Where I get uncharacteristically sappy for a moment

Although I’ve been out of the blogging world for a number of months, rest assured that Kate is still wild and crazy Kate. Go back and read some archives of Kate, up the intensity to the nth degree, and the vocabulary to the 11th grade, and you have a solid snapshot of what you have missed since my last Kate update. For example, at a baby shower today, she left my table and went and sat at a different table, a table filled with STRANGERS (stranger danger!), just to get premiere seating to the festivities. Not long afterwards, darling Kate went up to a STRANGER (stranger danger!) and said, “you need to get your kid to stop running around please.” Welcome to my world.

But, see, I love this kid more than words can even express. It is something that I rarely write about simply because the topic is ineffable. I cannot find sufficient words that can adequately express the kind of love and depth of the love that I have for this child; every attempt to do so feels incredibly inferior. As people who know me can attest, there are very few things on this planet that leave me speechless.

To bring you up to speed on us, let me share a snippet in time with my wild-one:



Often I stop in these moments and realize that before long she’ll be a teenager and I’m even more appreciative of the here and now. I remember being a teenager and I am afraid …VERY.VERY.AFRAID. Many days I wish I had teenager-amnesia, so I could be blissfully unaware of the impending reality that will suck all brains and common sense from this darling child’s mind. Or, perhaps I shouldn’t consider it a detriment, rather an invaluable alley … a sort of mastery I hold that she cannot complete with.

Until then, I will soak up her innocence, sweetness, butterfly kisses, and fact that she cannot get enough of me. I will sneak into her room just to smile, be at ease, and watch her sleep.

You know, or maybe she just needs her mom

Kate has never been one to cuddle. Or snuggle. Or sit still long enough to do anything that could even remotely resemble such activity. It hasn’t been a phase; it has been her modus operandi since birth. There have been times that she’s been sick and after multiple trips to her in room in the middle of the night, we’ve brought her into our bed in a desperate attempt to get some sleep. While most parents battle getting kids out of their bed, Kate would spend these times thrashing, rolling, poking jabbing, and informing me that she WANTS TO GO BACK TO HER BED.

Yeah, if you figure this kid out, please feel free to shoot me some insight.

Imagine my shock when Kate developed a raging case of the I.WANT.MY.MOMMY every single moment of every single day. At first I relished my darling daughters newfound affection for me. Awww, she needs me. She wants me. This is what having a sweet and cuddly child is like. However, her requests slowly morphed into this pathetic and whiney, “I want yooooouuuuuu” about ten hundred million times a day. At dinner, she stealthily makes her way onto my chair, burying her head in my lap because “I want yooooouuuuuuu!” A few days ago, she’s whimpering, claiming that she needs me and my patience is wearing thin because she’s on my lap, with her head tucked securely under my chin, so close that I think she’s stealing my oxygen.
This cuddly, needy kid stuff is totally overrated.

The whole situation has been so bizarre, that I’ve started psychoanalyzing the entire situation. Suddenly, I recall stories of pets that instantaneously develop such an attachment to their owners, detecting life threatening tumors and such. Damn 60 minutes. If I die some unexplained death in the near future, someone come and claim this kid. We are sitting on a goldmine.

Beep Beep

In a fluke moment, with luck reserved only for someone other than me, I caught a moment of unadulterated Kate on video this weekend. One minute and 30 seconds that sums up my daughter better than any combination of vowels and consonants on this computer screen ever will. It could be that I am just ignorant to the world of a three- and ONE HALF (emphasis on the half) year old, perhaps they all act this way. I am perplexed. In a minute and 30 seconds, she’s managed to “read” a book, seek approval multiple times, do backbends on the couch (by the pile of laundry that has taken up residency there … because, hate to break it, but I am normal), and sing twinkle twinkle while whirling around in circles.

We went to a family reunion on Saturday and I was convinced that the Wiley E. Coyote was totally going to make an appearance and claim his long lost child. Since he didn’t, I have no one else to blame but Craig. “Dude, she’s totally YOUR KID!”



I wonder why I continue to go to the gym. There is no doubt that any caloric intake I have for the day is expended by just watching this child. It makes my brain hurt. And makes me want to lie down for a nap.

But good Lord, could she be any cuter?

Am I on candid camera?

Kate’s been protesting naps like she has been hired by some toddler lobbyist to be their spokesperson. This is not boding well for me, as I happen to enjoy the quiet and productive moments that are only afforded to me during nap time. I also think she’s been secretly viewing the DVD series on how to argue with anything that her mother says, the advanced version. If I told Kate that Dora the Explorer was hiding out in our basement with Boots and they had smuggled in a case of elicit Fruit Roll Ups, Ice Cream, and Tootsie Pops and I would like nothing more than for her to go down there and play for hours past her bedtime, she would contemptuously glare at me and say, “I am NEVER going to want to do that.”

So this unique combination of events has made coercion at nap time near impossible. As such, I’ve resorted to tactics that my pre-child self most assuredly would have protested against ever using on her child. It was so much easier to be a smart and judgemental parent when I didn’t have children. I digress; but yes, I moved on to threats and bribes about things she would forgo if she didn’t nap. I think that worked for a day. Immediately Kate would start to respond with comments like, “I don’t want to go to the park anyway.” It hasn’t been working so well since she caught on to my approach, so I stopped with the ultimatums. While I haven't figured out a new approach, that hasn't kept her from working to stay one step ahead.

“Kate, you need to nap.”
“I don’t want to nap.”
“I’m sorry, but you need to take a nap.”
“No, I’m NEVER going to take a nap. And I don’t want to do ANYTHING either. I just want to stay at home forever and NEVER leave.”
“Umm, okay.”
“And I’m going to stay home and I’m just going to do not-fun things!”
“Oh, really? What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Run into walls or something.”

Dude, I’m absolutely stupefied… and horrified … and a little dizzy considering how unqualified I am for this job.

