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.

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.

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.

Sleepless in Baltimore

I have a simple request. I really don't think I'm asking for much. I'm not attempting to end world hunger or find alternative energy sources. I'm not even asking for the mail to be delivered earlier and the recycling to be picked up later. I just want to sleep.

I want just one full night of uninterrupted sleep. The kind of sleep you wake up from feeling rested.

I haven't had an amazingly full night of sleep since...I dunno, approximately April 2008. Really, my ob/gyn should have forewarned me. I think that should be part of the standard prenatal advice.

"Now make sure you take your vitamins, lay off the raw oysters, and kiss the dream of sleeping good, ever again, good-bye."

It's my entire household's fault that I don't sleep the recommended amount. 

Let's start with the biggest culprit, K. She's been ruining my chances at a good night sleep since before she was even born. Everyone warns new mothers. Sleep when the baby sleeps, they say. But they forget to mention the millions of reasons toddlers, and then preschoolers, still wake up entirely too much during the night. The excuses K gives when she wanders into my bedroom at odd hours of the night are endless. "I had a bad dream. I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. My tummy hurts. Moo Moo woke me up. I'm wet. Papa woke me up. I threw up." It goes on and on. Every now again, she wakes up about 2am, thinks it's morning, turns her light on and starts playing. I can guarantee that will never happen to me. I will never confuse 2am for 7am. In a desperate attempt to sleep, I taught her a phrase. "When the sun is up, the K is up. When the sun is down, the K is down." I'm not sure it's working, but she seems to enjoy saying it.

Moving right along, my dear husband. He snores. Let me say that again for extra emphasis. HE SNORES! Not every single night. But when does, it's loud. Like, pillow over my head, fingers in my ears, I can still hear it, loud. It's a source of contention in my house. I guess, you could say, I'm not the nicest when I attempt to rouse him. In my defense, I always try once nicely...a gentle touch on the shoulder, hey babe you're snoring. It never works. I'm forced to go to extremes. After all, if he's sleeping I should be allowed to, too. I have shoved, pushed with my foot (I just can't bring myself to write that I've kicked my husband. It sounds awful,) held his nose closed (my personal fav, his most detested,) and I have hit. I'm not proud. I'm not an abusive wife. I just want to sleep.

Next up in the plan to never let me sleep good, the animals. Marley licks her bed. It's like nails on a chalkboard. I can not sleep with that noise. Speaking of nails, when she paces from room to room, it's done with a click click click of her toenails on the hardwood floors. And every single night, Moo decides to pick a fight with Ellie. Literally. Every single night. Have you heard cats fighting? It's a wretched sound.

And now, my contribution to my sleep problems. I'm a light sleeper. Everything wakes me up. If K, still sleeping, cries out from a dream, I wake up. If she rolls over and bumps the rails of her bed, I wake up. If hubby comes to bed after watching a late game, I hear him on the steps. And now, I'm so conditioned, my internal clock wakes me up every few hours, you know, just incase.

I'm not sure how to solve my problem. A bottle of Tylenol PM? Maybe a separate wing of the house just for me? Or it's possible, I have to accept that this is just one of those joys of motherhood everyone is always talking about.

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.

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.

Sidetracked

I was writing about my favorite cat, Ellie, when I experienced the best case of sidetrack. Ever.

I needed a picture of Ellie. How could I blog about her most recent trials and tribulations without showing the world (or the miniscule fraction that reads this blog) her regal face? And usually I just go to my phone and upload what I need, but for some reason, today it wouldn't upload. I was going to be forced to break out the laptop. Ugh. I could go into great detail about my detestation for the laptop, but I will simplify and say its cumbersome and unreliable.

Since I was being forced to use the laptop, I thought to myself...

Maybe I can make this annoyance work to my advantage. I'm sure there's a picture of Ellie on the laptop that really shows off her best features.

And that is where I went wrong.

Here I sit, at least an hour later, writing a completely different post. Ellie's post, still not written. Upon first glance, it looks like I have successfully wasted productivity during K's nap time. Ah, but maybe not. While I was sidetracked in photo land, I had an epiphany.

I had an amazingly, awesome 2011 with K. Spectacular, really. 

See, because of the unreliable nature of the laptop, we were not able to unload any pictures off the camera for the better half of 2011. After taking two pictures the morning of December 25th, it finally happened, the memory card was full. Pictures were forced to be unloaded in a hurry and that was that.
:::note to self, always check the memory card before the biggest picture taking holiday:::

So, prior to an hour ago, I hadn't really looked at the pictures I had taken throughout the year. It's not that I had forgotten that K and I went to the butterfly conservatory or the pumpkin patch, but seeing the images transported me back to the moment. And it was good.

Sometimes it's so easy to be overwhelmed by the day to day struggles. I find myself losing sight of what's important, what really matters. So this...this sidetrack...was very much needed, to put it all back in prospective. To see the smiling face of my beautiful daughter over and over again. To watch her hair grow from short, wispy toddler hair to long big-kid hair all in a matter of months. To remember again, to relive every holiday, special occasion, and random camera worthy moment. It was so gratifying to be reminded of all the good I have experienced in the past year with such a charismatic, little girl. 

She is, without a doubt, my sun and my moon.

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.

Renewed Interest

I have a car. Well, I guess technically I have a small suv. It's neither male nor female. It does not have a name, and as long as I'm the owner, it wont. I don't love it. I don't hate it. It's just a car. It gets me from A to B. And isn't that really a cars only purpose?

I am not one who needs a fancy car. A fellow mom accidentally let her door swing open a little hard on a windy day and dented the door of my car. I was not concerned. I did not lose sleep over the dent. Because, as I said, it's just a car.

However, a few weeks ago, I was reminded that a car is not merely a car. My kindhearted brother in-law called my car a mom car.

::Shudder::

A mom car?? It's not a mini-van. But then, I opened my eyes to what he saw from his back seat vantage point. The floor of my car was littered with nature...as he so kindly pointed out, from every season.  There was sand and seashells on the floor. Yes, you read that correctly. I had two seashells on the floor under the brake pedal. Actually, I think one was a clam shell and the other a pretty, purple tinted shell. K is a collector of things, I blame the shells on her. There were Ginkgo leaves and pine needles. And dirt. Lots of dirt. Not just on the floor. Dirt in crevices. I'm not sure how much experience you have with dirt in car crevices, I have a ton. And from my extensive knowledge, I've learned that dirt in crevices mixed with drops of coffee, water, milk, and apple juice turns into gunk. My car's crevices are filled with gunk.

My car, sadly, wasn't just littered with nature. There was, among other things, a camping parking pass (pretty sure I didn't go camping in 2011,) the rubber head of a mallet (???,) a roll of paper towels, a box of Kleenex, 3 flashlights (you really can never be too prepared,) 2 pairs of Dora underwear, and approximately 47 hair ties.

I needed help. But I wasn't quite ready to do anything about it yet. Enter birds. God awful, berry eating birds.


They left me no choice. And after multiple neighbors commented on the state of my car, I had to go to the car wash. It was time. I am a mom, true. But maybe I don't have to drive a mom car. 

So, it seems I have a renewed interest in my car, for now anyway. I've cleaned it inside and out. I've removed all shells and mallets, receipts and magazines. There is still gunk, but I'm working on it. Be damned, I will not have a mom car! Goldfishies...you have met your match!  

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.