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.

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.

 

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.

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.