Kate: Month Forty

Kate,

Last week when I realized I was obnoxiously late writing your monthly letter, I committed to not writing a new blog posts until it was finished. That is precisely why it has been a whole week since I’ve been able to post something here. Please note for future reference that your mother may be horrible at deadlines and allotting free time, but she holds true to her word. It’s the little things, right? Technically tonight I should be doing homework for Statistics, but I’ve been heckled via text and email for taking a blogging break that has apparently spanned eternity. I’ve decided to temporarily break from the joys of summation notation and complete this post. Don’t think I won’t blame you and the blog world when I get a B on this Stats test. I think it is what all good mothers would do, right?

Thankfully this month you’ve kept your tantrums to a minimum. I’ll certainly take the credit for utilizing my astute parenting skills to accomplish that task. It could be attributed to the fact that you’ve moved on to new ways to RULE THE WORLD and MAKE ME DRINK, but it’s my blog and I am sure we are all in agreement that it was my keen management of the tantrum-istis that sent it packing. That certainly doesn’t mean that this past month has been all gum drops and roses. Oh no, that would make life much too boring, wouldn’t it?



See, this month you developed something that we like to call PSYCHOTIC BUG COMPULSIVE DISORDER. While I know kids often have fears, this caught me incredibly off guard. Up until this point, you’ve been the opposite of fearful. So much so that I’ve panicked over just how much trouble you could get in, as it wasn’t your nature to be concerned about anything. When you suddenly erupted into shrieks that belied reality, I was sure that you must have severed an appendage. You screamed, convulsed, and sobbed with such conviction that I was frantically searching your body for a bloody wound. An eternity later, when you calmed down enough to talk, I surprisingly learned that you hadn’t been maimed, wounded, or injured. You had just seen a bug. It is sort of hard to comprehend how a bug sighting could evoke more reaction than when your forehead made contact with the corner of our Corian countertop, or when I dislocated your elbow when you were not quite two. Amazing, but true. Unfortunately this phenomenon has continued on through the month, seeming to intensify with each potentially life-threatening bug sighting. Your compulsion crossed a line when you vehemently insisted that I prohibit bugs from landing on the outside of our windows. I know you have unwavering faith in my superhuman mommy powers, but I was unable to persuade you that I wasn’t capable of executing such a request. It’s been one of the only times I’ve seriously contemplated using the statement, “You want to cry? I’ll give you something to cry about!” Of course, I didn’t, but it sort of made sense it that moment. In retrospect, I could have been much more concise with this monthly update. It could have consisted of: BUGS. YOU SCREAMED. YOU CRIED. I GAINED INHERENT RESPONSIBILITY FOR EXTINCTION OF THE SPECIES. The end.



This past month you’ve also adopted some incredibly interesting phrases. While we are protective of exposing you to improper language, we aren’t overly obsessive about the truly non-offensive stuff. I’ve wrote before about your uncanny ability to discern any borderline comment and immediately tuck it away for future reference to use at very inopportune times. This month is no exception, as we’ve added two lovely phrases to your growing repertoire. First is your endearing obsession with referring to your butt crack. I am not sure which of us are to blame for referring to your visible “butt crack” one day, but you immediately added it into your vocabulary. You routinely check your butt crack, adjust your pants to cover your butt crack and proudly declare, “Oops, my butt crack is showing!” This is stated in a surprised, I-must-make-the-world-aware-of-this-way. So, you do butt-crack humor with all the sincerely and grace in the world. Which, I guess is the really the best way to do it, right? I'm hoping that you forget it prior to Sunday school next week though.



Your second obsession can be directly attributed to your father. This is your declaration of “stinking up the bathroom”, which contains an amount of pride that ordinarily would be reserved for matters of great significance. You not only possess the need to inform everyone that you are “stinking up the bathroom”, but you muster such enthusiasm that one can’t help but wonder if you really are part male. Your father of course finds the entire act quite comedic and often encourages your behavior on a regular basis. A few weeks ago, we were eating lunch at Lone Star when you suddenly had to go to the bathroom. Since I had taken you last, you quickly looked at your dad and said, “your turn”, which he didn’t find nearly as humorous as I did. As he was getting up to walk with you to the bathroom, you raised your voice multiple decibels and said, “Daddy, I am going to STINK UP their bathroom!” I could see the terror in his eyes and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I enjoyed the entire process. You reissued your intent every few steps, with him scurrying to get to the bathroom as quickly as possible. I call that retribution for encouragement of the bathroom humor.



So, there you are Miss Kate, another month down. I enjoy these letters to you so much because it is truly remarkable to reflect on how much you really do change month by month. While I often joke about our escapades, I find that I enjoy each stage and each month with you even more than the last. You are really starting to grow into a BIG GIRL as you so often remind me, and I am so excited to share this journey with you.

Hugs, kisses, and all the love in the world,

Mama

You done good Kate

I am a bit obsessive about being grammatically correct. I should clarify that I am so about certain grammatical things. Those would be the things that have nothing to do with the fact that I tend to ping-pong from 1st to 3rd person when I write and typically am equally challenged by remaining in either the past or present tense. Those have much more to do with the fact that I type of fast as I think (certainly a handicap) and often I am thinking about the next sentence prior to finishing the one that I am on. But besides those minor hiccups, I am an absolute expert in all things grammar. Or, perhaps I am just a smidge anal and tend to focus on a handful of common errors that make me want to pull my hair out strand by strand … by agonizing strand.

I must admit, I didn’t realize just how out of control my minor obsession had gotten. The other day, Kate was enthusiastically slaughtering the Kidz rendition of Big Girls Don’t Cry. I sarcastically, err I mean cheerily inquired, “Kate, are you going to be a singer when you grow up?”

“Yes mom, because I sing very well,” she replied.

She’s been infected with the grammar gene and may soon join the nerd squadron with her mother. Either that or she’ll be thoroughly confused by the majority of the population who use ‘good’ instead and miffed by the thought that her mother KNOWS NOTHING.

I won’t be worried until I hear, “Mother Dearest, where art my playdough?”

Feel free to share, what things drive you crazy? It's quite cathartic and commenting here removes that unhealthy obsession from being projected onto the children ...

