At times I've been called 'crunchy'. I'm certainly nowhere near as 'granola' as many of my friends, but I admit...I only buy organic fruits and veggies, we eat grass fed/free range/so expensive I should buy my own poultry instead turkey and chicken, we use all natural 'earth safe' cleaning products. We bring our own bags to the grocery store. We are mindful of the chemicals we come in contact with and the ones we put in our bodies. We do still like an occasional McDonald's french fry though.
Today I was reminded that no, no....I am just not that crunchy.
I just saw an ad for placenta encapsulation. If you don't know what it is, go look it up.
I've heard of this for years now, and honestly at times I've kinda felt sad I did not do this after having the Dictator. Oh well....can't go back, right?
Anyways, today I noticed underneath the ad on Facebook a woman wrote, "Why grind it up and make pills? I just keep some in the fridge and the rest in the freezer. I take a little each day and I just add it to my morning smoothie." Yeah.......a solid reminder that no, I am not that crunchy.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Just another day!
A sampling of our day...
This morning in the car we were talking about going to see the new movie out "Free Birds". The Dictator asked what the movie was about and I told her that it was about Turkeys trying to escape so they wouldn't be eaten for Thanksgiving. The Dictator says to me "But those turkeys talk, so you can't eat them! They are anthropomorphic! It just doesn't make sense! Do the movie people know it doesn't work like that?"
While walking through the zoo, the Dictator asked me if we could go on the carousel. I didn't have any cash, so I told her next time. She was okay with it and made a deal that next time she'd not only get a carousel ride, but also a camel ride as well. Sly little negotiator!
Later in the day (after leaving the movie that was surprisingly cute!) I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and a couple dollars fell out along with it. Love when that happens! The Dictator says "Yay! Now we have money for the carousel! Just don't give that money to the bank!! We have to keep it. The bank will take it and not give it back!" Apparently we need to have a conversation on how banks work....
This morning in the car we were talking about going to see the new movie out "Free Birds". The Dictator asked what the movie was about and I told her that it was about Turkeys trying to escape so they wouldn't be eaten for Thanksgiving. The Dictator says to me "But those turkeys talk, so you can't eat them! They are anthropomorphic! It just doesn't make sense! Do the movie people know it doesn't work like that?"
While walking through the zoo, the Dictator asked me if we could go on the carousel. I didn't have any cash, so I told her next time. She was okay with it and made a deal that next time she'd not only get a carousel ride, but also a camel ride as well. Sly little negotiator!
Later in the day (after leaving the movie that was surprisingly cute!) I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and a couple dollars fell out along with it. Love when that happens! The Dictator says "Yay! Now we have money for the carousel! Just don't give that money to the bank!! We have to keep it. The bank will take it and not give it back!" Apparently we need to have a conversation on how banks work....
Tonight while sitting at dinner the
Dictator says to me-
"Sometimes I burp. You know...a burp is kind of like a mouth fart. I mouth farted this morning, but it wasn't stinky like a butt fart. It just smelled like mouth."
"Sometimes I burp. You know...a burp is kind of like a mouth fart. I mouth farted this morning, but it wasn't stinky like a butt fart. It just smelled like mouth."
At least I get a range of topics!
Friday, October 4, 2013
Little People
The Dictator hates her vitamins. Hates, hates, hates them.
In effort to get her to just eat them and stop whining about it, we've told her that in order to grow she must take her vitamins. We also told her when she's as tall as she wants to be she can stop taking them. We also told her that Momma and Daddy took our vitamins until we got as tall as we wanted and then we stopped taking them. "Look how tall we are! We took a LOT of vitamins!"
These were all really stupid things to say.
No, the Dictator did not O.D. on vitamins.
The Dictator has decided that she's as tall as she needs to be, so she can stop taking them.
The Dictator: "No! I will not eat my vitamins!"
Me: "Do you want to stay 3 1/2 feet tall for the rest of your life?"
The Dictator: "Yes. That's fine. Those little people on t.v. seem really happy and I'm already taller than them! Maybe I already took too many vitamins...."
Me: >.<
The Dictator: "Those people in "The Wizard of Oz" The, um....the Munching Kinds, they were short but very happy! They even had their own land. I think I'm already too tall for Munching Kind land!"
A panicked look came over the Dictators face
The Dictator: "Oh no! I'm too tall to live there!"
Insert dramatic music and crying here because The Dictator is too tall to live in "Munching Kind" land now.
Damn vitamins. You ruin everything!
In effort to get her to just eat them and stop whining about it, we've told her that in order to grow she must take her vitamins. We also told her when she's as tall as she wants to be she can stop taking them. We also told her that Momma and Daddy took our vitamins until we got as tall as we wanted and then we stopped taking them. "Look how tall we are! We took a LOT of vitamins!"
These were all really stupid things to say.
No, the Dictator did not O.D. on vitamins.
The Dictator has decided that she's as tall as she needs to be, so she can stop taking them.
The Dictator: "No! I will not eat my vitamins!"
Me: "Do you want to stay 3 1/2 feet tall for the rest of your life?"
The Dictator: "Yes. That's fine. Those little people on t.v. seem really happy and I'm already taller than them! Maybe I already took too many vitamins...."
Me: >.<
The Dictator: "Those people in "The Wizard of Oz" The, um....the Munching Kinds, they were short but very happy! They even had their own land. I think I'm already too tall for Munching Kind land!"
A panicked look came over the Dictators face
The Dictator: "Oh no! I'm too tall to live there!"
Insert dramatic music and crying here because The Dictator is too tall to live in "Munching Kind" land now.
Damn vitamins. You ruin everything!
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Opinionated
The Dictator is opinionated. No....I take that back. The Dictator is OPINIONATED.
She knows what she wants. She knows when she wants it. She will tell you, loudly, if you are not listening.
When it's important, she won't put up with not getting her way.
This is not a new phase, or a part of becoming three. This is the Dictator. This is the way she has always been. And you know what? Opinions are good!
In the course of the last week, I have heard multiple parents talk about how their children 'can't pick what they like yet' or 'don't know what's going on anyways' or 'can't have an opinion on things because they are too young'. I try to avoid hearing these people talk, because I feel an overwhelming urge arise to beat them over the head and then ask them if they have an 'opinion' on what I just did. Is this really what parents think of their children? Tonight a friend told me that she knows someone who also believes that young children are not able to make their own choices on things or have an opinion. It was the last straw. I have been seething inside all night, and unable to control the crazy building up inside, I blog to you now.
Babies come out of the womb making choices, and having opinions. From how they like to be swaddled, feeding positions or what bottles they like, where they like to sleep or what lullaby comforts them, babies are born with preferences. To say that babies cannot have an opinion is so ludicrous, I wonder why these people are allowed to raise children. Children are just small people. They are not an alien race. They are people! People with OPINIONS! How would you feel if everyone you knew made all the choices in your life for you and never once asked how you felt about it because "you don't know what you want anyways"?
The difference between 'them' and 'us' (as adults) is that we can vocalize our opinions. Speech is a powerful tool, my friends. It's one the Dictator learned early on, and has become an expert at using. I thank the good Lord for that. Although she attempts daily (hourly. eh..minute-ly) to drive me to the brink of insanity with it.
Just because your child does say they mind wearing that purple and pink dress with the giant smiling panda on the front does not mean they are not silently swearing in their own language at you in their mind. When you blast 'your music' in the car, for all you know your child is judging you and thinking "Good God lady! Turn on the Raffi!"
We, as parents, are not raising giant baby dolls that will someday become young adults. We have people in front of us, right now, from the very first time you lay eyes on them.
Although I usually try to impart humor into my tales of the Dictator, tonight I just feel sad. Listen to your children. Ask them what they want and what they like. Even if they don't directly answer you with words, is this not an important part of being a parent, to communicate with your child? Make them feel important and like their wants are desires are being listened to. They are small. They depend on YOU to listen and care about their feelings. If you treat your child like an unintelligent blob, you will get an unintelligent blob. You get what you give. Give a lot. There's no magic age when your child is 'old enough' to make their own choices. The time is now. Your JOB as a parent is to guide them through those choices and wants and help them realize what is truly important. For them. Not for you.
Off my soap box now and into bed to watch "Nightmare before Christmas" for the 100,000 time, because that's what my daughter chose to watch and asked so nicely if we could. I'm happy to take the time to listen to her and her requests. Some day, too soon she'll be off on her own in the world making choices all by herself. Until then, I'm here for her and I promise to listen carefully to her requests, even on the odd occasion she does not use words.
She knows what she wants. She knows when she wants it. She will tell you, loudly, if you are not listening.
When it's important, she won't put up with not getting her way.
This is not a new phase, or a part of becoming three. This is the Dictator. This is the way she has always been. And you know what? Opinions are good!
In the course of the last week, I have heard multiple parents talk about how their children 'can't pick what they like yet' or 'don't know what's going on anyways' or 'can't have an opinion on things because they are too young'. I try to avoid hearing these people talk, because I feel an overwhelming urge arise to beat them over the head and then ask them if they have an 'opinion' on what I just did. Is this really what parents think of their children? Tonight a friend told me that she knows someone who also believes that young children are not able to make their own choices on things or have an opinion. It was the last straw. I have been seething inside all night, and unable to control the crazy building up inside, I blog to you now.
Babies come out of the womb making choices, and having opinions. From how they like to be swaddled, feeding positions or what bottles they like, where they like to sleep or what lullaby comforts them, babies are born with preferences. To say that babies cannot have an opinion is so ludicrous, I wonder why these people are allowed to raise children. Children are just small people. They are not an alien race. They are people! People with OPINIONS! How would you feel if everyone you knew made all the choices in your life for you and never once asked how you felt about it because "you don't know what you want anyways"?
The difference between 'them' and 'us' (as adults) is that we can vocalize our opinions. Speech is a powerful tool, my friends. It's one the Dictator learned early on, and has become an expert at using. I thank the good Lord for that. Although she attempts daily (hourly. eh..minute-ly) to drive me to the brink of insanity with it.
