Sure, it really is an honor just to be nominated, et cetera and so forth...

So, the ever-fantabulous Hartley, amazing author and tireless champion of parents with SPD/ASD/special needs kiddos, has a little awards shindig going on over at her blog.  Nominations have been going on for the past few days, and I just received the news that my blog has been nominated for an SPD Blogger Award!!  In the category for "Humorous Blog" no less! (I've checked out the competition and it is fierce, *gulp*!)

This is literally the first good thing to happen to me this year so far.  Yes, I know we're not even 3 weeks into 2011 but so far? It has bitten the big one.  We're in the midst of another major battle with the school district regarding Kiddo's current IEP and have further heard that it is 99.9999999999999% sure that Kiddo will not be granted an aide for next year (or ever again after this year) when her CSE meeting rolls around in March.  Kiddo has now been examined by a pediatric pulmonologist, who confirmed what her pediatrician has been suspecting for several months now - Kiddo has asthma, and with the relatively "late" onset of symptoms, it is likely that she will have asthma for the rest of her life (as opposed to kids who have it as toddlers and then outgrow it).  Have you ever seen a major sensory seeker on not one but two asthma meds simultaneously?  Holy bouncing off the walls, Batman!  We're working out an appropriate med regime that controls the inflammation with the least amount of disruption to her life, but the working out phase involves dealing with issues like difficulty falling asleep/restless sleep and other fun stuff like that.  (If you think a major sensory seeker hopped up on two stimulant asthma meds is a scary enough sight, add to that a lack of adequate rest and we have a new horror movie franchise in the making.)  On top of that, Kiddo has just been more challenging than usual behaviorally.  I won't go into details, but she was Majorly Grounded for almost a week, which effectively killed our wedding anniversary date night out plans (and on top of that, it's never fun to have to be the Grounding Enforcer/Prison Warden anyhow).  Last but not least, she's been sick for more days this January than not, so we're stuck inside with playdates and birthday parties falling by the wayside thanks to those evil, evil germies.  (Side note: someone told me that the odd years are always more challenging than the even years.  Six was pretty dang delightful around here, especially in light of how seven has been.  I'm willing to believe that at this point, especially if it gives us a light at the end of a tunnel that will only go another 5 months... Anyone else ever hear that one?)

So, like I said, 2011? Not the best year so far.  (Isn't this the big Mayan Apocalypse year?  Are all these issues actually harbingers of the impending doom - and if so, where the heck are Dean and Sam and Castiel when I need them?  Will I start dreaming of Phyllis Diller again?  Did I mention that coming up in December, I turn the big 4-0?  Isn't that bad enough for one year in and of itself?)  

But... then I received the news from Hartley that I've been nominated for an SPD Blogger Award - and it's a MAJOR AWARD, you know.  I'm hoping the prize looks something like this:

And yes, it's just an honor just to be nominated, especially since I didn't nominate myself - someone out there likes me!  But then again, if you really do like me, please drop by the voting page starting tomorrow at 6am and help me stuff the ballot box, mmmmkay?  I mean, George Clooney and Hugh Jackman have presented Oscars and Golden Globes before, so what if it's one of them presenting the SPD Blogger Awards?  Do you want to be the one to make me miss out on that?  Let's reverse the trend of craptastictude for 2011 by landing me a Major Award!

I promise I'll mention you in my acceptance speech - maybe even give you a shout-out from the red carpet when Ryan Seacrest stops me to find out who I'm wearing..... "Microfleece yoga pants from Target, Ryan, of course!  Mind the sparks, now..."

In which the kid breaks the house

Kiddo has been fortunate enough to have her own bathroom since we moved to this house.  We've been fortunate in that regard as well; it is really, really nice to not have to share a shower/tub with eighty zillion dinosaurs, Barbies, rubber duckies and other assorted tub toys, especially given the issues such tub toys and my nearsightedness have had in the past.

Anyhow, in Kiddo's bathroom (which is also the one used by any overnighting guests), there are three towel bars.  Two of them are on the walls in front of and next to the toilet and the third is in the tub area itself.  All three towel bars are set fairly high on the walls - she has to reach up to touch them.


Kiddo decided, shortly after moving in and beginning to use her bathroom, that it would be a most brilliant plan indeed to hang on the towel bars and/or the end pieces between which the bar itself is held.  Hubby and I both explained to her, on the several occasions in which we caught her in the act, that not only was this as far from a brilliant plan as possible, but it could cause serious damage to herself and the walls and she was (obviously) Strictly Forbidden from doing it, EVER.

Within the first year of living here, she managed to snap one towel bar - after several of the above warnings - and a second towel bar is now dangling loosely (of course she claimed no knowledge of how that happened) on the wall.  Clearly, our Strict Forbidding was only working for those moments when we were actually, physically in the bathroom with her to glare admonishingly while she was reaching up for the bars.  Hubby replaced the one bar and the second continues to dangle a bit precariously, while the third - the one in the tub itself - remained whole.


Around 5:45 yesterday evening (afternoon?), Kiddo went up to take a shower.  I started it for her, made sure the liner part of the curtain was inside the tub and then came downstairs.  Not one full minute later, there was a most tremendous crashing and clattering sound, followed immediately by  "MOOOOOOOOOOM!  I DIDN'T MEAN TO BUT I BROKE THE *incoherent sobbing*" that had Hubby and me racing upstairs.


Now, Hubby and I are lacking in the CSI type equipment with which to reconstruct the crime scene.  We have none of the fancy lasers or the fingerprint dusting kits or the swabs and chemicals to test with, but I'm sure if we did they'd have been positive for shenanigans, along with second grader-sized fingerprints and DNA all over the place.  Even without Grissom and his crew, we were able to deduce what had happened within the first few seconds.  Kiddo had apparently decided (once again!) to hang off the towel bar in the tub.  The towel bar that is made of the same substance as the tiles on the wall.  The towel bar that was one, molded piece.  The towel bar that was not just affixed to the wall, but actually into the wall.  We were able to deduce this because we found Kiddo standing in the tub, covered in bits of broken tile, grout and drywall, screaming and crying her head off, the shower still on full blast with the liner now out of the tub so that water was spraying onto the floor, the towel bar in pieces on the tub floor and bathroom floor and several shattered tiles in the tub and on the floor as well.  (Her living daylights, wits and bejezus, however, were nowhere to be found, because clearly she'd scared them completely out.)  Where the towel bar once hung there was naught but a gaping hole, minus several of the goldenrod tiles that had been there mere moments before.


I immediately turned the shower off, grabbed a towel and picked Kiddo up out of the disaster area, carrying her into our bathroom while Hubby dealt with the disaster area itself.  As I carefully picked bits of broken tile and drywall out of her hair and checked her over for injuries (none, thankfully), she began her Ultra-Super-Duper Symphony of Remorse, key of B♭ minor.  Sample lyrics include

"I am so, so, so, so, so, so, soooo ashamed" 
and its counterpoint
"I am so, so, so, so, so, so, soooo sorry" (repeat ad nauseum)

"I didn't mean to do it."