Not qualified for the job

I am convinced that Kate has an informant from the TIA Toddler Intelligence Agency that visits her in the night, performing intensive coaching in the Art of Parental Manipulation. I’m also investigating the possibility that they’ve been piping in the webinar at daycare on a regular basis. There is no other explanation; a three-year old cannot come up with such well designed tricks executed to perfection. If so, then I think someone needs to be pouring money into researching the fact that we might possibly be born as smart as we will ever be, then get stupider as we age. There is something about a three-year old outwitting their parent that just isn’t right. And no Craig, it has nothing to do with the fact that I am blonde.

The other day at lunch, my friend Jodi and I were marveling at just how smart and coy Kate and Jenna both are at this stage. Long gone are the expected tactics of MOM SAID NO, SO I WILL JUST ASK DAD. Oh no, this generation has version 5.0, upgraded for ultimate performance. They aren’t messing around with the staid and ancient tricks used by toddlers of days past.

On our way home one night this week, Kate and I were involved in a never-ending argument about whether or not she was going to play on her swing set when we got home. My answer continued to be NO. She approached this challenge with the vigor one might expect out of someone seeking to wrong every injustice of the world. She apparently thinks that “No” means “If I ask 500 more times and sneakily convince her that all signs point to playing outside, maybe she’ll say yes.”

Kate: Can we play outside for a little bit?
Me: No Kate, it’s already past your bedtime.
Kate: Just for 5 minutes.
Me: No Kate.
Kate: Just for 2 minutes.
Me: Nope Kate, we aren’t playing outside for any minutes.
Kate: Let’s feel the weather. I think it’s warm. It’s perfect for playing outside.
Me: Kate, it’s too late, we aren’t playing outside.
Kate: It’s not dark yet mom, we can play outside until the moon comes up.
Me: Kate, we are NOT playing outside.
Kate: Can we just go look at the swingset?
Me: No.

Silence.
The debate has ceased.
Victory?
Mom 1: Kate 259,897?
Not so fast.

As we are driving up the driveway, Kate catches a glimpse of her swing set in the backyard.

Kate: “MOM! MOM! MOM!”
Me: What Kate?
Kate: Someone took 3 of the trapeze bars from my playset. Three of them are gone. They are missing. They are all gone! (Insert dramatic back of the hand application to the forehead, indicating a near fainting moment.)
Me: What? No one stole your trapeze rings.
Kate: Yes, they did. Three of them are miss-iiiii-nnnngggg.
Me: They are not Kate, you can’t even see that far.
Kate: I think we need to go back there and look, just for 2 minutes …

What have I gotten myself into? I’m not sure who has been slipping this kid pointers, but I have them on a Most Wanted Poster. I have vivid flashbacks of our Pediatrician pegging her for a career in the White House at her 2 year check-up. I of course attributed that complement to her wit, brilliance, and intellect. At the time, I didn't realize she might of actually been foreshadowing the hidden skills of manipulation and lies that would make her much better suited for politics.

Baby Take a Bow

This past weekend was catalogued under the WEEKEND OF THE NEVER-ENDING DANCE RECTIAL in my mental library. A few months ago, Kate’s dance instructor nonchalantly asked if Kate would be participating in the spring recital. Upon realizing that all of the children in Kate’s class were participating, it was apparent that my choice was limited. Add to that the costume measuring, the practicing, and the incessant chatter about the recital, and there was no way I was going to sneak our lack of participation past Kate. Before I knew what I was doing, I opened my mouth and answered in the affirmative. All the while, my brain was screaming, wondering what on earth I had just agreed to do.

I must admit, I had no idea what I was in for, other than the fact that I had likely agreed to something I later would regret. That simple yes signed me up for approximately $125 in costume charges, recital fees, and tickets. It also gave me the desirable opportunity to wrangle a toddler into full costume and dedicate a Saturday in April to pictures; individual and group pictures nonetheless. It silently colluded to ensure I would pay an additional $30 for said pictures. Even more exciting was the fact that it saved me from having to plan anything to do over Mother’s Day weekend. Dress rehearsal Saturday at 10:00 a.m. (check), Recital from 5:45-8:30 on Saturday night (check), and Recital again Sunday from 1:45-4:30 (check). What was even lovelier was that the aforementioned schedule meant that darling Kate missed nap on Saturday, went to bed late that same evening, and then missed nap on Sunday. You couldn’t pay me enough money to voluntarily allow that to happen. Ever.



The ultimate proverbial icing on the cake? Getting the privilege to be “parent volunteer” for Kate’s class on Sunday. Translation: Spending the 90 minutes before show time responsible for 5 little beings between the ages of 3 and 4. Leading the “train” of tutu wearing, slightly uncoordinated children, in slippery ballerina shoes up and down at least 9 flights of stairs. Smiling graciously at the uncooperative little child whose sole mission seemed to be doing exactly the opposite of what I said, all the while saying, “You AREN’T my mom.” I was quite proud of the fact that I resisted turning around and yelling “THANKFULLY!” All of that was possibly overshadowed by the fact that for the first time in a long time, the title of THAT KID in the group was not assigned to Miss Kate.


This photo pretty much sums up the entire experience. You have three kids sort of doing what they are supposed to be doing. Then you have “the kid” second from left. Then you have my kid, the Dancing Queen, busting a move on the far left. Spec-freaking-tacular!

I could make about a weeks worth of blog posts out of the dance extravaganza, but I won’t. Mostly because I don’t have the stamina to continue to reflect on it all week. I did learn some interesting things over the course of the weekend though that I can’t resist sharing:

When you have strategically mastered getting all 5 toddlers down three flights of stairs into the dressing room in the basement, 4 of the 5 will need to use the bathroom.

The bathroom of the recital hall requires you to go up a flight of stairs, through a narrow 24” hallway WITHOUT LIGHTS running behind the stage, then up another flight of stairs to a single stall bathroom.

Is someone pouring me a drink yet?