Just because your child does say they mind wearing that purple and pink dress with the giant smiling panda on the front does not mean they are not silently swearing in their own language at you in their mind. When you blast 'your music' in the car, for all you know your child is judging you and thinking "Good God lady! Turn on the Raffi!"
We, as parents, are not raising giant baby dolls that will someday become young adults. We have people in front of us, right now, from the very first time you lay eyes on them.
Although I usually try to impart humor into my tales of the Dictator, tonight I just feel sad. Listen to your children. Ask them what they want and what they like. Even if they don't directly answer you with words, is this not an important part of being a parent, to communicate with your child? Make them feel important and like their wants are desires are being listened to. They are small. They depend on YOU to listen and care about their feelings. If you treat your child like an unintelligent blob, you will get an unintelligent blob. You get what you give. Give a lot. There's no magic age when your child is 'old enough' to make their own choices. The time is now. Your JOB as a parent is to guide them through those choices and wants and help them realize what is truly important. For them. Not for you.
Off my soap box now and into bed to watch "Nightmare before Christmas" for the 100,000 time, because that's what my daughter chose to watch and asked so nicely if we could. I'm happy to take the time to listen to her and her requests. Some day, too soon she'll be off on her own in the world making choices all by herself. Until then, I'm here for her and I promise to listen carefully to her requests, even on the odd occasion she does not use words.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The latest inSTALLation
The Dictator has recently become quite adamant about doing things on her own. From picking out and putting on her clothes, to cutting her own food, the Dictator is quick to let me know "Momma!!! I can do it all by myself!"
Recently, the Dictator has decided to start using the public bathroom on her own. Standing stoically outside the door 'making sure she has privacy!' I wait, and hope and pray to whatever deity that is listening that she is wiping her tushie and not touching too much in the stall.
Today at the community pool the Dictator was merrily swimming around when she announced (loudly! The Dictator wants to make SURE you all know where she's going!) that she needed to go potty.
We walked at a quick pace to the bathroom. The Dictator was fast to tell me "You. You Mother. You wait outside. I go in alone." Fine, fine....at least let me help you take your swimsuit off first! She begrudgingly let me remove her swimsuit and I sent her in the stall. Waiting outside my mind started to wander. Bills I need to pay, laundry I need to do, that song I liked that I need to look up, all that random Mom junk filled my mind. Suddenly I was snapped out of it by a little voice screaming "Momma! Oh.My.God! Help me!"
My logical brain knows that whatever has happened behind that door cannot be good. My logical brain tells me to call it a loss and just run away. We can always have another child, right?! We're young. Ish. Unfortunately, my Mom brain overrides all this sound logic and screams "Where's your baby?" Oi! Damn it Mom brain!!!
I open the stall. There is the Dictator. In the toilet. Folded up like a little slice of pizza. The perfect triangle. Arms, most of her head, and ALL of her tushie, IN the toilet. Shit! No, seriously! She must have pooped (please GOD let it have been hers!) right before 'the incident'. The Dictator is swimming in a tiny pool of her own shit. At this point, even the Mom brain wavers. Perhaps NOW is a good time to run. Unfortunately, we lock eyes and her little tear streaked face poking out from the toilet overwhelms me. I reach in and grab her. I want to die.
The Dictators extraction was not easy. She somehow wedged herself in that toilet. I pull from under her shoulders. Nope. That just splashes the evil cocktail of demise around on both of us. I have to go deeper. I grab her waist. Success! The Dictator pops out and launches a piece of poop towards me. I should have dropped her. I didn't. Poop smacks me in the stomach. Cold and wet. At this point, nothing worse can happen. This is the end.
I take the Dictator to the sink. We're going to have a bath. Right now. I set my dripping wet daughter in the sink. I start the water. I reach for the soap. Fuck! There IS no soap! I have shit on my stomach. This is not happening. I pick up the Dictator and explain "We're going in the boys bathroom to get soap."
The Dictator wails "Nooooooo! I'm a girl! I cannot GO in the boys bathroom!" I love how although the child has just been in the toilet. The TOILET! She's more concerned about which bathroom we are using. I grab her and go. Now is NOT the time for gentle parenting. If I'm getting scarred for life from this experience, then she is too!
Luckily, the boys bathroom (which is surprisingly a million times cleaner than the girls') has soap. The Dictator gets a mini bath, I get a mini bath that nearly draws blood with the scrubbing action I performed. We scrub our hands. We head back to the pool.
The Dictator jumps in the water and merrily swims away, laughing like nothing happened. I sit on the step and cry inside. Nothing can prepare you for a 3 year old. Nothing.
Recently, the Dictator has decided to start using the public bathroom on her own. Standing stoically outside the door 'making sure she has privacy!' I wait, and hope and pray to whatever deity that is listening that she is wiping her tushie and not touching too much in the stall.
Today at the community pool the Dictator was merrily swimming around when she announced (loudly! The Dictator wants to make SURE you all know where she's going!) that she needed to go potty.
We walked at a quick pace to the bathroom. The Dictator was fast to tell me "You. You Mother. You wait outside. I go in alone." Fine, fine....at least let me help you take your swimsuit off first! She begrudgingly let me remove her swimsuit and I sent her in the stall. Waiting outside my mind started to wander. Bills I need to pay, laundry I need to do, that song I liked that I need to look up, all that random Mom junk filled my mind. Suddenly I was snapped out of it by a little voice screaming "Momma! Oh.My.God! Help me!"
My logical brain knows that whatever has happened behind that door cannot be good. My logical brain tells me to call it a loss and just run away. We can always have another child, right?! We're young. Ish. Unfortunately, my Mom brain overrides all this sound logic and screams "Where's your baby?" Oi! Damn it Mom brain!!!
I open the stall. There is the Dictator. In the toilet. Folded up like a little slice of pizza. The perfect triangle. Arms, most of her head, and ALL of her tushie, IN the toilet. Shit! No, seriously! She must have pooped (please GOD let it have been hers!) right before 'the incident'. The Dictator is swimming in a tiny pool of her own shit. At this point, even the Mom brain wavers. Perhaps NOW is a good time to run. Unfortunately, we lock eyes and her little tear streaked face poking out from the toilet overwhelms me. I reach in and grab her. I want to die.
The Dictators extraction was not easy. She somehow wedged herself in that toilet. I pull from under her shoulders. Nope. That just splashes the evil cocktail of demise around on both of us. I have to go deeper. I grab her waist. Success! The Dictator pops out and launches a piece of poop towards me. I should have dropped her. I didn't. Poop smacks me in the stomach. Cold and wet. At this point, nothing worse can happen. This is the end.
I take the Dictator to the sink. We're going to have a bath. Right now. I set my dripping wet daughter in the sink. I start the water. I reach for the soap. Fuck! There IS no soap! I have shit on my stomach. This is not happening. I pick up the Dictator and explain "We're going in the boys bathroom to get soap."
The Dictator wails "Nooooooo! I'm a girl! I cannot GO in the boys bathroom!" I love how although the child has just been in the toilet. The TOILET! She's more concerned about which bathroom we are using. I grab her and go. Now is NOT the time for gentle parenting. If I'm getting scarred for life from this experience, then she is too!
Luckily, the boys bathroom (which is surprisingly a million times cleaner than the girls') has soap. The Dictator gets a mini bath, I get a mini bath that nearly draws blood with the scrubbing action I performed. We scrub our hands. We head back to the pool.
The Dictator jumps in the water and merrily swims away, laughing like nothing happened. I sit on the step and cry inside. Nothing can prepare you for a 3 year old. Nothing.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
So silly
I love my little Dictator. Love, love, love that kid. However, I do wish that she had come with a 'mute' option.
The Dictator LOVES to talk. I've never in my life met a person that likes the sound of their own voice more. Starting at 6 months old, the Dictator was babbling, cooing and 'singing' to anyone she saw. At 10 months she started saying quite a few words. By 15 months she spoke over 250 words and could string small sentences together. By two years she spoke in sentences full time and used large vocabulary words (like ironic and superficial) in every day speech. Everywhere we go people have always remarked on her excellent grasp of language and communication.
Stupidly (yes, stupidly. If you have a toddler or older child, you understand the horror of a talking tiny person), the Politician and I fostered her speech development. Working tireless hours with her, we would show flashcard after flashcard and eagerly repeat words after her to make sure she heard them correctly and to validate we were understanding her attempts. Our eager new parent giddiness overwhelmed us with the need to make sure our little wunderkind was the best and the brightest.
We brought this hell upon ourselves.
Starting at 2 years old, the Dictator discovered "Why?"
"Why? does the grass grow Momma? Why is the sky blue? Why do turtles live in shells? Why do I need to wear shoes? Why does my foot itch?"
On and on it went. An endless parade of "Why?"
Parenting instincts told me not to squash her curiosity. I patiently answered every "Why?" question the best I could. It was sweet really that she was so curious, and that she thought I would have all the answers for everything she wanted to know.
Then came "How?"
"How?" was much more annoying than "Why?"
"How?" meant I would most likely need to look to Google for an answer.
Just as one "How?"question was answered, another would take it's place. "How DOES electricity work?" "How does the corn get harvested?" "How does the moon work?" Thank God for smart phones. My thumbs are numb from all the odd internet searches I have performed over the past year.
Just as we started moving away from "Why and How?" a new phrase entered our lives.......
More annoying than any other question or statement ever in the history of childhood-
"Is that silly?"
I'm pretty sure if I ever snap and commit a heinous crime, it will be found that the reason I did so was because someone said "Is that silly?"
"Is that silly?" sounds kinda cute. It sounds fun and simple. It sounds like a game. "Is that silly?" is NOT a game, and no, its not fun. "Is that silly?" makes you want to stab your eye out at 2am.
