment of the wit and wisdom of a 3 year old.

Setting: My car, of course

K: Hey Mama, a jet plane!

Me: I see. It's Southwest. Remember, the orange and blue planes?

For those of you wondering why I feel the need to teach my daughter the airline, it's simple. I'm hoping one day at pre-school, while outside on the playground, a plane will fly over and her intelligence will stun every adult in earshot. I can hear it now...Look, Mrs. Smith! A plane, Southwest, a Boeing 737. You know they have the 737 market cornered, Mrs. Smith?...They will be astounded. They will not believe a princess loving, fancy girl could possess such knowledge.

Anyway.

K: It's really high...I hope it doesn't run into the sun.

Me: Why? What would happen?

I'm just checking to see what knowledge she has on the sun...seemingly, very little.

K: The plane would wake the sun up. And then the sun would drop all the people from the plane down to the road. And that wouldn't be good.

Me: Well, you're right. That certainly wouldn't be good.

So there you have it. Generally, you see the sun depicted as a happy go lucky fellow, always wearing a smile. Clearly, K views the hot ball of plasma in a different light.

 

Mouth Buggies

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Me: I don't see any bugs.

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

Me: I know.

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

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

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

Me: Probably. 

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

 

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

Back Britax Driver

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now are we still behind?"

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

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