Whoever made costumes for toddlers that require taking the entire contraption off to use the bathroom should be required to make the above mentioned hike, then undress and redress four unruly children. Bonus points will be added for not swearing, not losing a child, ensuring no serious injuries occur from falls down the stairs, and making it back to the dressing room before their act is scheduled to go.

Wearing cute heels is not a good idea. Additionally, an extra application of deoderant is advised.

When the instructions tell you to put stage make-up on your kid and you don't, you will certainly receive suspecting looks for your apparent disgregard of the art of dance. Refraining from mentioning the obvious concern about applying make-up to a 3-year old should be avoided in the sea of make-up cladded toddlers and their blush-wielding mothers. Perhaps I am suffering some PTSD from the whole Jon Benet thing.

Bartender, I need a refill.

If you are ever asked to be a dance-recital parent volunteer, it is absolutely worth the money to pay someone else to do it for you.



Watching kids in tutus do haphazard somersaults is about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.



Just when you think the whole thing was for naught, your daughter will conclude the recital by bowing with her class. Instead of existing stage right, she’ll stop, dramatically close her eyes and take one sweeping, solitary bow. There we go, back to earning the title of THAT KID.

Kate: Month Thirty-Nine

Kate,

We made it through month thirty-nine. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be a month older. I have had a difficult time starting this monthly letter because I can’t reflect on this past month without wanting to sob uncontrollably and blurt out more obscenities than appropriate. A solid quarter of the month consisted of THE SICKNESS that wreaked havoc on our household. An additional quarter of the month included negligible sickness, developments leading up to the sickness, and recovering from the sickness. On top of dealing with all of that, unrelated obligations kept eating away at the only free time I had to spend with you. As if all of that weren’t enough, it was also the month that you decide to declare THE MONTH OF THE FREAKING-NEVERENDING-IRRATIONAL-TANTRUM.



One morning last week, I was trying to get ready for work. It was an important day at work and I was making every attempt to have it together, or at least appear to have it together, which is often as close as I can get. Of course, it was the morning my hair looked like crap. I was functioning on five-hours of sporadic sleep. I had forgotten to make my lunch the night before and I had no time to throw something together. I managed to get my suit on and get you out the door, but not without playing I AM DYING OF STARVATION AND YOU MUST FEED ME, BUT I WANT ANYTHING BUT THAT AND THAT AND THAT AND THAT, which is your new favorite game in the morning. About half way into the drive, I looked down and realized that I had a stain on my suit jacket, which appeared to have declared residency as the hasty attempts to clean it off were failing miserably. You were usually quiet in the backseat, so I inquired about the status of the Apple Cinnamon Clif Bar that you might have died without bringing for the seven-mile drive. Apparently the mere question brought out the devil in you, as you decided to bellow at me in return. I tuned out part of the rebuke, but I think it contained something like, “STOP TALKING TO ME.” It was at that moment, the culmination of not only that particular morning, but the entire month … I didn’t know what to do. The only feasible options seemed to include breaking down in tears, or dropping you off at daycare and going home and climbing back into bed. That pretty much sums up life in our house lately.



I’ve realized that dealing with tantrums really is not my strong suit. I wonder if Super Nanny offers phone consultations on this particular topic. Your fits are so illogical, so absurd, and so outrageously maddening that I just don’t know how to handle them. Of course, I KNOW the reasons behind this developmental stage and your quest for control and power in your own little world. I keep trying to remind myself of those things when we are in the throes of chaos. However, I must say that knowing why they are happening and dealing with them require two entirely different skill sets. Your new tantrum is an interesting combination of an idle threat and totally irrational logic, which I find fascinating. Take, for instance, me telling you not to touch something in the store. Your new response is to look at me and scream, “Fine, then I won’t touch ANYTHING!” Um, okay, that would be lovely. The other day it was, “I am not going to KICK anything then.” Alrighty then. Another day, on our way home, “Fine, I am not going home then!” I had to resist the urge to try to make you good on your word there. It’s ridiculous, it’s absolutely irritating, but it is where we are right now. This shit is only supposed to happen to other people’s kids.

The other night, you were convinced that you were going to have a frozen yogurt pop before dinner. You were relentless, despite knowing it wasn’t something you were going to get. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were looking for a battle. Upon realizing that I wasn’t going to cave, you decided to up the ante. I watched incredulously as you threw yourself down on the floor, shrieking, screaming, with all appendages flailing. Upon making impact with the ceramic tile the first time, you changed your approach and kept wildly flapping your arms in legs cautiously in the air. I continued watching you, resisting the urge to laugh … which was the only reaction that seemed appropriate.



I swear this monthly letter will leave people questioning my parental credentials. Despite that, I have committed to make every attempt to be as honest as possible in these letters to you. I think it is important to be realistic about life and to know that there are going to be days, weeks, and months that really just suck. However, in the end, a new day, week, or month is just around the corner. It is also a true testament to parenthood that even in times like this, I love you even more today than I did yesterday … and yesterday I would have claimed that not possible.

So Miss Kate, here is to a better month. Life is slowing down, the weather is warming up, and I am focusing on the positives.

With all the love in the world,

Mama

P.S. We also celebrated Easter, you met your cousin Ethan, and got a mortgage-payment sized playset this month ... fan-freaking-tastic that the fits took up more of my memories of this month, huh?

Self esteem boost of the day

One day last week when Mother Nature decided to tease us with a nice day (and then immediately rescinded it, that bitch), Kate and I biked into town to get ice cream. I know those two activities are incongruent, but that is exactly why I do it. I figure that the biking cancels the ice cream consumption out, so I end up basically even. If you can convince yourself, that is all that matters, right? I hope so, because that is how I rationalize almost everything.

Since I don’t possess skill or the patience for assembling things, I decided to forgo hooking up the bike trailer for Kate. Instead, I buckled her into the seat that I had mounted on the back of my bike from last year. She wasn’t really thrilled with that plan, but I kept convincing her that those seats were for big kids and I needed her to ride in it so we could bike really fast. Who am I kidding? Fast? Whatever, she’s gullible and I was convincing enough that she bought it. Plus, her mind was on the ice cream so the seat didn’t seem like such a big sacrifice. About half way into town, I realized just how much she’d outgrown the seat. Her knees had permanently taken up residency in my butt.