It was the "I didn't mean to do it" that helped me most to not just melt into a puddle of goo in the face of the full-on Remorse Symphony (complete with tear-filled, big brown eyes and quivering lower lip, not to mention an expression of abject sorry).  Because, as Hubby and I both tried to explain to her, it wasn't so much that she didn't mean to do it, but rather that she didn't mean to get caught.  She wasn't accidentally playing Nadia Comaneci using the towel bar while mid-shower.  She wasn't standing under the spray, industriously shampooing when all of a sudden an unseen being propelled her hands up and onto the towel bar.  She wasn't suddenly surrounded by prehistoric piranhas who came shooting out of the showerhead, forcing her to jump up and cling to the bar as her only means of escape.

Nope, she decided to disregard not only the many Strict Forbiddings and the historical precedent of Kiddo Swings/Flexed-Arm Hangs from Towel Bar, Towel Bar Breaks.  She was hanging from the towel bar because she darn well wanted to, and the 45 year old towel bar decided it had had quite enough of *that* thankyouverymuch and came flying off the wall, shattering as it went.


By the time I'd gotten Kiddo taken care of and deposited her, sniffling and weeping and still singing the Remorse Symphony, into her bedroom, Hubby had cleaned up the mess in her bathroom, which included at least an inch of water on the floor.  I fixed dinner for Kiddo and then put her to bed.  I also levied the consequence of her actions upon her: No puppy next year.  (Now, please note we hadn't actually ever said with 100% certainty that we were getting a puppy next year.  All we'd said in the Puppy Quest matter - Kiddo's nearest and dearest, most fervent and passionate wish is to get a puppy and another kitten, but really, she'd make do with our current cat so long as there was a puppy on the scene - was that we wouldn't be getting one this year.  Kiddo extrapolated in her extremely optimistic way that this meant we'd be getting the puppy next year for sure.  We hadn't specifically disabused her of that notion, though in the back of the grown-ups' minds, a puppy was far from a sure thing next summer.  Now, however, there is no doubt - there will be no puppy in 2011.  This is by far the most serious and dire punishment we could give to Kiddo.)  We had a talk about listening to one's parents and how Daddy and Mommy don't just arbitrarily make up rules because we can, but because we do, in fact, know what is best in terms of keeping Kiddo safe, sound, healthy and happy.  (Okay, yeah, I know, sometimes we do just make up rules because we can, but hey, isn't that one of the hard-won perks of being a parent, to enact the Because I Said So! rule?)


Hubby did some research on the repair job our new hole in the wall is going to require.  Now, the bathroom is on the (exhaustingly lengthy) list of Rooms to Be Renovated.  However, it isn't next or even next-to-next on the list.  So, we don't really have the energy, enthusiasm or budget for tackling a full-on renovation in there right now, which would include removing all the heinous, goldenrod tile and retiling both the tub/shower area and the floor, along with stripping the hideous, 60s-butterfly-n-sunflower wallpaper, replacing fixtures (which will likely involve a lot of rewiring as well) and replacing the faux-marble-with-gold-veins countertop with an actual vanity.  We don't even have the energy or enthusiasm to just tackle the tub/shower portion of that project right now.  So, Hubby is going to try to patch the hole in the wall (we can see clear through to the studs - yowza) and then put in replacement tiles (which won't actually match the goldenrod ones, but such is life - the new tiles will serve as a reminder to Kiddo of What She Did, I suppose) and regrout everything.  It isn't like we could really make that bathroom any uglier, anyhow, and that way it will be functional (albeit minus one towel bar) again.


So, thus concludes the saga of how we became a real life Hole in the Wall Gang, courtesy of one relatively small seven year old breaking the house.  I was heartened by the comments on my previous post, especially the one in which someone else's child broke their house.  It's good to know that I'm not alone.  I just hope this is the last time we are faced with a hole in the house that isn't one of our own, purposeful making!

Well, I did say "24 hours" now, didn't I....

And those 24 hours of hell have apparently decided to go down fighting.

"Why Heather!" I hear you exclaim. "Didn't you go to bed hours ago, as soon as The Amazing Race ended, as per usual?"

Well, yes, I did plan to go to bed after watching one of my two favorite teams get Philiminated. I was in my jammies, in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and I heard Kiddo's door open.

Oh heck, thought I, PLEASE tell me she hasn't thrown up again.

Nope. Not barf.

"Mommy, my feet and ankles are SO itchy that I can't sleep and I can't stop scratching them!" says my poor, beleaguered child.

Indeed. I turned on the light in the hallway and I could instantly see the problem quite clearly.

Hives.

LOTS of hives.

EVERYWHERE from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

Angry, red, worsening-by-the-second hives.

I immediately dove into the very-well-organized-now,-thanks-to-the-house-showing-thing medicine chest and pulled out a bottle of Benadryl. Uh-oh, not much left in this one. Poured her a teaspoon from the dregs of the bottle and gave it to her and then settled her back into bed and went downstairs to check the package insert info for the antibiotic Kiddo's been taking since Friday night. You know, the antibiotic for the sinus infection that was gooing up her eyes (so they'd crust shut - like the worst pinkeye you've ever seen, but not pinkeye) and her nose and face that were generally a disgusting mess... An antibiotic she's taken once before with no bad reactions. So, I pulled out the info sheet and whaddya know, hives could constitute a "severe allergic reaction" to this med.

Fanfreakingtastic.

I called up the after-hours answering service at 9:51. Well, *most* adults are still awake at this point, right? I mean, this isn't like I'm calling at 2 in the morning... Yes, I am rationalizing the decision to call the doctor to myself, don't ask me why. That's what they're there for, right? I explained the situation to the lady and she said "Oh YES, that is something the doctor will call you back for IMMEDIATELY!" Hmmm. I tried not to panic as I waited for the doctor to call back.

In doctor terms, as it turns out, "IMMEDIATELY!" equates to roughly 13 minutes. Not that I was counting. I used the meantime to go back upstairs and check on the hives situation. Still NOT good - even Kiddo's eyelids are hived over. I asked her questions to see if this is getting anaphylactic but she didn't report any itching in her mouth or throat and her tongue and lips weren't swelling. Finally, finally, the phone rings back.

It's Doctor Crotchety McGrump, he of the infamous Splinter Removal incident. Excellent. From the sounds of it, he went to bed as soon as Andy Rooney signed off, though maybe it's just that he always sounds that grouchy or maybe he remembers Kiddo, her volume level and her fierce kicking skillz. I didn't know and I didn't care. I gave him the rundown and he confirmed that yes, in fact, this does sound like a "severe allergic reaction" to the amoxicillin, even though Kiddo's been taking it for 2 days now. He tells me the hives could very well continue for another 3 to 4 days (!!) and she might also experience some swelling in her ankles, knees and any other joints (!!!) and I am to discontinue the antibiotic immediately (duh) and call the office in the morning for a new scrip. Oh, and I might have to add a second antihistamine to the Benadryl, too. I mused aloud about her returning to school tomorrow after hearing about all this and got an earful from Doc McGrump about how "Well, if she's itchy and uncomfortable, is she really going to LEARN anything?" Yeah, thanks for your two cents there, Doctor Spock. He does go on to suggest keeping her cool and lightly dressed and to use cool compresses as needed to help minimize the discomfort.

I hung up the phone and changed Kiddo out of her fleece jammies into a pair from last summer that were wedged at the way back of her pajama drawer. They're a little on the small side but not too tight, so we went with them. I got Kiddo re-settled into bed again (and by now the hives were abating a bit - at least her face was looking less red) and did a more thorough check of the medicine cabinet. Nope, those three drops are all we have left. I preceded to wake Hubby up to explain the situation, some of which he'd gathered from hearing the phone ring and my end of the conversation, and though he was dubious about an allergic reaction setting in two days later, he agreed to keep an ear out for Kiddo as I headed over to Walmart for another bottle of Benadryl.