It started simply enough. The Dictator would say something like "I put my shoes on my hands! That's silly!" and I would respond "Oh yes, you are so silly!" I didn't realize that like Pavlov I was training my little Dictator. "Is that silly?" was the bell. Me responding was the very enticing little treat, and the Dictator was quite hungry. The Dictator was conditioning me for hours of 'witty banter' that would end in peels of laughter for her, and tear stained cheeks for me.
At first "Is that silly" was used just for silly things. "I'm walking backwards with a bucket on my head! Is that silly?" "I'm using my finger like a fork! Is that silly?" Yes, yes...those things are silly. I responded. I engaged! I was preparing my own silly little noose that would eventually hang me.
Now "Is that silly?" is used for everything. EVERYTHING! "I'm putting my milk in the fridge! Is that silly?" "I'm getting dressed for school now! Is that silly?" "I'm hungry for lunch! Is that silly?" No! No, no, no, no, no!!!! It's NOT silly!!!!!!!! Please, for the love of God, stop talking! I try to not freak out. I try to gently guide her towards another topic of conversation. I try to not scream "You are not silly! It's not silly! Nothing, NOTHING is silly!" Most days, I succeed. Other days, I go in my closet, close the door and quietly weep about how silly my life has become.
A few weeks ago, the non-sleeping Dictator crept into my bedroom. A tiny little face at the side of my bed looked at me sleeping, poked me until I woke up and then in a small little voice asked me "I'm not sleeping and I need you to go help me poop. Is that silly?"
In the past few weeks, I've been more accepting of the annoying phrase and it's place in our lives. I know it's a phase. I know she'll get bored of it. It's just a matter of time. Thank the dear Lord that I live in a country with quality hair dye, coffee, booze and bad t.v.. I will survive this.
I was feeling pretty good about everything until this morning. While getting the Dictator ready for dance class, she asked me "Is my leotard silly?" I responded "Sure. It's kinda silly?" The Dictator had a little smirk start to spread across her face. She looked at me and said "Well, WHY is it silly?"
I die.
The Dictator LOVES to talk. I've never in my life met a person that likes the sound of their own voice more. Starting at 6 months old, the Dictator was babbling, cooing and 'singing' to anyone she saw. At 10 months she started saying quite a few words. By 15 months she spoke over 250 words and could string small sentences together. By two years she spoke in sentences full time and used large vocabulary words (like ironic and superficial) in every day speech. Everywhere we go people have always remarked on her excellent grasp of language and communication.
Stupidly (yes, stupidly. If you have a toddler or older child, you understand the horror of a talking tiny person), the Politician and I fostered her speech development. Working tireless hours with her, we would show flashcard after flashcard and eagerly repeat words after her to make sure she heard them correctly and to validate we were understanding her attempts. Our eager new parent giddiness overwhelmed us with the need to make sure our little wunderkind was the best and the brightest.
We brought this hell upon ourselves.
Starting at 2 years old, the Dictator discovered "Why?"
"Why? does the grass grow Momma? Why is the sky blue? Why do turtles live in shells? Why do I need to wear shoes? Why does my foot itch?"
On and on it went. An endless parade of "Why?"
Parenting instincts told me not to squash her curiosity. I patiently answered every "Why?" question the best I could. It was sweet really that she was so curious, and that she thought I would have all the answers for everything she wanted to know.
Then came "How?"
"How?" was much more annoying than "Why?"
"How?" meant I would most likely need to look to Google for an answer.
Just as one "How?"question was answered, another would take it's place. "How DOES electricity work?" "How does the corn get harvested?" "How does the moon work?" Thank God for smart phones. My thumbs are numb from all the odd internet searches I have performed over the past year.
Just as we started moving away from "Why and How?" a new phrase entered our lives.......
More annoying than any other question or statement ever in the history of childhood-
"Is that silly?"
I'm pretty sure if I ever snap and commit a heinous crime, it will be found that the reason I did so was because someone said "Is that silly?"
"Is that silly?" sounds kinda cute. It sounds fun and simple. It sounds like a game. "Is that silly?" is NOT a game, and no, its not fun. "Is that silly?" makes you want to stab your eye out at 2am.
It started simply enough. The Dictator would say something like "I put my shoes on my hands! That's silly!" and I would respond "Oh yes, you are so silly!" I didn't realize that like Pavlov I was training my little Dictator. "Is that silly?" was the bell. Me responding was the very enticing little treat, and the Dictator was quite hungry. The Dictator was conditioning me for hours of 'witty banter' that would end in peels of laughter for her, and tear stained cheeks for me.
At first "Is that silly" was used just for silly things. "I'm walking backwards with a bucket on my head! Is that silly?" "I'm using my finger like a fork! Is that silly?" Yes, yes...those things are silly. I responded. I engaged! I was preparing my own silly little noose that would eventually hang me.
Now "Is that silly?" is used for everything. EVERYTHING! "I'm putting my milk in the fridge! Is that silly?" "I'm getting dressed for school now! Is that silly?" "I'm hungry for lunch! Is that silly?" No! No, no, no, no, no!!!! It's NOT silly!!!!!!!! Please, for the love of God, stop talking! I try to not freak out. I try to gently guide her towards another topic of conversation. I try to not scream "You are not silly! It's not silly! Nothing, NOTHING is silly!" Most days, I succeed. Other days, I go in my closet, close the door and quietly weep about how silly my life has become.
A few weeks ago, the non-sleeping Dictator crept into my bedroom. A tiny little face at the side of my bed looked at me sleeping, poked me until I woke up and then in a small little voice asked me "I'm not sleeping and I need you to go help me poop. Is that silly?"
In the past few weeks, I've been more accepting of the annoying phrase and it's place in our lives. I know it's a phase. I know she'll get bored of it. It's just a matter of time. Thank the dear Lord that I live in a country with quality hair dye, coffee, booze and bad t.v.. I will survive this.
I was feeling pretty good about everything until this morning. While getting the Dictator ready for dance class, she asked me "Is my leotard silly?" I responded "Sure. It's kinda silly?" The Dictator had a little smirk start to spread across her face. She looked at me and said "Well, WHY is it silly?"
I die.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
The God Complex
A few days ago I was cleaning the bathtub downstairs. The Dictator was merrily playing outside on her scooter, and every once in awhile would come running inside for a drink of water before running as fast as she could right back outside again. On one of her trips inside she came running as fast as she could into the bathroom, threw her arms around me and said-
"I LOVE LOVE LOVE you Momma! I was thinking outside. Where do we come from?"
Uh....wait a minute here, random child of mine. What do you mean "Where do we come from?"
Me: "What do you mean where do we come from?" Well, what other question could I have asked?! Oh dear Lord, please don't let this go where I think it's going!
The Dictator: "Before we get in the Momma belly, where are we?"
Shit! Nope, not where I thought it was going! Worse!! Much worse!!!!
This could go so many directions of wrong. Since I'm just not ready to talk to my daughter about ovaries and testicles (she goes to preschool. She tells her teacher everything. In an effort to thwart CPS showing up, we are now asexual in this household), there's only one way this talk can go. Being for the most part agnostic, and the Politician being Confucian, I have dreaded this day since before I was pregnant. The God talk.
The Dictator is three. THREE! These are not the type of questions my barely three year old is supposed to ask me! What kind of preschooler asks these questions anyways? An evil one! An evil, tricky one, bent on the destruction of my sanity!
Me: "Well, where do YOU think we come from?" Oh yes.....the evil tricky child does not fall far from the evil tricky family tree. I will stop this conversation dead in it's tracks until I am ready for it. Like, when the Dictator is 35. Maybe.
The Dictator: "Why do you not want to tell me? I think you know the answer yourself. I want to hear your answer first, then mine."
FUCK! I've been outplayed.
Me: "Well, we come from storks. Yes! Storks carry us to our Mommy's. We are tiny little seeds and then we go inside a Mommy belly to grow!" Okay....this sounds somewhat plausible, no? I mean...we've talked about storks before and she's seen a few commercials on this subject. Yes...this could work!
The Dictator: "Well....where do the seeds come from?"
What?! The storks were supposed to distract your intently focused little psycho brain away from the baby portion of this conversation! Seeds?! What the hell was I even talking about?
Me: "Well, I don't know. I'm sorry. Maybe we can google it later? Or ask Daddy! He'll know!"
The Dictator: "Momma, obviously the seeds come from the garden. You are not taking this seriously. Momma, I really sure do you love you, but you really need to go back to school and learn more. I mean...what DO you know?"
Then she went back out on her scooter to play. I sat there next to the bathtub slack jawed and defeated!
"I LOVE LOVE LOVE you Momma! I was thinking outside. Where do we come from?"
Uh....wait a minute here, random child of mine. What do you mean "Where do we come from?"
Me: "What do you mean where do we come from?" Well, what other question could I have asked?! Oh dear Lord, please don't let this go where I think it's going!
The Dictator: "Before we get in the Momma belly, where are we?"
Shit! Nope, not where I thought it was going! Worse!! Much worse!!!!
This could go so many directions of wrong. Since I'm just not ready to talk to my daughter about ovaries and testicles (she goes to preschool. She tells her teacher everything. In an effort to thwart CPS showing up, we are now asexual in this household), there's only one way this talk can go. Being for the most part agnostic, and the Politician being Confucian, I have dreaded this day since before I was pregnant. The God talk.
The Dictator is three. THREE! These are not the type of questions my barely three year old is supposed to ask me! What kind of preschooler asks these questions anyways? An evil one! An evil, tricky one, bent on the destruction of my sanity!
Me: "Well, where do YOU think we come from?" Oh yes.....the evil tricky child does not fall far from the evil tricky family tree. I will stop this conversation dead in it's tracks until I am ready for it. Like, when the Dictator is 35. Maybe.
The Dictator: "Why do you not want to tell me? I think you know the answer yourself. I want to hear your answer first, then mine."
FUCK! I've been outplayed.
