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.

 

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.

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.

Milestones

I'm proud to say dear, sweet K has reached another milestone over the weekend. We really are so proud of her!

Stifles laughter

She's fearful of the drains...bathtub drains, bathroom and kitchen sink drains, and even the toilet. Aww, isn't that just so wonderful!

This fear has reached epidemic proportions in the house. It's consuming her innocent little mind, and, as sad as it is, I can't help laughing.

See, she's not worried that she might actually get sucked down the drain. No, she's too smart for that. She's all hung up on hair. Yes, you read that right, hair. She's freaked out about the hair on her head falling out and getting sucked down the drain or flushed down the toilet. And not just her hair, she's looking out for my hair as well.

It all started Friday night.

"Mama! Mama! Get it out quick! Hurry Mama! A hair in the potty, in my pee!"

I attempted to explain to her that hair falls out all the time, no big deal. She clearly was not buying my crazy talk.

"Mama NO! Don't flush it down! Get it! GET IT MAMA!"

Now, she's thinking entirely too hard about the probability of more hair going down the drain if she takes a bath or a shower. She's convinced herself that if she just poops in the big potty and pees in the kid potty, she will save more of her hair from its untimely fate.

I've been fielding questions left and right about what can fit down the drain and where everything goes.

"So the bath water goes to the bay? Like with the fish, but not the sharks? Right Mama? The drain doesn't go to the sharks?"

I can see her little mind picturing the scariest scene ever, vicious man eating sharks swimming around in a full head of her hair.

My husband, trying to help matters or get her to shut up, told her that he could see new hair growing in the holes the old hair fell out of. So to add to the all consuming nature of the original fear, now she thinks she has super hair. She walks around, periodically flipping her head upside down.

"Can you see it growing, Mama?"

I've decided to wait this phase out. There's no reasoning with someone who wants to gather her fallen hair into a pile to save.