Let me just pause in my tale of woe here for a brief moment to point out that even in my not-really-suited-for-going-out-in-public attire (stretched out, raggedy old yoga pants, a holey, oversized t-shirt that comes down almost to my knees, with a paint-spattered sweatshirt thrown over for decency's sake, blue crew socks I grabbed off the floor, beat up brown leather clogs and a sage green barn jacket to complete the ensemble), I was not the strangest dressed person at our local Walmart at 10:20 this evening. I didn't even rate a second look. Wow.

Anyhow, I grabbed a bottle of Benadryl and the other antihistamine too, since I was there. Of course I'll be back at a pharmacy tomorrow for Kiddo's new antibiotic, but whatever.

And here I am, home again, home again, jiggety jig. I'm totally wired now, and want to wait until it is time to give Kiddo her next breathing treatment with the inhaler (Doc McGrump said to continue that every 4 hours and that it might help with the hives, too) so I turned my computer back on and plunked myself down to whinge away on my blog.

In summary, OY!! Can this 24 hours PLEASE end SOON? I can't believe I'm looking forward to it being MONDAY. Bleargh! I just really, really hope that this reaction isn't indicative of a penicillin allergy, and instead was just because she's on a really strong dose (which was prescribed so she'd only need to take it twice a day, instead of a lesser dose 3 or 4 times a day). Penicillin allergies are a pain in the neck - I was allergic to penicillin as a kid but outgrew it, myself. So, fingers crossed this was an isolated incident and Kiddo is feeling much less itchy in the morning!!

/whinge

What's a sick mom gotta do to get some sympathy?

So, I've been sick. I think it may be the flu. It's miserable, whatever it is - a fever topping out in the 102 range, killer headache, body aches and nausea. Oh, the vomiting. So very, very NOT fun. Yesterday, I was a total disaster and collapsed in bed as soon as Hubby walked through the door at 5:30, leaving him to finish all the Kiddo nightly routine - bath, dinner and bedtime - and then to tackle our joint to-do list all on his own. Have I mentioned Hubby is totally my hero? But I digress......

Anyhow, earlier on, as I seemed to be recovering, Kiddo wrote me the following sweet and heartwarming note:



(Translation: Mom, I hope your cold feels better soon. I love you so much. I don't want you to get sick again please.) Awwwwww.

Alas, however, this level of sympathy did not last long. After days of ingesting nothing more than ginger ale and the occasional Tylenol (with varying levels of "remaining in the system long enough to work"), I went a little crazy today and ate a handful of saltines around noon. I quickly paid the price for such folly, spending the rest of the afternoon alternating between painting the primer coat on the walls of various closets, cleaning windows and racing to the upstairs bathroom to throw up. What was the next note I was handed?



(Translation: DO NOT throw up again PLEASE!)

Like I'm throwing up because I enjoy it so much. Sheesh. To make matters worse, as I'm in the bathroom retching, Kiddo is alternately trying to peer into the bowl over my shoulder and see what there is to see (which: Ew.) and then loudly proclaiming "THAT'S DISGUSTING! EW Mommy's BARFING and it is SO DISGUSTING!!" to me and the world at large.

Not fair. Let me tell you, I have wiped off/up and/or removed seriously nasty secretions from my beloved child, and never, in the throes of her moment of need, did I either proclaim DISGUSTING! or write her a chastising note. (Okay, maybe I said something to Hubby or my mom or sisters on the phone later, or even took to my blog to decry the foulness, but NEVER have I said anything remotely of that level of truth in the moment, while Kiddo was sick.)

No sympathy at all. Humph.

In other news, we're presently on schedule to have Paintathon '09 finished up (with the exception of a bit of trim work) by Monday night, despite my present condition and lack of stamina to wield a paint roller for any significant duration. This, again, is mainly due to Hubby the hero and his crazy late nights/early mornings of house-related work around his regular, full-time job, which is in a tough industry that makes his days a far cry from a picnic on the beach of late. We've got carpet dudes coming in this week so all our wall-to-wall will be spiffy and sparkly and fluffy, and we're meeting with the realtor again at the end of the week with a target date of March 2nd for listing the house. To which I say HOORAY! I may even celebrate by attempting to drink some chicken broth, now that I haven't barfed in almost six hours..........................

*sigh* not with a bang, but a whimper

I'm too tired and drained this morning to yell and scream. Too upset to run to my proverbial brick wall and start banging my head anew. Instead, a small whimper: "No. Why?! Dammit."

Kiddo's sensory diet aide? The one she loves, her teachers love, most importantly of all, the one Kiddo loves? Is leaving.

No. Why?! Dammit.

You may recall I mentioned that she is a grad student working on her master's degree in psychology. Well, apparently her school schedule has changed and starting in February, she needs to be on campus three afternoons a week, which would mean leaving Kiddo's school by noon three days a week, which doesn't work.

No. Why?! Dammit.

The principal informed me of this (including the fact that the aide was supposedly hysterically crying when she spoke with the principal about it because she's upset to be leaving and she "loves" Kiddo) after the PTA meeting last night. (The PTA meeting, by the by, that went way, way long. Like "cut into Lost viewing" long. Grrr.) She said that she'll start the ball rolling for interviewing new candidates and will be in touch.

No. Why?! Dammit.

Now, the principal also announced she is retiring at the end of this school year. (Which isn't really a surprise.) So, I'm fearing that she will have a bit of Lame Duck "senioritis" and not really be hustling on this. I mean, it took major drama to get her to hustle before, and that was when she was still supposed to care. (Yes, I know, she is still supposed to care. You know what I mean.)

No. Why?! Dammit.

We haven't told Kiddo yet. The aide will be here for "another few weeks" according to the principal. Kiddo is going to be VERY upset - she'd been upset with her aide just being out for the past few days due to bronchitis. This just sucks.

No. Why?! Dammit.

Who the heck is going to want a job from February to June? How many qualified, high-caliber people are really yearning for a position of that length?

No. Why?! Dammit.

*sigh*

So, no ranting and raving out of me today. Just sadness and grumpiness and whimpering. I've got tidying up to get done again as the first of the real estate agents we are interviewing is coming over this evening. (He was supposed to come last week but was sick, so we had to reschedule. Hence, this tidying up is the SECOND tidying up I've done in a week. Whee. Again - it isn't that the house isn't tidied up on a regular basis, but this was that *extra* tidying. You know what I mean.)

*whimper*

Think good thoughts

Okay gang, please think good thoughts for me today. The interviews for the four candidates interested in being Kiddo's sensory diet aide are this morning starting at 8:30, and then we have our first kindergarten parent-teacher conference tonight at 6:00. The headache that was at Level 4: Mildly Annoying when I went to bed at 9:30 last night, chock full o' drugs to kill it, instead morphed into Level 10: Major Migraine this morning. (If it goes to Level 11: a Spinal Tap Would be Preferable, I'm in serious trouble.) I've downed another handful of meds and ingested some caffeine for good measure. I'm a little shaky and the screen is seeming really bright (I know, WTH am I doing blogging then?) but I'm not feeling nauseous anymore and I can open both eyes at the same time without keeling over, so that's an improvement.