In a teasing manner, with that really annoying sing-song-y mom voice, I say:

Oh Kate, you are getting sooooo BIG! Your knees are touching my butt!

In the same mocking sing-song voice, Kate reciprocates:

Oh Mommy, YOU are getting soooo BIG! Your butt is touching my knees.

Who are you calling creepy?

Last weekend, we headed out of town to do some shopping. While the purpose was to obtain some apparel, I cannot resist the urge to visit a decent grocery store whenever one is in the general vicinity. I’m a food junkie. So, I found a way to work trips to Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods into the agenda. You city dwellers just don’t know how lucky you are. I was slightly more excited to go to Trader Joe’s than is healthy, considering it is just a grocery store and all.

When we arrived, Kate was insistent upon going in and bringing Baby Kate with us. You all remember sweet, darling , Baby Kate, don’t you? If you don’t, please click here (scroll to the second picture). Don’t worry, I’ll wait. The story isn’t nearly as spectacular without being able to envision the psychotic bride-of-chuckie looking doll that Kate is obsessed with.

Almost immediately upon entering the store, Kate found a Kate-sized shopping cart. Her interest in Baby Kate waned as she attempted to tally how many ankles she could mangle with her newfound cart. Somehow in the middle of this exchange, Baby Kate ended up sitting in my cart. Now, there are times that Kate is well behaved while shopping and there are times she is not. If you were at this Trader Joe’s on Saturday, you would have witnessed that it was a time where the check mark would have indisputably been placed in the “NOT” column. After the second aisle, Craig and Kate miraculously vanished into the parking lot and I enjoyed the rest of my shopping trip in peace. Well, until I entered the next aisle.

Enter creepy dude; six-foot tall, burly, intimidating, sunglass wearing creepy dude. He kept looking at me and the weird factor was increased by the fact that he was wearing sunglasses. So, I knew he was looking at me, but I couldn’t really tell what exactly he was looking at. This continued for the next few aisles. My discomfort multiplied exponentially with each additional encounter. The anxiety was less I THINK YOU MIGHT ACCOST ME IN A DARK ALLEY fear and more I THINK YOU MIGHT HAVE FORGOTTEN TO TAKE YOUR MEDICATION TODAY fear.

Finally, in the wine aisle (where else, right?), Creepy Dude says, “Excuse me?” I look up and his brows are raised over the brim of his glasses and he is just pointing. I hesitate for a moment, waiting for some words to exit his mouth. Smile, nod, and tilt my head to the left, “Yes?” He continues to point. “Yes?” Nothing. I quizzically turn to follow his nonverbal directive. That is when I see that his finger is pointing directly at my shopping cart. Here I am sans child, with a homicidal looking doll occupying the child seat of my cart.

He looks and me and waits. His confusion is evident.

“What?” I say shrugging my shoulders. “I’m sorry, was she bothering you? She’s just been so ill behaved lately, “I exclaim indignantly while I push my cart away.

Not for the faint of heart

When Craig drinks beer, he typically doesn’t drink any old mainstream brand of beer. He likes more unique labels, microbrews, or at least something slightly out of the ordinary. I guess that means he’s a beer snob, which sounds like quite the oxymoron. When we go to a restaurant, I could easily wager the house on accurately picking which beer Craig will choose. If he’s never heard of it, there is no doubt that he is going to try it.

Tonight at dinner, he was busy looking over the beer list. Unlike most places we go, there were actually many choices at this particular establishment. The waitress took my order first; I ordered a Blue Moon. She looked at Craig next, waiting for his choice. Now, it is important to note that we weren’t alone at dinner. My brother, my mom, and Kate were all with us. Craig looks up and nonchalantly says, “I’ll have a Dirty Bastard.” Yes, apparently this is some kind of beer ...

I gave him THE LOOK. You know, the one reserved for people who have committed the most atrocious of sins. He would have received a friendlier look if he had asked me if I’d just put on 10 pounds. See, mothers have this sixth sense of foreshadowing things that their children will do, or say. It was at this particular moment I knew what was coming. Kids have this inane ability to gravitate towards any inappropriate word used in their presence. It is like some alarm goes off in their ear, signifying a word that they must REPEAT. MUST REPEAT. It must be a skill they are taught during How To Mortify Your Mother 101.

Kate: Dirty Bastard?

Panic. Panic. Panic. Do you begin the lecture? No, lecture will encourage it and amplify it with Kate. Wait. Breathe. Ignore it.

Kate: (tee hee hee) Daddy got a Dirty Bastard

Oh my gosh. She’s not going to let it go. What do I do? What do I do? Someone help me here, I am sinking. Why was I so embarrassed when she said SHUT UP last week? Shut up has nothing on this.

Kate: Dir-teeeeee Bastard

I hope the paramedics have been called, because I am certainly going to die here. Craig, you aren’t doing a good job concealing the fact that you are half a breath away from not being able to contain your laughter. Why does this always happen to me? There is no humor in this moment.

Kate: Dirty Bastard. Dirty Bastard.

You know this is totally going to come out at Sunday School tomorrow, right?

The epitome of pathetic

Just look at this face, doesn't it just ooze heartache? This was taken a moment before we headed to the Pediatrician's office today.

Me: Kate, smile.

Kate: I can't.

Me: Smile Kate, show the camera your sick face.

Kate: Mom, I can't.

(I think she looks concerned that I am even asking)



Within moments, the Pediatrician reviewed her symptoms and promptly diagnosed her with Rotavirus. Right when I thought we were entering the safe zone (no fever, yay!), I was informed that as long as she is symptomatic, she is still contagious. Apparently we should be thrilled to see it run its course in seven days. Yes, that means three more days (if we are lucky) of pure hell. Since my luck errs on the side of NON-EXISTANT, I am guessing we will be on the 10-day plan.