Me: "Well, we come from storks. Yes! Storks carry us to our Mommy's. We are tiny little seeds and then we go inside a Mommy belly to grow!" Okay....this sounds somewhat plausible, no? I mean...we've talked about storks before and she's seen a few commercials on this subject. Yes...this could work!
The Dictator: "Well....where do the seeds come from?"
What?! The storks were supposed to distract your intently focused little psycho brain away from the baby portion of this conversation! Seeds?! What the hell was I even talking about?
Me: "Well, I don't know. I'm sorry. Maybe we can google it later? Or ask Daddy! He'll know!"
The Dictator: "Momma, obviously the seeds come from the garden. You are not taking this seriously. Momma, I really sure do you love you, but you really need to go back to school and learn more. I mean...what DO you know?"
Then she went back out on her scooter to play. I sat there next to the bathtub slack jawed and defeated!
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Co-sleepa
Life was simple. I went to bed whenever I felt
like it, and I got up at approximately 8am every
morning. My cozy bed was warm and soft and
clean. I could watch a scary movie in bed if I wanted to and nobody would scream "This is toooooo scary! I'm going to need therapy! Make it stooooop!" My biggest concern was that the Politician might hear me snore, or worse, see me drool in my sleep.
Then I got pregnant. And this happened-
Have you ever tried to sleep with a basketball inside your
shirt? No?! Go try it out and let me know how comfortable you
were. If that's too easy, insert a hamster inside the ball and put that in your shirt. Oh, and make sure to drink 12 glasses of water
before you go to sleep. Try holding your pee until morning. I dare you. If that's still too easy, try sticking water balloons in a bra and eat the spiciest food on the planet right before you lay down. Tell me how well you slept.
Eventually the Dictator decided to make her grand entrance into the world-
Silly me. At this point I'm thinking "This is the mosttired I'll ever be! 14 hours of labor and a c-section!
I can't wait to get to my room and just sleeeeep"
Oh dear.....Look at my innocent face. I had NO idea what was coming. I really believed the worst was over!
After getting home from the hospital the Dictator happily slept here-
Three years later, the Dictator still does not sleep in her own bed. In fact, The Dictator does not sleep at all. Last night we played Candy Land at 3am. I survive on coffee, diet cherry pepsi, chocolate and the hope that my daughter will be accepted into college any day now and choose to move away from home.
Remember how in that first picture of me the I looked so young, fresh and happy? This is how I look today-
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Making memories
I really don't like when people feel the need to make excuses for their bad habits. If you have a vice, admit it. If you are lazy, just say so. I have much more respect for someone who tells the truth, versus someone who has to come up with a reason for their shortcomings.
There's this new little phrase in the mommy community that has taken off in popularity lately-
"Good moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, dirty ovens and happy kids!"
Uh.....say what? Personally, if I visited someone's home and it was dirty and sticky (sticky!? *shudder*), my first thought would not be "Wow! What a good mom!" Maybe that's just me.....
And my personal favorite- "Please excuse the mess. The children are making memories!"
Memories of WHAT? That Mom is a slob and Dad is too busy being a misogynistic pig to help out? That their lives perch precariously on the edge of spilling over into a "Hoarders" episode? Memories of Mom half heartedly shaking out their wrinkled, dirty, school clothes and spraying them with febreeze because she was too busy to do some laundry?
Does anyone REALLY think that kind of thing is cute or funny? Am I really just that off base and out of touch with popular culture?
I think this really points out how bad the 'mom-petition' is out there! We now need to stop and validate ourselves that our slovenly ways are not only acceptable, but also for the well-being of our children? It's good to be messy, because that must mean you are spending all that time making homemade educational games with your child and building forts out of boxes. Right? No. I just cannot believe that all these women advocating this baloney are making their own play-dough and spending the day teaching their own preschool.
In reality, is it not the perfect excuse to be lazy?! "Oh...I WANTED to clean the floors today dear, but I was too busy entertaining the children all.day.long. and couldn't take a moment away from them!" This is said by the same mom who has 5000 pins on Pinterest, has been on Facebook for the better part of the day (that little green dot tells no lies!) and knows the last person kicked off of "Project Runway". Hmmm.....
There's a lot of excuses out there to be dirty. "I'm a single mom" "I have health problems" "I'm pregnant. Again. With my eleventy-billionth spawn." "I work full time." Valid reasons. Perhaps. To a point. Actually...no. I take that back. I can count at least 3 wonderful mothers in my social circle who work full time, are single moms and one of them is pregnant again. Their houses do NOT look like a tornado just passed through. A dirty, sticky tornado full of chocolate sauce and cheetos that leaves the smell of failure in it's wake.
Yes, it's freaking hard to maintain a job, a child, a relationship with a husband, pets, family, dance class, sports, school, PTA meetings, HOA meetings, cooking and cleaning! It's exhausting It's frickin' hard to be a 'do it all mom'. It's also called being a grown-up and a good role model for your child! Get your butt up off the couch and push the 'self clean' button on your oven. It's laughable, considering our grandmother's did all the things we complain about without the machine element. Have you tried washing your laundry on a washing board? How about washing all your dishes by hand? ALL your dishes. The vacuum has come a long way in the last 50 years people! Don't get me started on the microwave. All this convenience, but it's somehow equaled more whining.
If you really wanted to be a good mom, perhaps make a game out of cleaning up the house. I'm sure there's a pin on Pinterest for that! You've probably already pinned it. Organized, full Pinterest boards does not a good mother make!
There are moms on the other side of the argument who will say "I'm not home all day to clean. I'm home all day for the betterment of my child!" or "I'm not the maid. I have interests as well and my own life to lead, outside of cleaning my home." Okay, okay. If you want to smell like stale laundry and dust bunnies so large they are mistaken for kittens, be my guest! But own it. Do not hide behind a cute phrase and idealize your poor time management. If you suck at home maintenance, just admit it. If you'd rather watch t.v., play online and eat junk food once in awhile, vs. spend every waking moment with your child, I'm not going to judge you. Just tell the truth. Don't label it as something it's not. There are certainly days I'm a disgusting pig of a person. My kid has gone multiple days without a bath. We've had cookies for dinner. I currently have a stack of laundry on the dryer waiting to be put away. I'm not going to be posting what an amazing mom I am on Facebook any time soon! I'm definitely not putting up a plaque in my house to announce my pride in my graham cracker encrusted couch. I just don't get it......
Talking to a friend recently, she made me feel bad for saying that dirty houses=bad moms. After a long chat, I was really starting to take her points into consideration. Perhaps I'm being too critical. I should probably be more supportive of my fellow moms. I went home after our talk thinking I needed to keep a more open mind. I decided to browse Etsy a bit before bed. In search of the right vinyl "Play!" decal to put above the playroom door I found multiple listings for decals and signs with the horrible phrase "good moms have sticky floors...." Uh....if you have enough time to shop on Etsy for a sticker to validate your atrocious housekeeping, perhaps you might also have time to vacuum or make a bed or two? Just a thought......
I think I'm going to hold my judgmental ground on this one. Perhaps 'good moms' have messy kitchens. Perhaps we as mothers should aspire to be GREAT moms, and have a clean place for our kids to grow-up in as well.
There's this new little phrase in the mommy community that has taken off in popularity lately-
"Good moms have sticky floors, messy kitchens, laundry piles, dirty ovens and happy kids!"
Uh.....say what? Personally, if I visited someone's home and it was dirty and sticky (sticky!? *shudder*), my first thought would not be "Wow! What a good mom!" Maybe that's just me.....
And my personal favorite- "Please excuse the mess. The children are making memories!"
Memories of WHAT? That Mom is a slob and Dad is too busy being a misogynistic pig to help out? That their lives perch precariously on the edge of spilling over into a "Hoarders" episode? Memories of Mom half heartedly shaking out their wrinkled, dirty, school clothes and spraying them with febreeze because she was too busy to do some laundry?
Does anyone REALLY think that kind of thing is cute or funny? Am I really just that off base and out of touch with popular culture?
I think this really points out how bad the 'mom-petition' is out there! We now need to stop and validate ourselves that our slovenly ways are not only acceptable, but also for the well-being of our children? It's good to be messy, because that must mean you are spending all that time making homemade educational games with your child and building forts out of boxes. Right? No. I just cannot believe that all these women advocating this baloney are making their own play-dough and spending the day teaching their own preschool.
In reality, is it not the perfect excuse to be lazy?! "Oh...I WANTED to clean the floors today dear, but I was too busy entertaining the children all.day.long. and couldn't take a moment away from them!" This is said by the same mom who has 5000 pins on Pinterest, has been on Facebook for the better part of the day (that little green dot tells no lies!) and knows the last person kicked off of "Project Runway". Hmmm.....
There's a lot of excuses out there to be dirty. "I'm a single mom" "I have health problems" "I'm pregnant. Again. With my eleventy-billionth spawn." "I work full time." Valid reasons. Perhaps. To a point. Actually...no. I take that back. I can count at least 3 wonderful mothers in my social circle who work full time, are single moms and one of them is pregnant again. Their houses do NOT look like a tornado just passed through. A dirty, sticky tornado full of chocolate sauce and cheetos that leaves the smell of failure in it's wake.
Yes, it's freaking hard to maintain a job, a child, a relationship with a husband, pets, family, dance class, sports, school, PTA meetings, HOA meetings, cooking and cleaning! It's exhausting It's frickin' hard to be a 'do it all mom'. It's also called being a grown-up and a good role model for your child! Get your butt up off the couch and push the 'self clean' button on your oven. It's laughable, considering our grandmother's did all the things we complain about without the machine element. Have you tried washing your laundry on a washing board? How about washing all your dishes by hand? ALL your dishes. The vacuum has come a long way in the last 50 years people! Don't get me started on the microwave. All this convenience, but it's somehow equaled more whining.
If you really wanted to be a good mom, perhaps make a game out of cleaning up the house. I'm sure there's a pin on Pinterest for that! You've probably already pinned it. Organized, full Pinterest boards does not a good mother make!