Oh how I hope these interviews go well and we find someone who will be a GREAT fit for the position. The school year is almost halfway over and we're still not where we should've been back on September 4th, and that probably isn't helping my headache any.

I'll let you know what happens later, if my skull hasn't exploded.

Happy Halloween!

(That'd be Kiddo with two of her three stuffed lions, Ectobert, the World's Only Yodeling Lion - he says "Yodel-ay-hee-ROAR!" - and Baby Simba. Daddy Simba didn't accompany us to the pumpkin patch this year.)

Now, it may be that I'm grumpy this morning because I'm sorer than I ought to be for my age - I feel closer to 87 than 37 and have been popping Advil like Skittles - after working the Fall Fun House obstacle course at Kiddo's school yesterday. (I caught kids coming down the zip line and set them on the ground for about 3 hours, held the edge of the cargo net "Spider Web" and spotted kids for about 1.5 hours, and also helped kids cross the "troll bridge" ladder for a bit.) I just feel the need to vent for a brief moment about Trick or Treating. You see, our house is in a small, child-filled neighborhood. I have NO problems handing out candy to small children. I love it, as a matter of fact - I have Hubby take Kiddo out ToTing specifically so I can stay home to hand out candy and oooh and aaah over the costumes. (And we do good candy here, too - name brand, good mix of options - this year we have Milk Duds, Starbursts, Whoppers, Snickers, Twix, Reese's PB cups, Three Musketeers and Kit Kats.) My big Halloween gripe is the folks who have no business ToTing coming around and expecting candy. Like the older kids (I'm talking teenagers) who don't even dress up, just turn up with a pillowcase and think they can get candy. Worse, the adults who bring around a pillowcase and claim to be ToTing for either an infant in a stroller (I mean *infant* as in tiny, little baby who has no ability or reason to be eating candy) or for a supposed "child back at home" - sometimes the teens do this one, too. "I'm ToTing for my sibling/niece/nephew who couldn't come out tonight." Apparently there are a large number of children who can't come out in person each year. Now, I ought to just put my foot down - only give out candy to the kids, and maybe I'm grumpy enough today that I will this year, but in past years, I've rolled my eyes but given out candy anyhow. Hubby insists that I hand the candy out and not let the children pick which one they want, as some kids don't honor the "one piece per kid" request and grab a large handful. (Lest you think we're total Halloween Grinches, we get a LOT of ToTers - we've had to go back to the store for more candy in previous years. This year I bought almost $20 worth of candy. That's a lot of freaking candy.)

So, this year as always, Hubby will take Kiddo out through our neighborhood, and I will stay home for the candy-handing-out. I'm really hoping this is the magical year that no non-costumed, older kids and/or adults come around... At any rate, once Kiddo is in bed (usually by 7:30) I turn off all the lights and stop answering the door anyway. Since this year Halloween is Friday, I may extend the candy-giving-out a little bit later, but by 9pm I'm definitely done no matter what.

What do you think? Doth the lady protest too much and I truly *am* a Halloween Grinch for begrudging teens and adults and "double baggers" who are ostensibly ToTing for someone else not present the extra candy? How old is too old for Trick or Treating? (My mom stopped us from going out after 8th grade. By then, there were other Halloween festivities we partook of anyhow.) How late do you plan to hand out candy tonight?

Grinch or no, I do sincerely wish everyone a fantabulous Halloween! Now I've got to get my little lion off to the school bus before I head back over to school myself for another round of the fun house, followed by her class party and the big costume parade! Woo-hoo!

Whatever the opposite of "Bright eyed and bushy tailed" is...

...I'm that this morning. (At least I *think* it is morning - all the clocks in the house tell me it is nigh on 6:30 in the a.m. but man, is it still the pitchest of black outside!)

Starting around 11:30 last night, the wind picked up. Ferociously. Apparently Mother Nature was in one baaaaaad mood. The wind whipping leaves and sticks and Halloween decorations up the street was enough to freak our cat the heck out. Now, she's crazy to begin with, and not the smartest feline ever to walk the face of the Earth. (I've lived with cats since I was a baby, so I have experience with both Smart Kitties and Dumb Kitties. As much as I adore our current cat, she is of the latter variety for sure.) I don't know if it was the addition of the fact that Hubby wasn't home that took her over the edge or what, but our cat was acting as if the apocalypse were upon us, yowling piteously at the top of her tiny lungs and tearing about the house, knocking things over in her mad scrambling.

As I am automatically one who, while normally I sleep like the dead, cannot sleep soundly when Hubby is away (this has been true since we first began cohabiting lo those many years ago) and who also thinks every noise heard is the band of Vicious Axe Murderers breaking in downstairs (or heck, even upstairs via the windows) when I'm home sans Hubby overnight, the cat's middle of the night antics were somewhat less appreciated than usual.

Then, what I had dreaded and feared most of all yesterday? It happened. Kiddo was awakened by some combination of Mother Nature's wind theatrics and the Crazy Cat's yowling antics and began calling out and crying. She wanted me to snuggle her. I wanted to get some shut-eye. Yep, I did it. I caved. She wound up in bed with me around 1:30. She's still there, sound asleep, sprawled perpendicularly across the bed with her head jammed under my pillow and ninety percent of the covers. Did I mention her Niagara Falls impression? Yeah, thought so.

To top everything else off, that witch Aunt Flo dropped by with a red-hot pitchfork aimed squarely at my lower abdomen and back. This meant the various Kiddo appendages that jammed their way into my body were merely competing to cause discomfort.

All total? I think I may have gotten three hours of sleep. Three. Hours. Me, who happily goes to bed no later than 10pm and doesn't get up until at the earliest, 5:30. Sometimes even 6:30. That equals a minimum of seven and a half hours of sleep that I usually get on any given night.

Three.

So, if you are startled by the sight of a bleary eyed zombie, hunched over and clutching her midsection, shuffling towards you and mumbling incoherently at the grocery store later today? Don't be alarmed. Hubby is going to be home (albeit late) tonight, and I will be back to my usual self tomorrow. I'm planning on going to bed pretty much when Kiddo does tonight - in separate rooms - and not getting up 'til morning! In the meantime, let's see if the one-two combo of Midol and Mountain Dew does anything to get my blood pumping, as I have to get Kiddo up and at 'em for school!

Step off, Jose Feliciano!

Earlier today, I was shopping at a discount store that shall remain nameless (but hint hint: its name rhymes with MallWart) and while heading over to the bath-n-beauty aisle where I was hoping to find a more inspiring toothbrush for Kiddo (more on that later), what to my wondering eyes did appear but an ENTIRE WALL of Christmas decorations. Let me say that again: Christmas decorations. Ornaments. Santas. Snowmen. Reindeer.

Seriously, MallWart, what the HECK? It isn't even OCTOBER yet. I shook my head in disgust and turned away from the display, heading into Land O' Dental Accoutrements. After finding, totally amazingly, a musical toothbrush that not only features Simba, Kiddo's most favoritest Disney character of ALL, but that plays her most favoritest song of all time from The Lion King and calling Hubby from the middle of the aisle to screech with glee over my discovery, I headed out the other end of the aisle - away from the ridonkulously early Christmas display - over towards the cat food aisle. Then, I heard it. Somewhere in that RECD, some animatronic Christmas Critter was having his button pressed and was dutifully belting out Feliz Navidad. Over and over again - clearly, some mother was letting her child repeatedly start Animatronic Christmas Critter's singing.