There is no medicine, nor any magic cure. The only thing we can control is trying to stave off dehydration, which has been proving ineffably difficult. The Pediatrician offered many suggestions of things to try to hydrate Kate, which is great in theory, but not so helpful when the kid refuses to eat or drink. Each attempt to bring liquids to her mouth resulted in a screech, followed by the statement, “My belly huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurts. I’ll try it later.” Yes, yes, that was the strange sound you heard when you were busy attending to your afternoon affairs. I am sure it registered on the Richter Scale.

Leaving the Pediatricians office, I had to directive to proceed to the ER if Kate did not pee by 10:00 p.m. tonight. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Since I was flying solo in the parent world, and operating on a collective 10 hours of sleep over the past three days, the last thing I was signing up for was a trip to the ER. I was going to make that kid drink, even if it sucked the life out of me.

Me: Kate, just have a tiny sip.

Kate: No!

Me: Kate, just one little drink.

Kate: My belly hurts! I don’t want to! (insert earth shattering cries here)

Me: Kate, do you know what happens if you don’t drink?

Kate: What?

Me: You have to go to the hospital.

Kate: I don’t want to drink any-ting. (in exasperation)

Me: Do you know what they will do at the hospital?

Kate: What?

Me: They will give you a shot.

Kate: I’ll have a little drink of water.

And that would be how I avoided the ER tonight. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I threw my change in the cup labeled KATE’S FUTURE THERAPY FUND that has a permanent home on the kitchen counter.

Please excuse me ...

...while I clean up some puke.

If posting on this blog was my job, I'd be fired after this last week. My intention was to work on a nice post on Friday morning. At 11:45 a.m. I got the dreaded call from preschool ... the "Kate just threw-up" phone-call.

If you think that is bad, what is worse is that it hasn't ended. Fifty-four hours and our house is still infiltrated with vomit, emergency bathroom-attacks, temperatures in the 100's, and two (and counting) very sleepless nights.

If we could bottle this flu, it could certainly be used to halt terrorism. Who needs weapons of mass destruction when the enemy cannot make it off the toilet? And even if they could, chances are they'd be naked anyway because they've puked on every article of clothing they own.

I've never witnessed something this gruesome. Please tell me it is almost over - or send in reinforcement.

I should probably be embarrassed about this, but I am not.

Is that concerning?

For years, Craig has taken great delight in mercilessly teasing me about my toes. They don’t bother me nearly as much as they bother him, and that alone bothers him much more than it should. Apparently people whose toe next to their big toe is longer than the big toe (no matter how I word that, it just doesn't come out right) deserve much scorn, shame, and embarrassment. Yes, my second toe … pointer toe … second in command to the big toe … in indeed the longest toe I have.

(Raise eyebrows here and crinkle your upper lip slightly)

I’m telling you this for a reason, I swear. Well, besides affirming to the world that I am even stranger than you initially thought and that Craig and I apparently have nothing better to talk about than my feet on a regular basis. Our conversations regarding my feet typically go like this:

CRAIG: Your feet are so weird.

ME: Come on Craig – you know what they say about people with toes like mine.

CRAIG: Um, nope. That you are weird.

ME: Yes, you do. Remember we have this conversation on a way too regular basis because you are freakishly obsessed with pointing out my unique attributes.

CRAIG: The weird ones?

ME: Ugh. It means that I am a LEADER, not a FOLLOWER.

CRAIG: No, it means you have square feet. You should just buy shoes, throw away the shoes and wear the boxes.

On a fairly regular basis, Craig returns to teasing me about my toes. A few years ago, in an attempt to irritate him even more about my toes, I realized something priceless. Do you know the dexterity you have with toes like this? I can expertly pick something up off the floor, with my feet, without even bending over. Craig can heckle me all he wants, but that is skill and is the epitome of multitasking and laziness all perfectly wrapped up in one. It also assists is a variety of stealth missions where retrieving an item from the floor, unbeknownst to others is an advantage.

Oh, what? How did that get up here? I don’t know. Did you pick it up? No, you didn’t bend over? Nope, me neither. Odd.

Not that I would ever think about actually using my toes to pick up things, but it is nice to know that I could, you know, if I ever needed to. Quadbidextrious? It’s been years since I’ve utilized this skill to annoy my husband. In fact, I sort of forgot about it in the arsenal of things I use TO DRIVE MY HUSBAND TO DELERIUM.

Until I turned around on vacation and saw this.



And moments later, this:



I watched as Craig looked at her. There was no way I could convince him that I hadn’t taught her that just to annoy her father. I swear, it must BE IN THE GENES. Who knows what that means for the poor kid? Teaching her to do that would have been sheer genius and there is no way I would be denying it if I could take the slightest bit of credit for it. Believe me.

And all my dear, dear husband could say was, “That’s great Lyndsay. She inherited your FINGERTOES!”

Why parents drink ... at least in this house

I believe that whoever coined the phrase the “terrible twos” did so simply to give parents a false sense of relief that when month thirty-six arrived, they would be in the clear. I’ve learned that misconception couldn’t be further from the truth. Two doesn’t have anything on my three-year old. We have been entering uncharted territory, experiencing tantrums, and outrageous conduct that is only acceptable in OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN.

Tonight Kate decided that she did not want to cooperate and eat dinner with the family like a rationale human being. In our typical effort to show her that she doesn’t rule this house, we didn’t concede. Tears were shed and arguments were made, but dammit we were all going to eat together as a family and she was going to learn that this was a non-negotiable rule. Sounds like a peaceful, lovely, family dinner, doesn't it?

What do you do if you are a determined three-year old, not placated by your parents unwavering decision? You do this and then you LAUGH IN THEIR FACE.



Seconds after Kate’s dinner touched down on the dining room floor, she was placed in timeout in her room. Admittedly, taking her away from dinner was her desired end result, so probably not the most effective punishment. But in the moment, it was all we had to work with. After a few minutes of crying, we noticed it was eerily quiet in Kate’s room. We continued to eat our dinner, wondering what discord was happening upstairs. Upon venturing up to check on the banished child, imagine our surprise when she was not visible in her bedroom. Upon closer inspection, she was found, having a grand time, as she hid under her bed.