There are moms on the other side of the argument who will say "I'm not home all day to clean. I'm home all day for the betterment of my child!" or "I'm not the maid. I have interests as well and my own life to lead, outside of cleaning my home." Okay, okay. If you want to smell like stale laundry and dust bunnies so large they are mistaken for kittens, be my guest! But own it. Do not hide behind a cute phrase and idealize your poor time management. If you suck at home maintenance, just admit it. If you'd rather watch t.v., play online and eat junk food once in awhile, vs. spend every waking moment with your child, I'm not going to judge you. Just tell the truth. Don't label it as something it's not. There are certainly days I'm a disgusting pig of a person. My kid has gone multiple days without a bath. We've had cookies for dinner. I currently have a stack of laundry on the dryer waiting to be put away. I'm not going to be posting what an amazing mom I am on Facebook any time soon! I'm definitely not putting up a plaque in my house to announce my pride in my graham cracker encrusted couch. I just don't get it......
Talking to a friend recently, she made me feel bad for saying that dirty houses=bad moms. After a long chat, I was really starting to take her points into consideration. Perhaps I'm being too critical. I should probably be more supportive of my fellow moms. I went home after our talk thinking I needed to keep a more open mind. I decided to browse Etsy a bit before bed. In search of the right vinyl "Play!" decal to put above the playroom door I found multiple listings for decals and signs with the horrible phrase "good moms have sticky floors...." Uh....if you have enough time to shop on Etsy for a sticker to validate your atrocious housekeeping, perhaps you might also have time to vacuum or make a bed or two? Just a thought......
I think I'm going to hold my judgmental ground on this one. Perhaps 'good moms' have messy kitchens. Perhaps we as mothers should aspire to be GREAT moms, and have a clean place for our kids to grow-up in as well.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Easter Runaway
Tonight while doing dishes I saw the Dictator randomly go to our entryway, open the front door, and then start to walk out. Curious about what she was doing, I asked her "Hey, where are you going?"
The Dictator: "Oh, nowhere. I'm just running away now. Yeah....I just need to run away. Bye."
Our neighborhood is pretty safe, and from the kitchen I can see our entire block, so I decided to let this play out a little longer and see what she'd do.
The Dictator went outside, wandered around our patio and then went down the block just to the next house over. She looked back at our house, and then wandered back home.
Coming in the door, she says to me "Momma. I need you to run away with me. It's too lonely to run away all alone. Can you come with me please? After you do dishes?"
And for your Easter funny.......
Laying on the couch tonight, the Dictator was avoiding going to bed as usual.
Me: "You know...you better get to sleep or the Easter Bunny won't be able to come and bring your basket."
The Dictator: "What? I have to be asleep? Like Santa? That stinks!"
Me: "Yup. You better to get to sleep before the sun comes up!"
The Dictator takes off running to her room
The Dictator: "Oh my God, the Easter bunny is coming! Fuck! I better get to sleep!"
The Dictator: "Oh, nowhere. I'm just running away now. Yeah....I just need to run away. Bye."
Our neighborhood is pretty safe, and from the kitchen I can see our entire block, so I decided to let this play out a little longer and see what she'd do.
The Dictator went outside, wandered around our patio and then went down the block just to the next house over. She looked back at our house, and then wandered back home.
Coming in the door, she says to me "Momma. I need you to run away with me. It's too lonely to run away all alone. Can you come with me please? After you do dishes?"
And for your Easter funny.......
Laying on the couch tonight, the Dictator was avoiding going to bed as usual.
Me: "You know...you better get to sleep or the Easter Bunny won't be able to come and bring your basket."
The Dictator: "What? I have to be asleep? Like Santa? That stinks!"
Me: "Yup. You better to get to sleep before the sun comes up!"
The Dictator takes off running to her room
The Dictator: "Oh my God, the Easter bunny is coming! Fuck! I better get to sleep!"
Monday, March 25, 2013
Addiction
Conversation overheard in my household tonight-
The Dictator: "I want to watch t.v."
The Politician" You are addicted to t.v. I think we need to take a break from it"
The Dictator "No! I am not addicted to t.v."
The Politician: "You are in denial. That's a sign of your addiction. Do we need an intervention?"
The Dictator: "No! I'm not in denial!" Followed with an angry (but light!) slap to the Politicians back
The Politician: "Your angry outburst is a sign of withdrawals, just another symptom of your disease. Once you admit you have a problem, I can help you work through it."
The Dictator: Looks at the Politician, covers her head up with a pillow and says "But I'm scared!"
LMBO. I think they've been secretly having marathon sessions of watching "Intervention" together when I'm not home.
The Dictator: "I want to watch t.v."
The Politician" You are addicted to t.v. I think we need to take a break from it"
The Dictator "No! I am not addicted to t.v."
The Politician: "You are in denial. That's a sign of your addiction. Do we need an intervention?"
The Dictator: "No! I'm not in denial!" Followed with an angry (but light!) slap to the Politicians back
The Politician: "Your angry outburst is a sign of withdrawals, just another symptom of your disease. Once you admit you have a problem, I can help you work through it."
The Dictator: Looks at the Politician, covers her head up with a pillow and says "But I'm scared!"
LMBO. I think they've been secretly having marathon sessions of watching "Intervention" together when I'm not home.
Friday, March 22, 2013
Balloon
The Dictator gets attached to things. I mean, crazy, "Single White Female" attached to things. Lord forbid you lose one of the people in a set, a stuffed animal or one of the worst crimes of all time- leave her water bottle at school! (We only have 5 million other water bottles!) There WILL be consequences. Her little OCD world must be perfectly aligned at all times. She's a collector. She's a little crow. She does not like when her perfectly put together little world does not work out the way she wants it to!
Today at the mall a young lady was giving out balloon animals. The Dictator was very excited to get one, and we patiently waited in line for over 20 minutes so that she could get the little yellow dog that she just could not live without. "Yellow Dog" (I was in charge of naming it. It was hot out. I was tired. I wore uncomfortable shoes. I never said I was creative with names anyways!) toured the mall with us. He practiced flying, doing a back float in the fountain (bad Yellow Dog!), went potty (why must everything we bring with us use the potty. sigh) and helped the Dictator try on shoes. It was a magical day for the Dictator and her balloon friend. In the car, on the ride home, she held Yellow Dog gently against her chest and sang to him. The world was a perfect, magical place.
Then we got home. Yellow Dog and the Dictator ran off upstairs for more magical, happy, balloon animal magic time. I heard happiness, running, laughing and then I heard a loud "Pop!" After that followed a hysterical scream from the Dictator. Running up the stairs I found her. Sitting in the sunlight. Holding what was left of her little yellow friend. He was just legs and one sad little ear. The rest was a deflated, sad string of a balloon. The Dictator was in tears, cradling her friend and saying "Oh no! Yellow Dog! Oh no!" over and over again. I admit, I really did feel her sadness. Her little magical world shaken. A place where balloon dogs just die on you! Right in the middle of playing 'jump on the pointy metal bowl Momma keeps on the coffee table' (I'm thinking this was probably what caused Yellow Dog's demise).
The Dictator ran to me and launched herself into my arms. "Why did Yellow Dog diiiiiiiiiiie?"
Me: "Balloon friends cannot live forever. Although Yellow Dog's time was short, he had a very nice life."
The Dictator: "He was my very best friend (did I mention the Dictator can be just a tiny bit dramatic?), I loved him. Now he's just dead" and then more tears. Lots of tears
Me: "We must remember the good times we had with Yellow Dog. Remember how he did a back float in the fountain? Or how he tried on the pink shoes and looked so nice?"
Inside, I am dying laughing right now. Although I do genuinely feel for my daughter, recalling the good times we had with the balloon animal we had for less than 3 hours, plus quite a bit of sun exposure is getting to be too much for me. Despite myself, I giggle. Oh dear God. The Dictator is going to own my ass now.
The Dictator :"Momma. Are you not sad that Yellow Dog is dead?"
Secretly, I'm thinking "No. I am actually quite happy! That balloon animal was bound to pop eventually, and it was like keeping a ticking time bomb in the house. You insisted upon swinging it about at my head and probably caused me at least 5 new gray hairs because I was stressing out that it was going to pop in my face any second. Good riddens to Yellow Dog!"
Me: "Oh honey! I am SO sad that Yellow Dog is dead!"
The Dictator: "I do not believe you."
Me: "What can I do to prove my sincerity?"
The Dictator "Help me make a funeral"
So we did. We said nice words, threw Yellow Dog into the bathroom trash can, covered him with toilet paper and vowed that the next balloon friend we brought home would NOT jump on the pointy bowl.
What the hell kind of sick person insists upon giving children balloon animals anyways? People that hate children. People that hate the parents of the children they hate.
Note to self. No more pet balloon animals. Too disappointing. I think we're going to stick with pet rocks from now on.
Today at the mall a young lady was giving out balloon animals. The Dictator was very excited to get one, and we patiently waited in line for over 20 minutes so that she could get the little yellow dog that she just could not live without. "Yellow Dog" (I was in charge of naming it. It was hot out. I was tired. I wore uncomfortable shoes. I never said I was creative with names anyways!) toured the mall with us. He practiced flying, doing a back float in the fountain (bad Yellow Dog!), went potty (why must everything we bring with us use the potty. sigh) and helped the Dictator try on shoes. It was a magical day for the Dictator and her balloon friend. In the car, on the ride home, she held Yellow Dog gently against her chest and sang to him. The world was a perfect, magical place.
Then we got home. Yellow Dog and the Dictator ran off upstairs for more magical, happy, balloon animal magic time. I heard happiness, running, laughing and then I heard a loud "Pop!" After that followed a hysterical scream from the Dictator. Running up the stairs I found her. Sitting in the sunlight. Holding what was left of her little yellow friend. He was just legs and one sad little ear. The rest was a deflated, sad string of a balloon. The Dictator was in tears, cradling her friend and saying "Oh no! Yellow Dog! Oh no!" over and over again. I admit, I really did feel her sadness. Her little magical world shaken. A place where balloon dogs just die on you! Right in the middle of playing 'jump on the pointy metal bowl Momma keeps on the coffee table' (I'm thinking this was probably what caused Yellow Dog's demise).