Now, I am a Christmas nut. Seriously. I *heart* Christmastime. I also love the more generically "winter" snowmen - I have a collection of various snowmen figurines, ornaments, mugs and assorted tchotchkes. I absolutely adore Christmas music (and am doing my darndest to ingrain a love for Christmas music in Kiddo, as well).

But.

First of all, let's skip over the fact that it was ANY Christmas song playing in SEPTEMBER, okay? I am pretty sure that even those other Christmas nuts out there like me will agree that SEPTEMBER is just way, way too early for Christmas stuff. Unless you live at the North Pole, which, while it may feel that way weather-wise here sometimes, we don't. I mean, the leaves are just starting to turn and the weather is juuuust starting to feel crisp. Let's further overlook the fact that a mere two aisles away from the Land o' Crazy Early Christmas, witches were cackling and black cat eyes were blinking and ghosts were wooooo-ing and Frankensteins were moaning from their rightful spot in Halloween World. Monster Mash and Thriller only have a limited window for airing each fall, so to hear them competing against the jingling bells and cheery strains of Christmas music was just dissonant and weird and wrong.

What I really want to get to here, however, is the song selection. You see, there are very few Christmas songs I dislike. I even have a certain fondness for Dominick the Christmas Donkey and Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer (which I hold dear more for the nostalgia factor, remembering the time my friend Da Nator and I translated the entire song into Spanish for a class assignment back in high school. Abuela fue aplastado por un ciervo..... Good times!) There actually are exactly two songs in the Christmas genre that I cannot stand. One of them is that piece of inexcusable dreck (complete with children's chorus) called The Christmas Shoes. (I want to barf just typing the name. I refuse to link to it. Google it if you want to expose yourself to the horror. I'm sure there is at least one treacly video someplace on YouTube. *shudder*)

The other song that, though it doesn't make me want to barf, does drive me utterly crazy? Yep, you guessed it - Feliz Navidad. The reason I can't stand it and that it drives me so crazy is that once I hear it, even the teensiest snippet, it embeds itself in my brain and won't. Get. OUT. I will wake up at night hearing it playing in my dreams. I will catch myself humming it without even realizing it. It is insidious and that makes it eeeeevil.

Every year, Hubby and I keep track of how close to Christmas we get before hearing Jose's little ditty of doom. Typically, it is sometime around the week of Thanksgiving, usually heard in a shopping mall or on a commercial someplace. (We have a "ban" on Christmas music in our house - Hubby long ago decreed that it may only be played between the day after Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. Kiddo and I have subsequently modified that rule to "may only be played in Hubby's hearing" and usually start listening to Christmas tunes shortly after Halloween.)

I cannot freaking believe that this year, I heard it on September freaking 29th.

Oh, and clearly, I am not the only one for whom this song works an insidious and evil magic, because over the next 20 or so minutes that I was wandering the aisles of MallWart, I passed no less than three people who were whistling Feliz Navidad as they shopped.

Nooooooooooooooo! Stop the madness! At least until November 1! Aieeeeee!

(You think I'm going crazy over nothing? Really? Then I dare you to click below. Go ahead. See if it doesn't get stuck in your head for the next three months. Mwah-ha-ha-ha-haaaaa!)

Boo hiss, Branta canadensis

Branta canadensis is the bane of my existence these days. What is that, you ask? (What, no ornithologists read my blog?) Here's a hint:


The above pictures were taken earlier this summer, back when the Canada goose population in our neighborhood was just beginning to burgeon with goslings. (Now that it's fall, my burning bushes are starting to burn and my lilies are pretty much done...) I know that many suburban areas are dealing with the annoyances of vast populations of Canada geese. In our area, there are three small ponds within a quarter mile, including one smack dab behind our property. This means that we don't just have flocks of geese, but hordes of them. It is a veritable plague of geese in our neighborhood. Every morning, the kiddo and I must tread carefully on our way to the corner, lest we step in a Canada Goose Land Mine. The sidewalks, streets and unfenced yards are strewn with goose droppings. The geese have also been known to hold up traffic by sauntering across the street, single file, hissing and flapping their wings at the cars they are blocking.

Now, I try to shrug off the holding up traffic; I realize that the adults lose their flight feathers during gosling season (though it seems they could do us the courtesy of hurrying it along when crossing the road - they are positively meandering and don't give a hoot - or a honk). I even try to frame the fecal extravaganza in positive terms - all that poop must make great fertilizer for the lawn (at least in our front yard; they don't go in our back yard thanks to the fence. Geese like to have a large, clear sightline in order to land, so the fence keeps them out quite handily.)

The reason I'm so anti-Branta canadensis comes from one, simple thing. These birds are LOUD. Not just the honking, though that woke Hubby and me up again well before our alarm clock this morning, but also from when they make a water landing. Graceful, these birds are not! Now, we have a few gray and white herons that visit our pond regularly - gawky birds with massive, pterodactyl-like wingspans. The herons' wings are so large that you can hear them beating the air, helicopter-rotor-like, when they fly over, whump whump whump. But when they touch down in the pond, there's nary a splish. Not so much the geese. They sound like someone is gluing large cats to frozen turkeys, then tossing them into the pond from a great height. THUNKsplashsplashsplashsplash, and of course HONKING all the while. The noise is quite disconcerting and loud enough to rouse one from a deep sleep. It sounds like someone is fighting a sea monster there in our back yard.



or

? Hard to say...........

"Well, Heather," you say, "at least the geese are migratory. Won't they be gone soon?" Nope. Can't even cling to that hope. These geese are here until well after the pond's frozen over solid. (That is an even more disturbing sound than the water landing - a mess of geese all trying to land in the same, small spot of unfrozen water.)

So, this is why I'm grumpy this morning, because we were once again woken up before 5am by the clamoring ruckus of the Canada geese. Mother Nature is one evil witch sometimes, let me tell you!

Burning question: What would you do?

Say you're at a car wash, one of the places where a real, live person towel-dries your car by hand when you're through the automated part. Say you intend to tip that person a buck, as is customary. After you roll down your window and hand the kid the dollar, he thanks you profusely. It is at this point that you look over at what you've handed the kid and realize you didn't give him a single, but rather a higher bill.

What do you do? Do you ask for it back? Let him keep the inadvertently generous tip? Ask for change? Would you let him keep it if it were a $5? A $10? A $20?

I witnessed this exact thing happen earlier this afternoon at my local car wash. I'll tell you what the man in the actual situation did, but first I'm curious as to what others would do in the same scenario...

Shaking off the funk

As you know if you read my last post, I'm not having a very good week. Today didn't dawn much better - oversleeping after a bad night's rest, a grumpy kid who pitched a fit over Mean Mommy making her drink her milk (MILK! For breakfast! Can you imagine? The horror!), the cat gacking hairballs up on the carpet in hard-to-see-but-easy-to-step-on-with-bare-feet places, then my bare feet, already insulted by cat barf-covered hairballs, being further injured by attempting to navigate the length of Kiddo's room, which is a veritable minefield of dinosaurs and safari animals chock full of pointy, sharp bits en route to feeding the Carny Goldfish Assassin Wannabe... Yeah, by 7:30 it really wasn't shaping up to be a good day. I managed to get the kiddo off to the bus stop with breakfast (however reluctantly) consumed, face washed, teeth and hair brushed and then I came back to the house (already appreciating the silence - no more tears upon her leaving) intending to curl up at the computer for a bit with a cinnamon roll and some hot chocolate (breakfast of champions!) until it is time to head over to school to do Kiddo's sensory diet. And....my computer decides to stop working. Just temporarily, it isn't actually broken, just everything stopped responding and froze right the heck up. ARGH!

