Too good for the whole imaginary play thing

On Friday, poor Miss Kate (and don't forget POOR MOTHER ... it is always bad for the MOTHER) spent many miserable hours having a test performed at the hospital. It is one of those things that I’m not really ready to talk about. You know, ignore it and it either isn’t happening, or will likely go away, right? In all honesty, we are hoping that it is just more of a precautionary measure to assure us that nothing significant is wrong and we can continue looking at the issues of the more insignificant variety. The test itself wasn’t really the issue, it was just an MRI. The issue was the IV they had to inject … which was the prelude to the sedative … as the preface to the test. If you aren't aware, MRI's require you to lie completely still for the duration of the test. Keeping Kate still to complete an MRI is incomprehensible. Just envision the Road Runner on speed. Sedation blog to follow. It deserves its own. Enough said.

Restraining a three-year old who is screaming for her mom so hard that her eyes are starting to get bloodshot is about as fun as a colonoscopy. After they finished inserting the IV and taped her arm to the splint to secure the IV, she gave me the look that told me I was most assuredly not to be trusted EVER AGAIN. The nurses on the floor were surprised by Kate’s will. Once she calmed down, they were extra careful to stay on her good side, recognizing that would make all of our lives easier from that point forward. I also suspect that earth shattering shrieks from the Peds floor doesn’t do much to calm the other pint-sized patients who are being falsely assured by their well intending parents.

Kate could hold a record for the most adaptable kid, should such a contest ever exist. However, once you stick an IV in her arm and keep her in a hospital bed for hours, her cooperation plummets faster than the NYSE on Enron notice. As the nurse approached Kate’s bed to wheel her down to the elevator, she sensed Kate’s apprehension and suspicion immediately. She was skilled in making the bed-ride an adventure, but once we arrived at our destination and parked, the Kate-Freak-Out-Meter was rapidly climbing.

In a distraction maneuver, she grabbed Kate’s doll.

NURSE: “What’s her name?”

KATE: “Baby Kate.”

NURSE: “Awww. Baby Kate. Just like you. Your name is Kate.”

Blank stare

NURSE: “Oh look. Baby Kate has blond hair. She has blond hair like you!”

Nothing

NURSE: “Such pretty strawberry blonde hair your baby Kate has.”

Incredulous look

NURSE: “Baby Kate, you’ve got such pretty, pretty blonde hair. It’s princess hair, just like Kate has!”

Incredulous look

KATE: “No, it’s just plastic hair.”

I swear, he really doesn't

There is this interesting phenomenon that occurs in our house when Craig and Kate are left alone. Without fail, I hear a shriek, a cry, a scream, or a crash. Inevitably, something is broken, bruised, damaged, or a combination of the above. The incident is never clear and neither party is quite sure what events transpired, or exactly who was responsible for the occurrence. These incidents range from minor spills on the just-donned church outfit to the nail impression in the forehead that was the lovely remnant of a deck fall. I’ve conferred that the fear of being in trouble, and corresponding immediate onset of amnesia, applies equally to both children and husbands.

As we were I was packing for our trip, Craig and Kate were sitting on the bed, watching a television show. Kate was eating a cereal bar that Craig was responsible for holding on to. Within minutes, with unbeknownst cause that neither party will admit to, the cereal bar ended up on the floor. An immediate meltdown ensued. In case you aren’t privy, things that touch the floor absolutely cannot be eaten because they are GROSS and DIRTY.

In an effort to get Kate to eat the cereal bar, and save him a trip downstairs to get another, Craig picked it up. He dramatically blew it off, declared it clean, and took a giant bite. Kate looked up wide-eyed at Craig and simultaneously declared, “Daddy likes dirty things!”

I cannot wait until Kate chooses the perfectly inopportune moment to declare this in some public manner. It is only a manner of time and will be one of those moments where I stammer and desperately try to explain that isn’t exactly what it sounds like. You know, one of those moments where people are looking at you, thinking “sure ...”

She's a quick study

Craig left for West Branch at 3:00 a.m. this morning. Needless to say, when he got home at 4:30 p.m., he was ready for a nap. When I got out of work, I headed out and got Kate. Kate has this new thing of telling me which way to turn when I am driving. It works out as long as I am indeed going the direction she thinks I should be. If, by chance, we are going somewhere other than where she's telling me to go, well, let's just say at that point she considers me "WRONG". Parents don't know anything, don't you know?Along with my built in navigation system comes a constant reminder of the rules of the road. On any given trip, I get these gentle reminders:

"Green means go. Go cars, go." Which is even better when people aren't moving and she yells, "Go people, GO!". I honestly have no idea where the kid got this.
"Red means stop."
"Yellow means sloooooowwwwww down." This is only effective if you say slow very sloooooowwwwwwwwlllllllyyyyyyy
"White means stay in the lines!"

So, I am driving home with directions and constant reminders from the back seat, when Kate moves to her next question:
KATE: Is DaddyO's truck home?
ME: Yes, it is. Your Daddy is sleeping though.
KATE: Oh.
ME: You know what? When we get home, you can run in and wake him up.
KATE: I'm going to run in and I am going to yell, WAKE UP STINKY DUDE!

Mom

Kate decided today that I am "mom". Hey mom. Look mom. Come here mom. Please mom. Please understand that I am not old enough to be mom and she is not old enough to have a mom. Repeatedly throughout the day, I kept telling her that I was mommy or momma. As we are getting ready for bed, this conversation transpires:

KATE: Mom
KATE: Mom
ME: Kate, it's mommy.
KATE: Mom
ME: (Making a sad, pouty face)
KATE: Mom! Mom! Mom! Awww, be sad again mom, be sad.

I can only imagine this kid at 15. No wait, maybe I can't.