The Dictator ran to me and launched herself into my arms. "Why did Yellow Dog diiiiiiiiiiie?"
Me: "Balloon friends cannot live forever. Although Yellow Dog's time was short, he had a very nice life."
The Dictator: "He was my very best friend (did I mention the Dictator can be just a tiny bit dramatic?), I loved him. Now he's just dead" and then more tears. Lots of tears
Me: "We must remember the good times we had with Yellow Dog. Remember how he did a back float in the fountain? Or how he tried on the pink shoes and looked so nice?"
Inside, I am dying laughing right now. Although I do genuinely feel for my daughter, recalling the good times we had with the balloon animal we had for less than 3 hours, plus quite a bit of sun exposure is getting to be too much for me. Despite myself, I giggle. Oh dear God. The Dictator is going to own my ass now.
The Dictator :"Momma. Are you not sad that Yellow Dog is dead?"
Secretly, I'm thinking "No. I am actually quite happy! That balloon animal was bound to pop eventually, and it was like keeping a ticking time bomb in the house. You insisted upon swinging it about at my head and probably caused me at least 5 new gray hairs because I was stressing out that it was going to pop in my face any second. Good riddens to Yellow Dog!"
Me: "Oh honey! I am SO sad that Yellow Dog is dead!"
The Dictator: "I do not believe you."
Me: "What can I do to prove my sincerity?"
The Dictator "Help me make a funeral"
So we did. We said nice words, threw Yellow Dog into the bathroom trash can, covered him with toilet paper and vowed that the next balloon friend we brought home would NOT jump on the pointy bowl.
What the hell kind of sick person insists upon giving children balloon animals anyways? People that hate children. People that hate the parents of the children they hate.
Note to self. No more pet balloon animals. Too disappointing. I think we're going to stick with pet rocks from now on.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Snuggle
As we're preparing to move (next week! Woah!), I find myself able to sleep less and less. This move has been pretty stressful, and even in these last few days before we are supposed to pack up our lives and relocate ourselves, we still aren't sure if we'll have a house ready to move into. Although I rationally know there is nothing I can do at this point to change the outcome, my mind still races well into the wee hours of the night with different scenarios and possible solutions. I've always been 'the fixer'. If you need something, advice, help, etc, I'm a good person to ask. I like to help. I've been told somewhat too much at times. Not being able to fix something drives me insane. So, I lay in bed at night and stare at my fan and go through a zillion and one different ways next week could play out for us. Being the eternal pessimist, the outcomes are usually never very good. Being a creative person, I'm able to REALLY stretch the possibilities out.
Last night I was laying in bed. Once again thinking about everything that's happening in my life right now. So far, 2013 has been a year of change. At this point it's hard to say whether or not this change is a good thing. Letting myself mull over all the details, I found it was already 2am. Trying to force myself to sleep, I heard the Dictator come into the bedroom. She got her usual drink of water, put her book on my nightstand and got in bed with me.
The Dictator: "Momma. You're still awake? Are you tired? You should sleep."
Me: "Momma can't sleep. My brain won't turn off."
The Dictator: "Momma, I'll hold you until you fall asleep. I'll cuddle you and keep you safe now and you can rest."
And she did. She literally wrapped her arms around me and patted my back while humming. And I fell asleep.
I felt her get up awhile later. She slipped her arm out from under me, kissed me on the forehead and said "Rest up Momma. I love you." I don't think she noticed that there were tears in my eyes.
My daughter amazes me.
Last night I was laying in bed. Once again thinking about everything that's happening in my life right now. So far, 2013 has been a year of change. At this point it's hard to say whether or not this change is a good thing. Letting myself mull over all the details, I found it was already 2am. Trying to force myself to sleep, I heard the Dictator come into the bedroom. She got her usual drink of water, put her book on my nightstand and got in bed with me.
The Dictator: "Momma. You're still awake? Are you tired? You should sleep."
Me: "Momma can't sleep. My brain won't turn off."
The Dictator: "Momma, I'll hold you until you fall asleep. I'll cuddle you and keep you safe now and you can rest."
And she did. She literally wrapped her arms around me and patted my back while humming. And I fell asleep.
I felt her get up awhile later. She slipped her arm out from under me, kissed me on the forehead and said "Rest up Momma. I love you." I don't think she noticed that there were tears in my eyes.
My daughter amazes me.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Vindicated
Last week was a bit long and lonely for the Dictator and me. All of our friends were sick, and we really just had nothing going on. After a week of sitting around the house, staring at each other and trying to not go crazy, we decided we needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. Just get us out of the house for a few hours!
I've been dying to go to the antique mall near our house for awhile now. With our upcoming move, I'm feeling compelled to hunt and gather new treasures for our new space. Although I have no idea what that new space will look like just yet. I decided we really do need a new coffee table. Must have one. Cannot live without a new one. Our house will be totally hideous unless we immediately get a new coffee table! This may have been due to the fact I was staring at our current coffee table all week long, noticing every tiny, minuscule little scratch and flaw that thing has. But no! I think not! I think it's really just that horrendous, and we NEED a new one. Now.
The Dictator and I had a little chat about where we were going.
Me: "There's old things there. Older than Momma! They are all very fragile and we can't touch them. We just look with our eyes. Okay?"
The Dictator: "Older than Momma? Like what? Chairs?"
Me: "Umm...yeah. Chairs.....and other stuff" (Chairs? I guess it could have been worse. I think I just got off pretty easy on that one!)
The Dictator: "Are there toys?"
After another lengthy explanation that there would, in fact, be toys, we were set to go.
We pulled up in front of the antique mall
The Dictator: "Oooooh! The MALL! It says MALL!"
The Dictator can read very few words at this point, but if it has anything to do with shopping, she pretty much reads at a college level.
Inside the 'mall', the Dictators eyes got huge. My little magpie and I share a love of shiny things, old things, interesting things, and well, just things. I swear sometimes that I am raising a hoarder. Fights over throwing away little things, even candy bar wrappers in our house can be a bit intense at times.
The Dictator: "Momma! That wrapper is so beeeeeautiful! It says SNICKERS! I READ it for you! I neeeeeeed to keep it! Puleeease?!"
Oi yoi yoi!
The Dictator and I began to wander the aisles of the mall. She was really so excited to point to what she felt was a treasure, and to make sure I saw every single coffee table we passed by. After the first two aisles, we were both really getting into it. My beautiful little girl could not have been better behaved. I was insanely proud of my little 2 year old and her manners in the store. And then.....
An old lady and her husband came around the corner. She smiled at me and then noticed the Dictator. Immediately the smile became a scowl.
When you live in our part of the world (most people come to our neighborhood to die) you get used a certain attitude from old people. We will either get a doting Grandma who wants to touch the Dictator and talk about how her kids abandoned her. Probably for petting them too much. Or we get the old lady that doesn't want to ever see children again. The Dictator calls those women witches. I refuse to correct her.
The witch scowled at the Dictator. The Dictator scowled back. The witch felt she must say something. I could see the ugly word bubble forming over her head. Here it comes...
The witch: "Some people are just soooooo irresponsible! Taking a baby to an antique store! That baby is going to break everything in here! Some people are just sooooo rude! I cannot believe this!"
The witch: "Some people are just soooooo irresponsible! Taking a baby to an antique store! That baby is going to break everything in here! Some people are just sooooo rude! I cannot believe this!"
The Dictator: Thinking very hard about what the best thing to do would be responded by waving at the witch and in her very sweet little voice saying "Hello witch! How are you?"
Ah...I love my child. We could have left the store now and I could have died a happy death. But..our day gets better!
The Dictator and I decided to stay and shop some more. Why let the witch ruin our fun. We completed two more aisles before our next encounter.
The witch spotted the Dictator rounding the corner. The witch reared back a bit, as if she was afraid of the Dictator and the 'damage' she may be coming to inflict on the store and possibly even herself. Just as the Dictator came around the corner the witch stepped backwards and bumped into a large table full of very breakable dishware. Luckily her husband caught the few items that fell and nothing broke.
Ahhh....vindication! The Dictator and I merrily finished up the remaining aisles. The witch and her husband vacated the store immediately following the incident. Ha ha!
Now, I'm not saying antique shopping is a great activity for all preschoolers, but I think the Dictator and I have a new hobby to share. One bird pillow, a little leaf soap dish and a California Raisin toy later, the Dictator and I went home in much better moods. No coffee table was found that day. I'm excited to take a tour to the larger antique mall to hunt next week. I wonder what type of witches we'll encounter there!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
I have an allergy
WARNING! This post MAY just offend you! Sorry! I need to get this off my chest.....
Allergies. Since when does every.single.kid on the planet have an allergy? And how come all of a sudden it's not just the kids, but all the moms too!?!?! Dads seem to be left immune to this strange phenomena and continue to drink copious amount of wheat bear and eat large quantities of white bread without ill effect.
No joke, percentage wise on Facebook- 70% of my friends claim to have a food allergy. Uh? 70%?!
If 70% of the population had food allergies, we'd all be dead by now.
I'm not saying that all allergies are made up. Allergies are no joke! Maybe that's why I get annoyed when suddenly everyone I know is allergic to something. Feeling sluggish after eating a loaf of bread is NOT an allergy. If you drink an entire milkshake and then complain of tummy troubles, I'm sorry...you cannot blame it on lactose intolerance.
Talking to a friend who has a real, life threatening allergy to certain fruits (bananas, watermelon, cantaloupe, etc) made me realize how obnoxious these new so called "true food warriors" are. The Dictator was faced with her own set of allergy challenges as an infant. Being allergic to sweet potatoes is a pretty crappy allergy to have these days, since sweet potatoes are the new fad 'allergy free' food. No carrots, no tomatoes, no nothing red until she was nearly 2 years old. How did I know she was allergic? She had an allergic reaction that required medical treatment, and she also had to undergo some pretty awful allergy testing.