After a stern conversation, Kate returned downstairs with the directive to pick up all of the food she had so artistically strewn on the floor. She picked up the first chuck of broccoli and raised her hand towards her mouth. “Stop it Kate, we don’t eat food that has been sitting on the floor for 20 minutes. That is disgusting!” I said. Seizing the opportunity, Kate informed me that she wasn’t eating it, she was putting it into the garbage. Perfect, I thought. Within a nanosecond, Kate brought the second morsel of broccoli directly into her mouth. “KATE! Don’t EAT IT, “ I said once again, perhaps a decibel louder than appropriate. “Mom, I am NOT EATING IT,” Kate replied with equal determination.

Then, I watched as she stuffed her mouth with broccoli, ran over to the garbage, opened it, and spit the food in. Spec-freaking-tacular. Not one to be outwit by a mere child, I told Kate that not only could she not EAT the food from the floor, but she couldn’t put it IN her mouth. That lasted about 15 seconds, she did it again, and returned to timeout upstairs.

Awhile later, Kate once again returned to civilization to complete cleaning up the battlefield. Gingerly, she picked up one piece of salmon and placed it in the garbage. On the second move, she brought the piece of food up to her face. “Kate!” I said sharply.

“Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, I am touching my chin, not my mouth!” she said. With every piece of food she picked up, she deliberately brought it towards her face, with a twinkle in her eye, touched it to her chin, and then threw it in the garbage.

Pehaps Honey Would Have Sounded Better?

Craig and I have always been very attentive to keeping our disagreements away from Kate. Not that we would ever fight, but in the event that we ever did engage in such an activity, we would certainly refrain from doing so in her presence. However, that does not necessarily preclude the “looks” or the “comments” that manage to convey frustration in the moment. Because, heaven forbid you actually let something just “go” until later … am I right? Kate has been young enough that those tidbits seemingly went unnoticed by her.

Until now I guess.

Sunday night Craig dutifully obliged to giving Kate her nightly bath, since I would be losing his help for the remainder of the week. After they finished, he brought her into her room, all wrapped up in a towel. As I began to get her dressed, I noticed that her face appeared to be a little bit dirty. How could that be? Isn’t this the child who just got bathed?

“Kate, did you and Daddy wash your face when you were in the tub?”

Kate looks at me with wide eyes and mischievously glances from me to Craig and back to me.

“Kate, did you and Daddy wash your face in the bath?”

Kate starts smiling one of those nervous smiles. You know the one. If I could have read inside her little mind, I am sure the commentary would follow along these lines: Dude, Daddy is going to be in so much trouble! Of course we were supposed to wash my face in the tub, but he forgot and I was so not going to remind him. I wonder what Mommy is going to do. I can’t wait to see what happens. Is he actually going to admit it? Giggle. Giggle. Giggle.

Craig interjects a precautionary, “Oh, I guess we did forget to wash her face. I washed her body though.”

At this point, I admit that I might have possibly given him a look. Yes, the look. The I Can’t Believe You Didn’t Wash Her Face In The Tub look. This of course was exacerbated by the fact that he was seeking exemption under the premise of remembering to wash her body.

Kate’s eyes are playing ping-pong between me and Craig … waiting … appearing to quite enjoy this moment. From me to Craig, back to me, then to Craig. Waiting, watching, anticipating. I didn’t say anything, just proceeded to get Kate dressed.
Finally, Kate couldn’t take it anymore. She looks across the room and in her most exasperated valley-girl voice, says in three distinct syllables CR – AAAAIIIIII – G.

Not proud of the moment, but keeping it real here. I apparently need to work on a new approach. There is nothing like a 3-year old impersonation to make you stop and see yourself from a completely different perspective. Dang.

Kate: Month Thirty-Eight

Dear Kate,

Last week you turned thirty-eight months old. Each month when I attempt to gather fragments that have occurred since my last letter to you, I am amazed at how much one can change in such a short period of time. This month has been turbulent, bringing out some aspects of your character that I just haven’t witnessed before. I sit here thinking how blissful life would be if I had still not witnessed them, but I don’t have that luxury. We have graduated to the knock-down, drag-out tantrum phase. Historically, you’d get a little upset from time to time, bordering on a mini-fit on occasion. I was successful at diverting those tantrums, or reducing their magnitude. In fact, I would have considered myself an expert in this area, certainly worthy of a prestigious award of some type. Just to prove that I am master of nothing, you decided to major in tantrums this month.



In reality, I can relate to tantrums. There are many times in life when nothing feels more appealing than a gigantic tantrum. How I would love to kick and scream at work when things just don’t go right. How I would love to curse obscenities at the current state of our economy and all of the injustices inflicted upon decent, hardworking friends. However, your tantrums don’t seek to right any wrongs, they simply defy logic and reason without fail. I think you broke a record one morning this week with a tantrum ensuing because I didn’t turn the water on quite correctly. The right way eluded me … the only apparent incorrect way whichever one I was currently practicing in an attempt to divert the massacre of my eardrums. This was followed closely by a second tantrum after I failed to hold you and let you stare at the kitchen counter for hours on end while you repeatedly asked me to identify the different objects on it. The movie is still a movie, the book is still a book, and my purse is still a purse. Despite that educational tutorial, you proceeded to wail like I was beheading beloved Baby Kate when I decided that we had been through the diatribe long enough.



These tantrums upset your world, creating a perfect imbalance in all that you wish to control. It astonishes me to witness you reacting with such uncontrollable fury. Your face turns red, enormous tears well up in your eyes, and you scream. Then you scream and scream and scream some more. I have to fight the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Instead I try to see things from your perspective, empathizing with how frustrating it must be to have such little power over your world. I must admit that trying to see things from that perspective is challenging. It is akin to trying to see the positives in a Bin Laden, a sewer leak, or the addition of 10 pounds to your waistline. I suddenly realized that THIS must be the stage those others parents spoke of. A stage we’ve only glimpsed momentarily in months past. A stage that better be vacated quickly, or the thought of ever having a second child will likely be removed from the list of CRAZY THINGS I MIGHT CONTEMPLATE AT A FUTURE DATE.