That was enough to plunge my mood from "cranky" to "foul" and that just won't do!! I must shake off this funk - I hate stomping about in a bad mood (especially when the carpet is riddled with hairballs and pointy-edged, plastic critters). So, instead of heaving my computer through the window (think if I did that, Hubby would buy me a new one? Probably not, besides, I have approximately one gazillion photos on the hard drive I'd need to move over before it went flying...) I restarted and headed over to Youtube for a little help from one of my favorite comedic geniuses, the fantabulous Eddie Izzard. In case you are unfamiliar with him, let me share with you how he feels my pain on the whole computer thing:

(Warning: there is language in this clip that is well outside of this blog's typically PG/PG-13 bounds. There are F bombs aplenty. If you have delicate ears and/or children in the vicinity, do not click play.)



I feel better now. Okay, it was watching that plus eating a handful of Swedish fish that were calling to me from their bag next to my computer, but I'm gonna go with it - whatever works, right? At least I'm smiling, red-stained teeth notwithstanding. (Note to self: brush teeth again before heading over to school.)

Princessification = a whole lot of glitter

Before I go any further, I feel obliged to give a disclaimer: I am a very conservative parent. Really square, strict, old-fashioned, stodgy, uptight. I freely admit this. For example, my five year old has never watched High School Musical or Camp Rock and doesn't know who Hannah Montana or the Jonas Brothers are. She's never seen a PG rated film and even several "classic" G rated ones yet either. I am very stringent in what I feel is appropriate for her, more so than most of the rest of the parents of five year olds from what I can tell... It may be naive, but I believe in preserving the innocence of childhood as long as humanly possible, even if the larger world will be invariably crashing into our more innocent life soon enough now that Kiddo is starting elementary school. It just seems to me that kids grow up way, way too fast these days and there's plenty of time to worry about grown-up things, and precious little time to just be a kid.

That being said, the kiddo was invited to a birthday party that totally goes against everything I believe is appropriate for a five year old, and we went to it today. It was a "Perfect Princess Ball" party held at a children's salon and spa over on the ritzy side of town. Needless to say, I had reservations from the get-go, when the birthday girl's mother was first describing the party to me, but the kiddo overheard her and was really, really excited at the prospect, so I said she could go. It wasn't until this morning, mere hours before the party, that I googled the name of the salon to find out its exact location and clicked on the link for the party that I really started getting icked out. Hubby looked over my shoulder at the website's description of the party and rolled his eyes, but at that point it wasn't like I was going to tell Kiddo we weren't going, so off we went, me with teeth gritted in advance.

I'm happy to say that it wasn't as bad as I expected. Well, actually it kinda was, but I exerted influence wherever possible to make it less Jon-Benet and more "oh this is fun if not exactly age-appropriate" in terms of the makeup and nail polish.

Yes, makeup and nail polish. The party started by each girl picking out her princess gown - Kiddo immediately and unequivocally decided upon the Cinderella gown (which is odd because she's never professed any specific favoritism among the Disney princesses, though when pushed she'll name Ariel, Cindy, Jasmine and Belle ALL as her equal favorites). Good thing they had multiples of the various gowns because I think four of the seven girls chose the same, pink gown (I think it was the Sleeping Beauty gown..?). Then after the moms helped the girls change into the princess gowns, they each had hair, makeup and manicures done. (Yes I am throwing up a little in my mouth to say that 3, 4 and 5 year olds were having manicures.) There is one official "Princess Up do" that is done at this salon and fortunately all the girls had long enough hair to accomplish the style. (Had I been an attendee at such a party in my childhood, I wouldn't have been able to have the up do as I always had short hair. I guess they just would've glitter sprayed me and been done with it and I am sure I would've been sorely disappointed.) Once the hair was secured in the official Princess coiffure, it was shellacked to the nth degree with spray-on glitter. Kiddo chose gold, but silver was also an option, and one could probably have grabbed a ball of glitter out of the air when all heads were duly sprayed. Then it was on to the makeup and nails chair, with more teeth gritting on my part... I gently steered Kiddo away from the Eff-Me Red nail polish that was her first pick to the clearish-light pink glitter polish. The girl doing her nails was shocked that by the ripe, old age of five, Kiddo had never had a manicure. (I have put polish on her toenails, but never on her fingernails yet. It just never seemed necessary, somehow... Also, I'm not a mani-pedi kind of chick myself. I've had exactly two manicures in my life - other than doing my nails myself - once for my wedding and once when I was going to be on Jeopardy.) Then it was time for the makeup application - again, I steered Kiddo away from the "Brooke Shields in Pretty Baby" or "Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver" colors. Kiddo opted for a light, light pinkish eyeshadow and blush and blue (!) glitter lip gloss that actually looked mostly clear though still quite glittery once it was on her lips. Then the girls got their "Princess glitter stars" on their cheeks, which were applied via a tool that strongly resembled a branding iron (!!) and they were ready for the catwalk.

Yes, I kid you not - a catwalk. Kiddo referred to it as a "stage" as did the other girls, but it was in fact a catwalk. The girls did a few group dances, like the Hokey Pokey and the Limbo (under a fuchsia, feather boa, of course) and then were all given their Magic Princess wands and taught the three things they needed to know to be princesses: How to wave, how to wave their wand and how to curtsy. Once they were officially schooled in all things Princess, they lined up behind the beaded curtain and one by one were called forth to walk onto the catwalk - erm, I mean stage - and be crowned and sprinkled liberally with "fairy dust" (because seriously, there may have been entire centimeters of the girls left uncovered with glitter at this point). While they did their walk-n-wave post-crowning, one of the assistants read off information gathered during the hair and makeup portion of events.

For Kiddo, she said this:

Introducing Princess Kiddo from the Kingdom of OurTown. Princess Kiddo's number one kingdom rule is to always have fun and play together. Princess Kiddo's favorite royal activity in the castle is playing with her safari animals and if she could have a royal pet, she would have a royal puppy.

(A lot of the other girls said their number one castle rule was No Boys Allowed which is something I am guessing they were prompted into a bit by the salon assistant... I don't think these girls are quite at the "boys have cooties" age yet, are they? Kiddo certainly isn't - she loves playing with boys and girls equally. A kid is a kid is a kid to her...)

After the crowning ceremony was over and all the girls had their marabou-trimmed tiaras firmly planted upon their glitter-bedecked up dos, the princess posse posed for their group photo (we were all given keepsake copies in a cardboard frame) and then had to change back out of their gowns before cupcakes (topped with about 4 inches of pink icing and sprinkles - perfection on a plate in Kiddo's opinion), juice boxes and present opening. Then, hyped up on sugar and with clouds of glitter wafting all around, we were released back into the wild, where the kiddo was probably visible from outer space due to her copiously beglittered state reflecting in the sunshine. Whew.