To the woman who told me she thought her daughter might have the same allergy because after she ate sweet potatoes she had to burp a lot- Please shut up.
My personal favorite is "My child is allergic to sugar". I'm sorry, but I'm allergic to bullshit. Please stop trying to feed it to me. Your child is not allergic to sugar. Lets take a quick moment to think about why you think this. Sugar, when ingested, releases endorphins. Endorphins are fun! They make you want to run around and be crazy, silly, and well...sometimes hyper. They make you happy. Being happy makes you want to be more outgoing. In small people, the effect is bigger, because emotions are bigger. Getting excited after eating a cupcake does not mean you are allergic to cupcakes. I have a feeling these are the same parents who will tell me in a years time that their child is allergic to plastic, and therefore cannot go down the slide. Slide=endorphin rush=hyper. Not: slide=endorphin rush=allergy!
These 'allergies' also seem to only affect a certain segment of society. White, 30 something, middle class Americans with one to two children living in a house where the mother stays home seem to be most targeted by this affliction. You never hear Jim Bob or Honey Boo Boo's mom complaining that they can't eat too much gluten or they'll get sick. The lower class masses seem to be nearly entirely immune from this epidemic.
I've seen moms nearly starve themselves to death because they are terrified to eat fearing their breast milk will be tainted by these horrific allergens. Seriously! Eat a frigging bagel! Your baby will be fine! Have a cupcake, or two! You might feel so much better you'll forget to worry about 'allergies'!
Hosting a play date these days is beyond ridiculous. Suzy can't eat gluten. Sally can't have dairy. Emily is allergic to all nuts ("no..we haven't had her tested yet, but we have a feeling...."). Frank can't eat any meat. George is pretty much shit out of luck and is allergic to all of the above. What the hell am I supposed to serve for snacks? All of this needless worry makes me want to spike the organic, gluten free, sugar free, vegan cupcakes with red #40.
I'm not advocating we feed our children or ourselves a diet of junk food. I'm all for healthy, fresh, and even (gasp!) organic food when possible. However, please realize that allowing yourself or your children to eat at McD's once in awhile will NOT kill them.
Ok. Rant over. The end.
Allergies. Since when does every.single.kid on the planet have an allergy? And how come all of a sudden it's not just the kids, but all the moms too!?!?! Dads seem to be left immune to this strange phenomena and continue to drink copious amount of wheat bear and eat large quantities of white bread without ill effect.
No joke, percentage wise on Facebook- 70% of my friends claim to have a food allergy. Uh? 70%?!
If 70% of the population had food allergies, we'd all be dead by now.
I'm not saying that all allergies are made up. Allergies are no joke! Maybe that's why I get annoyed when suddenly everyone I know is allergic to something. Feeling sluggish after eating a loaf of bread is NOT an allergy. If you drink an entire milkshake and then complain of tummy troubles, I'm sorry...you cannot blame it on lactose intolerance.
Talking to a friend who has a real, life threatening allergy to certain fruits (bananas, watermelon, cantaloupe, etc) made me realize how obnoxious these new so called "true food warriors" are. The Dictator was faced with her own set of allergy challenges as an infant. Being allergic to sweet potatoes is a pretty crappy allergy to have these days, since sweet potatoes are the new fad 'allergy free' food. No carrots, no tomatoes, no nothing red until she was nearly 2 years old. How did I know she was allergic? She had an allergic reaction that required medical treatment, and she also had to undergo some pretty awful allergy testing.
To the woman who told me she thought her daughter might have the same allergy because after she ate sweet potatoes she had to burp a lot- Please shut up.
My personal favorite is "My child is allergic to sugar". I'm sorry, but I'm allergic to bullshit. Please stop trying to feed it to me. Your child is not allergic to sugar. Lets take a quick moment to think about why you think this. Sugar, when ingested, releases endorphins. Endorphins are fun! They make you want to run around and be crazy, silly, and well...sometimes hyper. They make you happy. Being happy makes you want to be more outgoing. In small people, the effect is bigger, because emotions are bigger. Getting excited after eating a cupcake does not mean you are allergic to cupcakes. I have a feeling these are the same parents who will tell me in a years time that their child is allergic to plastic, and therefore cannot go down the slide. Slide=endorphin rush=hyper. Not: slide=endorphin rush=allergy!
These 'allergies' also seem to only affect a certain segment of society. White, 30 something, middle class Americans with one to two children living in a house where the mother stays home seem to be most targeted by this affliction. You never hear Jim Bob or Honey Boo Boo's mom complaining that they can't eat too much gluten or they'll get sick. The lower class masses seem to be nearly entirely immune from this epidemic.
I've seen moms nearly starve themselves to death because they are terrified to eat fearing their breast milk will be tainted by these horrific allergens. Seriously! Eat a frigging bagel! Your baby will be fine! Have a cupcake, or two! You might feel so much better you'll forget to worry about 'allergies'!
Hosting a play date these days is beyond ridiculous. Suzy can't eat gluten. Sally can't have dairy. Emily is allergic to all nuts ("no..we haven't had her tested yet, but we have a feeling...."). Frank can't eat any meat. George is pretty much shit out of luck and is allergic to all of the above. What the hell am I supposed to serve for snacks? All of this needless worry makes me want to spike the organic, gluten free, sugar free, vegan cupcakes with red #40.
I'm not advocating we feed our children or ourselves a diet of junk food. I'm all for healthy, fresh, and even (gasp!) organic food when possible. However, please realize that allowing yourself or your children to eat at McD's once in awhile will NOT kill them.
Ok. Rant over. The end.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Get ready
Oh...the injustices of being a woman.
Not only do we bear the burden of pregnancy, childbirth, periods, breastfeeding, and all the other hormonal challenges we face, we are also supposed to look good while doing all of this.
I often lament to the Politician how unfair this is. I give him a ten minute warning before we leave the house. In that ten minutes, he has time to get himself completely ready, get a snack, use the restroom, and he still usually has time left over. He'll throw on some jeans and shirt and cover his messy hair with a hat and voila! He's ready to go.
I, on the other hand, have been in the bathroom the past hour. Shaving, plucking, tweezing, brushing, using things on my eyelashes that I'm certain were modeled after medieval torture devices. After an hour+ of this I should look like a super model. Wrong. I now look fit to be seen in public. After an hour, I'm still not done either. I have to find something to wear.
Another half hour....
Squeezing myself into skinny jeans I curse the man that invented them. It had to have been a man. No woman would do this to another woman. Why aren't yoga pants in fashion? Sigh. I long for the olden days of Juicy Couture track suits. Those were my wonder years. After a half hour of smashing my body and contorting my internal organs, I now am dressed and ready to go.
Oh no...I'm not. I have to pack my bag! I forgot, I'm not supposed to just wander around and look pretty, I'm supposed to also be a pack animal at the same time. Sippy cup, snacks, wallet, giant make-up bag, little toys, and a zillion other things must be found and deposited into the giant bag I call a purse. At this point, my purse borders on an 'I'm backpacking across Europe' backpack.
Now that I'm finally ready, it's time to get the Dictator ready. Tears, bows, shoes, "I want to wear my pink sparkly boooooots! and mismatched (on purpose!) socks later, we can now leave the house! 2 hours after my 'start time'!
The Politician is merrily playing a computer game. I want to smack the hat off his head and force him to shave his legs, but I don't. We just don't have the time.
A couple weeks ago I finally got fed up with it. I decided I was going to rock my yoga pants, throw my hair in a pony tail, go without make-up and throw caution to the wind.
As we're getting ready to leave for the day, the Dictator asked me "Momma, why do you look like Ursula today?" Ursula....the SEA WITCH from the Little Mermaid.
Sigh....back into the bathroom I go!
Not only do we bear the burden of pregnancy, childbirth, periods, breastfeeding, and all the other hormonal challenges we face, we are also supposed to look good while doing all of this.
I often lament to the Politician how unfair this is. I give him a ten minute warning before we leave the house. In that ten minutes, he has time to get himself completely ready, get a snack, use the restroom, and he still usually has time left over. He'll throw on some jeans and shirt and cover his messy hair with a hat and voila! He's ready to go.
I, on the other hand, have been in the bathroom the past hour. Shaving, plucking, tweezing, brushing, using things on my eyelashes that I'm certain were modeled after medieval torture devices. After an hour+ of this I should look like a super model. Wrong. I now look fit to be seen in public. After an hour, I'm still not done either. I have to find something to wear.
Another half hour....
Squeezing myself into skinny jeans I curse the man that invented them. It had to have been a man. No woman would do this to another woman. Why aren't yoga pants in fashion? Sigh. I long for the olden days of Juicy Couture track suits. Those were my wonder years. After a half hour of smashing my body and contorting my internal organs, I now am dressed and ready to go.
Oh no...I'm not. I have to pack my bag! I forgot, I'm not supposed to just wander around and look pretty, I'm supposed to also be a pack animal at the same time. Sippy cup, snacks, wallet, giant make-up bag, little toys, and a zillion other things must be found and deposited into the giant bag I call a purse. At this point, my purse borders on an 'I'm backpacking across Europe' backpack.
Now that I'm finally ready, it's time to get the Dictator ready. Tears, bows, shoes, "I want to wear my pink sparkly boooooots! and mismatched (on purpose!) socks later, we can now leave the house! 2 hours after my 'start time'!
The Politician is merrily playing a computer game. I want to smack the hat off his head and force him to shave his legs, but I don't. We just don't have the time.
A couple weeks ago I finally got fed up with it. I decided I was going to rock my yoga pants, throw my hair in a pony tail, go without make-up and throw caution to the wind.
As we're getting ready to leave for the day, the Dictator asked me "Momma, why do you look like Ursula today?" Ursula....the SEA WITCH from the Little Mermaid.