Amazingly enough, at the same time you’ve signed on to compete for the title of World Championship Tantrum Thrower, you have also discovered and embraced your affectionate side. While I know it has always been there, I simply think you never slowed down enough to find it. You were never one to want to be held or cuddled. Not because you weren’t sweet in your own way, but your mind was all PUT ME DOWN WOMAN, I’VE GOT THINGS TO EXPLORE. I don’t think it is a coincidence that while you are branching out, pushing boundaries, and fighting for your independence, you are equally cautious, seeking comfort, security, and familiarity with us. Nightly you request that I snuggle with you and I happily oblige. Realistically, I know that like every other phase you enter, this will be gone as quickly as it arrived. Before I know it, you’ll be rolling your eyes at me and telling me to get out of your room and I’ll certainly be reminding you that you used to force me to cuddle with you every night before you went to bed.



I am sure I am forgetting some of the highlights of the month. They are lost in between the fragmented, repressed memories of the tantrums and the heartwarming cuddles we share every night. Life doesn’t get any better than this.

Love,
Mama

Stop the Madness

A few interesting occurrences have happened at our house over the course of this week. These serious situations have wreaked havoc on my conscious, leaving me floundering and feeling like an imposter in my own body. A few rungs on my socioeconomic status ladder have broken, catapulting me down to unfamiliar territory. These are some lofty disclosures that should not be used against me in a court of law. However, if they cause you to question my character, I completely understand.

The first incident occurred while grocery shopping on Sunday. Kate had been banished to the car with her father, after the show she put on, titled I BET YOU’VE NEVER SEEN A KID MISBEHAVE THIS BADLY IN PUBLIC, subtitled And my parents thought they were the ones running the show around here. Amazingly, after her exile, the shopping trip was pleasant. In fact, I deliberately walked at a slower pace, debated my purchases, and leisurely admired the produce. It is rather pathetic that this uninterrupted shopping trip felt like a luxury, but it did. Besides, they were in the car and I was in the store and I was in no rush to alter that peaceful (for me) arrangement. As I was wandering the wine aisle, I remembered my bloggy friend Cate’s disclosure that not only did she drink wine from a box, but she actually enjoyed it. I looked at the shelves of boxes, utterly confused, feeling like a stranger in a foreign land who doesn’t speak the language. I realized that this is exactly how a man must feel when he is sent to buy tampons for his wife. Ultimately, I just chose one and added it to my cart. Later that night I tried it and realized it wasn’t all that bad. That explains how I’ve evolved into being a woman who drinks wine from a box. Which is only one step ahead of a woman who drinks Boones Farm, right?

I hadn’t even had time to recover from the first character-questioning incident when the second incident occurred. If you can’t appreciate bathroom humor, then you might as well exit stage left right now. As I was saying, Kate went into the bathroom to use the potty and proudly declared that she had to poop. I sat her on the toilet and waited. She looked up at me and proudly exclaimed, “I am going to STINK UP this bathroom!” Often I wonder whose kid Kate really is as she says and does things that are so different than me. But at this specific moment, I stood dumbstruck and thought OH MY GOD – you’ve turned into your father.

So come on over, the boxed wine is great and my daughter will entertain you with proud assertions from the bathroom. Any class we had has been bottled up and thrown in the trash, or flushed down the toilet. Next thing you know, I’ll be shopping regularly at the Walmarts, storing inoperable vehicles on blocks in my front yard, and trying to rationalize that even though my uncle married my cousin, but its okay you know because they don’t plan on having any of dem dere chitlens.

Starting the Neurosis Young

In preparation for our flight, my wonderful friend Jodi brought me a few toddler books on airports and travel. Since I’ve already explained how helpful preparing Kate for anything new is, suffice to say that I jumped at the chance to read these books to Kate, giving her an idea of what to expect at the airport and on the plane.

One of the books did an outstanding job of covering the entire experience, from arrival at the ticket counter to take-off. As I was reading the book, I got to the part where it covered the security check and the metal detector. I hadn’t thought to talk to Kate about that, but it made sense. Considering my security-check record, we’d likely be chosen for “additional security checks” anyway, so I might as well prepare her for the magic metal wand and humiliation of emptying our belongings out for the world to see. Who put THAT in there? No, that certainly isn’t MINE. It must be because I didn’t keep my bags in my possession since I arrived at the airport.

Yes, back to the book. As the book carefully described the security checkpoint, it said, “…to make sure no one is bringing anything dangerous onto the airplane.” The first time I read that sentence, it caught me totally off guard. Why would you interject such a comment into a children’s book? I am quite certain that Kate has not been pondering the dangerous items that might be aboard our aircraft. I think it is called the bliss of childhood, no? I quickly read that sentence and moved on to finish the book. I never gave it additional thought.

Days later, as we pulled into the airport parking lot, Kate started talking about the airport. Soon, she started talking about the metal detector. In a naive moment, I encouraged her narrative, excited that she knew what to anticipate. Suddenly, she asked an unanticipated question.

“It will make sure we don’t have anything dangerous, right mommy?”

I tried to feign a calm front, while wondering why my darling child chose the freaky part of the book to remember. I brushed off her question, hoping to redirect her attention to a less conspicuous activity.

“Mommy, what is dangerous? We can’t bring anything dangerous on the airplane?"

Once again, I calmly assured Kate that nothing on the airplane was dangerous. MOVE ON KID. We only have a few hundred feet until we enter the terminal and you need to exhaust this question before you draw attention to us.

“Mommyyyyyyyyy, is our suitcase dangerous?”

I ignored her. What else could I do? We quickly navigated the self check-in kiosk and headed towards the infamous security checkpoint. In midst of the chaos and luggage orchestration, I forgot about Kate’s current rant. Within minutes she started chastising the couple behind us, asking if their luggage was dangerous.

A proud parenting moment.