So, not as wholly inappropriate as I'd feared it would be, but still not my number one pick for a birthday party. Kiddo informed me that she enjoyed the "puffer" the most, as we were heading for home. I asked her what she meant and she said when the girl put the pink stuff on her cheeks to make them puffy. Ah, puffer, right. She also enjoyed dancing in the big dress (and seriously, what little girl doesn't enjoy spinning around in a full skirt? I know that was always my sisters and my favorite thing to do as kids in our Sunday best) and being a princess and wants to have her next birthday party there (of course). I'm just hoping she'll forget alllll about it by the time next May rolls around! I guess I'm glad we didn't just not go, but boy, not exactly my cup of parental tea. I was a little bit concerned when she wouldn't stop talking about the makeup and hair and was insisting on not washing it off or undoing the up do when we first arrived home, but then after a couple of hours (during which time she played with her safari animals while dressed in her Snow White gown out of her dress-up trunk) she grew tired of it and wanted her hairdo undone. It took some serious scrubbing in the tub, but she was mostly glitter-free by the time she went to bed. I'm still coated - collateral damage from the princessification...

Noooooooooo!

This is NOT the news I wanted to wake up to this morning!

Though I suppose that it will give me extra time to get a sitter lined up...

"This is going to hurt me more than it will you."

That's one of those things parents say to their kids, usually when doling out some punishment that invariably seemed like it had to be much more painful to the kid in question, and that kid could never imagine how this punishment could possibly be worse for the grown-up involved.

Well, tonight was one of those "This is going to hurt me more than it will you" moments for me. The trouble occurred during gymnastics today. Now, she had been doing pretty well prior to this class with sitting still, listening to the teachers, all that good stuff. (I was asked to stay and observe for the entire session, unlike the other parents who were requested to leave after dropping their kid(s) off, I think mostly because the teachers, two college-aged girls, were uncomfortable with having a kid with SPD - especially Type I, the Sensory Modulation Disorder type - without extra supervision in the class. Granted, I'm 99.99% sure that their entire knowledge of SPD comes from the minute and a half talk I had with them on the first day; they brushed me off at the time but I think it made them nervous nonetheless.) We always talk in the car on the way to gymnastics about how if Kiddo doesn't behave, we will leave.

I want to digress for a moment here to talk about how we discipline in our family. The discipline system that has worked best for us has been the 1-2-3 Magic system. If you aren't familiar (and I do highly recommend it because it works so well for us) basically, the child gets to a count of three to modify their behavior, and if they don't make the needed adjustment, game over at three. Some offenses are an immediate "three" and the child doesn't get a second and third chance to correct. A typical consequence is an immediate time out, or else the ending of whatever activity was going on at the time of the three count. We also talk a lot about choices and consequences - Kiddo can choose to behave one way or another, and the consequences of each choice are X or Y. Nothing revolutionary, but it works for us. Additionally, I should mention that we are not a corporal punishment family. We have never, ever struck the kiddo and do not intend to ever do so. (I suppose I should further note that my parents did believe in spanking, and did spank us when they felt the situation warranted.) We began using 1-2-3 Magic at our pediatrician's suggestion when Kiddo was in the throes of some very Terrible Twos, and it improved behavior quite dramatically. So, 1-2-3 Magic has been our main system of discipline for almost 3 years now.

Anyhow, the kiddo missed class last week because of the head lice situation, so she'd had a disrupted routine. Now, consistency is key for most children, I daresay, and I know for an absolute fact that it is extremely important to a sensory processing disordered kid like Kiddo. She also had an incident at her summer program this morning - another child pushed her into a pile of mud, water and goat poop, getting her quite muddy and upset - and she had generally been a bit cranky regardless of anything else. So, we had the odds a bit stacked against us even as we walked into the Y.

The kiddo was not doing a great job at controlling herself from the moment we got out of the car - she was pretty hyped up. Despite our pre-class talk (during which she "Yes Mommy"ed me repeatedly) and my strict reminder that she needed to stay calm and quiet before class started, she took off running as soon as we entered the gymnasium. Uh-oh. I spoke with her twice in the 4 minutes before class started, warning her each time that she needed to stay calm and focused or we'd be out of there.

Do you see where this is going? *sigh*

It completely didn't help matters that some of the other kids in the class were utterly misbehaving today, either. They were messing around, goofing off instead of sitting quietly in their "butterfly" positions and watching the teachers. There are a few kids in particular who always goof off, and I've spoken with Kiddo about how she should just stay away from them instead of letting them suck her in to the misbehavior. (I know, wishful thinking...) Today, the teachers were giving out the consequence of missing turns and the kiddo missed two turns for goofing around in the first half of class. I went over after the second time she was skipped over and spoke with her again. This time I started a count and told her if she hit three, we were leaving.

With about five minutes left to go, the class was at the balance beam, which is close to where I was sitting (with a lot of the other parents - the side of the gym was full of folks waiting to collect their kids at the end of class). Kiddo got up from where she'd been told to sit, moved over and sat down next to this other little girl who is generally a huge instigator of bad behavior and then looked over at me, all "Ha ha, what are YOU going to do about it?" as I glared. Sure enough, the second the kiddo's butt hit the mat, the other little girl started pushing Kiddo and generally roughhousing. I called over to Kiddo that this was TWO. She looked at me, snorted and went back to roughhousing. I stood up menacingly, in that Mean Mommy way. She pretended not to see me. By this point the other little girl was leaning into Kiddo's face and blowing on her, hard. Kiddo looked over to see if I was watching - and I was, and still standing as well. Then she leaned over and began blowing a spitty sort of raspberry with her tongue sticking out at the other girl.

Oh no, she didn't.......... Yep, she did. I walked over to her, bent down and said "You are on TWO. You need to behave RIGHT NOW or we are leaving." (Yes, there were only about 4 minutes left in class at this point - Kiddo wasn't aware of that.) In response, she rolled her eyes, stuck her tongue out AT ME and told me with her most major Junior Wiseass attitude "You go AWAY, Mom." She then proceeded to continue blow/spit at the other little girl, who was cracking up and totally egging her on.

Oh NO she didn't... I told her "That's it. That's three. Stand up, we're going."

And this is the point at which this particular disciplinary consequence began to hurt me more than it hurt her. You see, the kiddo doesn't get embarrassed by her extreme behavior. Not even in hindsight. (Boy, I hope that age - the age of being embarrassed in front of her peers - comes soon.) She immediately began screaming at me "I'm not leaving! I want to stay and have FUN with my FRIENDS. You go away, Mommy!" and then in almost the same breath, added "I want a last chance! I'll cooperate!"

This is where that split second of "Oh man, it would just be so much easier to cave in and give her another last chance" ran through my head. We were right in the middle of the gym, the kiddo was squalling loudly, eyes were riveted to the drama, and I was fairly certain that if I did relent, the kiddo would toe the line for those last, few minutes of class.

But.

Relenting is so, so not the right parenting call, right? I will admit, there have been times when Hubby and I both have caved a bit and given her "one last chance" (so, essentially, going to four instead of three, by repeating the "two" count) but this was not going to be one of those times. Kiddo had been disrespectful to me and to her class. The screaming was entirely uncalled for (oh ha ha ha...) and the telling me to go away plus sticking her tongue out at me was also completely unacceptable, and Kiddo knows that darn well. Furthermore, she knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that spitting at anyone is never, ever okay.