Sigh....back into the bathroom I go!
Monday, January 14, 2013
Creepy
Sometimes, little kids are just plain creepy. I realize they are living in a world that is half fantasy and half reality. Their gullible little minds eager to believe that at any moment a carousel might spontaneously appear in the backyard, or that Sesame Street really is just right down the road and you just have to know which way to turn. Little kids are the eternal optimists. And it's cute, and fun, and magical, until it's creepy. Then it's not fun anymore.
The Dictator has told me some things that have made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
She told us for a very long time, starting at 18mo old(!!), that she didn't like being in her room at night because the "Doctor" would come and stand over her bed and look at her. Uh....are you creeped out yet??
When probed about what the "doctor" looked like, the Dictator responded "Black wispy shadow with no eyes. He comes out of the closets if you don't close them all the way." I did not sleep for a week after that, and you can bet I checked EVERY closet in our house before bed. The showers too. Just in case. The Dictator slept happily in bed with us not knowing the reason she was allowed to do so was because Mommy was scared out of her mind! I think even the Politician was freaked out. I noticed he carefully closed her closet doors the entire way after that conversation.
Since then, The Dictator has told me equally frightening stories.
One evening, while driving in the car, the Dictator yelled "Look out Momma!" I, of course, freaked out and hit the brakes. Nothing was in the road or appeared to be wrong. The Dictator said "Didn't you see that man in the road? He was crossing the road! When you hit him, he disappeared! Why did you hit him!" I actually considered getting out and looking under my car, but really....I think I would have heard a thump. *Shudder* When we drove off I carefully looked behind me and on the sides of the road. I even checked my car when we got home.
The most recent scary stuff from the Dictator has come in the past week involving mirrors. I noticed while we were getting ready she would say "Hi!" to herself and talk to herself in the mirror. Like she was having a conversation with a real person. She'd tell me how the other her liked to wave and smile back and talk to her. I thought it was kind of cute. She'd tell me that "other Momma" liked when we talked to her too and so I started waving and smiling at myself in the mirror. Well....after this morning....NO MORE!
While brushing the Dictators hair and getting her ready for school, she was talking to her "mirror self". When she was all done and we were leaving the bathroom she said "Bye other me! Stay in the mirror today! You are not supposed to come out. I don't like when you come out and play with my toys! Sometimes you scare me!" I don't think we need mirrors anymore. Yeah. Those have to go. Next time you see me, if I look like a total sea hag, please just ignore it. I'm literally a little paranoid about being alone in my house and going to put my make-up on!
If my two year old can make me this scared, I can only imagine what she's going to do to me as a teenager. I don't stand a chance. I should probably take more cardio classes at the gym to get my heart ready!
The Dictator has told me some things that have made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
She told us for a very long time, starting at 18mo old(!!), that she didn't like being in her room at night because the "Doctor" would come and stand over her bed and look at her. Uh....are you creeped out yet??
When probed about what the "doctor" looked like, the Dictator responded "Black wispy shadow with no eyes. He comes out of the closets if you don't close them all the way." I did not sleep for a week after that, and you can bet I checked EVERY closet in our house before bed. The showers too. Just in case. The Dictator slept happily in bed with us not knowing the reason she was allowed to do so was because Mommy was scared out of her mind! I think even the Politician was freaked out. I noticed he carefully closed her closet doors the entire way after that conversation.
Since then, The Dictator has told me equally frightening stories.
One evening, while driving in the car, the Dictator yelled "Look out Momma!" I, of course, freaked out and hit the brakes. Nothing was in the road or appeared to be wrong. The Dictator said "Didn't you see that man in the road? He was crossing the road! When you hit him, he disappeared! Why did you hit him!" I actually considered getting out and looking under my car, but really....I think I would have heard a thump. *Shudder* When we drove off I carefully looked behind me and on the sides of the road. I even checked my car when we got home.
The most recent scary stuff from the Dictator has come in the past week involving mirrors. I noticed while we were getting ready she would say "Hi!" to herself and talk to herself in the mirror. Like she was having a conversation with a real person. She'd tell me how the other her liked to wave and smile back and talk to her. I thought it was kind of cute. She'd tell me that "other Momma" liked when we talked to her too and so I started waving and smiling at myself in the mirror. Well....after this morning....NO MORE!
While brushing the Dictators hair and getting her ready for school, she was talking to her "mirror self". When she was all done and we were leaving the bathroom she said "Bye other me! Stay in the mirror today! You are not supposed to come out. I don't like when you come out and play with my toys! Sometimes you scare me!" I don't think we need mirrors anymore. Yeah. Those have to go. Next time you see me, if I look like a total sea hag, please just ignore it. I'm literally a little paranoid about being alone in my house and going to put my make-up on!
If my two year old can make me this scared, I can only imagine what she's going to do to me as a teenager. I don't stand a chance. I should probably take more cardio classes at the gym to get my heart ready!
Friday, January 11, 2013
Moving
We found out this week that we are going to have to move. :(
Sometimes, being a renter really just sucks. I'm a permanence, deep rooter,
sentimental type of person at times, and I tend to become attached to where I live.
I take time and care to decorate. I've spent nearly two years decorating our house and I was just getting started. All while knowing it's just a rental and I'm going to move someday. I can't help myself. It becomes a compulsion.
When the Dictator heard we were moving, she didn't quite get it at first. She thought we were going on vacation. She asked if we could live in the castle at Disneyland with Cinderella. She also asked if we could eat ice cream and turkey legs every day. Her poor little sad eyes when I said no were only trumped by my own sad eyes. I'd love to live inside Disneyland!
I could tell that the news was starting to sink in and she has been slowly absorbing it and finding her own level of understanding with it. She started telling people "We are moving!" "I don't know where to!" I laugh, because as of right now, I don't know where to either!
I told her to consider it a game and a new adventure. That's what you're supposed to say, right? Yes...I think I read that on a parenting blog somewhere.... It seems like sound advice. I also told her that she could paint her new room pink. SHE could pick which color pink she wanted and SHE could help paint with her own brush. Suddenly, moving became much more lucrative and exciting. Every shade of pink we've seen the past few days has sparked much discussion over whether it's 'the right pink' or not. I can tell this is going to be a difficult decision and I anticipate many tense hours spent pacing the paint section at Home Depot looking at little swatches.
I never really realized though, that my daughter, who rarely takes after me at all, is also a decorator.
While using the potty today, she pointed up the large wall in our bathroom and said "Where did the butterflies go?" We had some butterfly art in frames that we had just taken down the night before as a start to operation:We must pack quickly or die trying. I told her they were packed for the new house and we'd have to find a new space for them. The Dictator said "But Mom! They go on that wall in this bathroom! They will not look right somewhere else! We should put them back!"I could see the OCD wheels turning in her head, because I too, worry that they will not look right anywhere else. In the end a compromise was reached and we put one frame back up, because "The bathroom looked naked without pictures."
I'm anticipating that the Dictator and I are going to have many decorating wars in the new house.
I was also anticipating that the Dictator might have a hard time adjusting to the idea of moving, and may get stressed when we do relocate. My fears were somewhat put to rest today though when I overheard her talking to her fish "Belle". Who is a male fish. Who lives in a pink castle. It's a sad life for Belle.
She told Belle- "Belle! Guess what?! I get to move to a new house! I get to paint my room pink!! I can't wait! I hate my room! It's sooooo ugly! Now I don't have to sleep in it! I get to sleep in pink!"
Sometimes, being a renter really just sucks. I'm a permanence, deep rooter,
sentimental type of person at times, and I tend to become attached to where I live.
I take time and care to decorate. I've spent nearly two years decorating our house and I was just getting started. All while knowing it's just a rental and I'm going to move someday. I can't help myself. It becomes a compulsion.
When the Dictator heard we were moving, she didn't quite get it at first. She thought we were going on vacation. She asked if we could live in the castle at Disneyland with Cinderella. She also asked if we could eat ice cream and turkey legs every day. Her poor little sad eyes when I said no were only trumped by my own sad eyes. I'd love to live inside Disneyland!
I could tell that the news was starting to sink in and she has been slowly absorbing it and finding her own level of understanding with it. She started telling people "We are moving!" "I don't know where to!" I laugh, because as of right now, I don't know where to either!
I told her to consider it a game and a new adventure. That's what you're supposed to say, right? Yes...I think I read that on a parenting blog somewhere.... It seems like sound advice. I also told her that she could paint her new room pink. SHE could pick which color pink she wanted and SHE could help paint with her own brush. Suddenly, moving became much more lucrative and exciting. Every shade of pink we've seen the past few days has sparked much discussion over whether it's 'the right pink' or not. I can tell this is going to be a difficult decision and I anticipate many tense hours spent pacing the paint section at Home Depot looking at little swatches.
I never really realized though, that my daughter, who rarely takes after me at all, is also a decorator.
While using the potty today, she pointed up the large wall in our bathroom and said "Where did the butterflies go?" We had some butterfly art in frames that we had just taken down the night before as a start to operation:We must pack quickly or die trying. I told her they were packed for the new house and we'd have to find a new space for them. The Dictator said "But Mom! They go on that wall in this bathroom! They will not look right somewhere else! We should put them back!"I could see the OCD wheels turning in her head, because I too, worry that they will not look right anywhere else. In the end a compromise was reached and we put one frame back up, because "The bathroom looked naked without pictures."
I'm anticipating that the Dictator and I are going to have many decorating wars in the new house.
I was also anticipating that the Dictator might have a hard time adjusting to the idea of moving, and may get stressed when we do relocate. My fears were somewhat put to rest today though when I overheard her talking to her fish "Belle". Who is a male fish. Who lives in a pink castle. It's a sad life for Belle.
She told Belle- "Belle! Guess what?! I get to move to a new house! I get to paint my room pink!! I can't wait! I hate my room! It's sooooo ugly! Now I don't have to sleep in it! I get to sleep in pink!"
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