So, with grim determination, I hustled her off the floor and over to the bench where her sandals were sitting next to my purse. She decided to kick things up a few notches and began screaming even louder. At this point the entire gym was frozen, except for the reverberations of her screeches around the cavernous space. All eyes on us. I stayed utterly calm and kept my voice low. Kiddo broke away and made a dash for the mat, sticking out her tongue at me and telling me "NO, I'm going back with my friends now!" I caught her before she'd made it more than two feet. I calmly gave her the choice of putting on her sandals herself or having me do it. She snatched a sandal out of my hand and threw it at me.

I then gathered up the sandals and my purse and picked her up. This began the walk that always seems so much longer when one has a tantruming child... that walk past all the collected onlookers. I did catch a few sympathetic glances among the "Huh, that lady sure is nuts" looks. Whatever, I'm not parenting to impress y'all, Looky-Loos, I'm parenting my child in the hopes that she will grow up to be a kind and respectful sort of person. We got out into the hallway, Kiddo still yelling bloody murder, and I set her down on a bench to try once more to get her shod. No go - more throwing, yelling and then hitting me. I scooped her up and carried her for The Long Walk Part Two: Out to the Car. We definitely turned heads (and probably induced several headaches; I know by this time my own skull was pounding). Whenever the kiddo screamed at me that she wanted to get down or go back to class (which at this point was over anyhow) I calmly and quietly repeated that her behavior was unacceptable and we were going home.

She tried once more to get away from me, barefoot, in the parking lot. She attempted to accomplish this by biting me on the arm that was holding her. If I had set her down at that point, I am certain she would've run, without looking, back towards the Y. I got the door to the van open as quickly as possible and strapped her into her booster seat. She proceeded to tantrum all the way home (coming perilously close to making herself throw up from the extreme levels of drama, which really didn't help anything). When we got home, I carried her (still barefoot) inside and set her down. I then grabbed the largest trash bag I could find and headed upstairs. I wound up doing a Stuffed Animal Round-up, collecting every last stuffed animal (or as Kiddo calls them, "guys") and putting them into the bag. Kiddo was by this time sitting on her bedroom floor, watching. I then ran the shower, got her into it and washed as she snarled every mean thing she could think of to me - "I only like DADDY and NOT you!" "You're NOT my friend ANYMORE!" "You're SO MEAN to me, Mommy!" - dried her off and got her jammies on and teeth brushed. Then I told her it was bedtime and that her guys were in Time Out until tomorrow.

By this point, Remorseful Kiddo had reappeared. I stuck to my guns and sent her to bed regardless, though I did accept her apology and reassured her that I still love her, no matter what, even when I'm upset with her and she's upset with me. She got in bed but was still awake a half hour later, so I let her come downstairs and eat dinner before returning to bed (obviously, with no bedtime stories or evening TV). I do not really like the idea of sending a child to bed without dinner, I mostly just wanted her to calm down first - though if she had fallen asleep as she sometimes does after a tantrum, I wouldn't have gotten her up again just to eat.

So, that was my evening today. Yes, I really think it hurt me more than it hurt her, too. I mean, besides where I now have her teethprint in my upper arm along with various scratches and bruises caused by her during the meltdown. She won't bat an eye at going back to the next class - there will be no embarrassment on her part to see the people she was wigging out in front of so completely today. I, on the other hand, will feel somewhat embarrassed, but hey, nobody said being a parent was easy, right? While debriefing with Hubby when he got home, I was glad to hear he agreed with me that removing her when she hit the three count was the only call to make. I was tempted to ignore the behavior, but who does that really help? It might make things easier for me (like the other parents who just idly watch while their little darling acts up something fierce - hello, dad of Spitty McPushyhands, wanna do something about it? Possibly keep your eye on your little darling as she goes wild instead of keeping your eyes on your BlackBerry? Yeesh!) but Hubby and I feel like we need to stick to our guns and stay consistent with the rules. Sometimes, it just isn't too fun being Bad Cop.

Here's hoping tomorrow is a better day for Mean Mommy and the Drama Queen...

2:19am

As I'd expected... Harvey Dent showed up in my dreams shortly before 2:19 this morning. I woke up with my heart pounding and couldn't fall back asleep for the longest time.

Today's gonna require some major caffeination.

Stupid, overactive imagination!

Oh NOOOO!!!! (<-- as screamed by Mr. Bill)

First the kiddo was up barfing all night. By "all night" I mean every half an hour from 10pm until 3:30am, then a brief pause for exhausted parents to get a couple of hours of sleep and instill firmly in us the hope that the throwing up was over, and then the barfing resumed around 7 this morning, along with a new symptom - low grade fever!

As the harsh light of what appears to be a perfectly gorgeous summer's day seared my eyes, I called the kiddo in sick to farm school, cancelled our afternoon plans and settled the kiddo into my bed with a little Pinky Dinky Doo, fresh barf bucket and a cup of liquid (because yes, I am now officially freaked about dehydration with the all night barfing bonanza). Then I collapsed, blearily eyed and with a pounding headache (that predates the barforama but definitely was exacerbated by the lack of decent sleep), in front of my computer to catch up on my Scrabulous games on Facebook... and Scrabulous is no more (at least for North American users)! *wails of anguish* So, Julie, Sarah and all my other international Scrabulous buddies - I miss you already and hope that we will be able to play again either on Scrabulous or the official Scrabble...

So, to sum up my day so far:

Oh NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

In other news, this is my 99th post. I've been working on a 100 Things for my 100th post, but right now I'm a wee bit too braindead to finish it up, so it'll turn up later when the vomitorium has closed up shop and sleep or caffeine or both have cleared the cobwebs from the corners of my mind....

Wicked

I just want to be sure everybody knows - I am THE MOST WICKED MOMMY, EVER. Yep, the wickedest. That title is alllllll mine, so back off. My five year old told me so via some very loud screams just now, as I was trying to rinse the shampoo out of her hair in the shower. (Clearly, I must be wicked for not wanting her to climb out of the shower all covered in suds. Sheesh!)

Kiddo's come up with some good barbs and insults for me over the years. Her standby is "Mean Mommy" but there are others, oh, are there others. For example, earlier this week, she called me a "crabby nut" in a fit of pique. (And yes, I did have PMS and probably was a crabby nut at the time, but that didn't stop me from sending her immediately into time out. Apparently I have a reputation to uphold, dontcha know.) I've also been naughty and unkind, but this was the first time I've been wicked. The wickedest, even.

Methinks the girl is watching a few too many Disney princess movies......

I wonder which Wicked One I most resemble, in her mind?

Maleficient?



Naaaah, I may be pasty, but I'm not green. Also not quite that tall or skinny, alas. (Though I do seem to have a way with birds, given the constantly empty state of the bird feeders at our house.) Besides, we haven't let her watch Sleeping Beauty yet, so she wouldn't have the reference.

How about Cruella?



Hmmm, no, I don't think so. I don't smoke and I don't wear fur, plus I love animals. Also, again, neither tall nor skinny. (She does look to wear a large shoe, though, so in that we'd match.)

Medusa, from The Rescuers (which the kiddo just watched a week or two ago)?



Possibly, though I tend to wear less makeup and rarely wear earrings these days. Oh, but I am fairly certain that there have been moments while driving that I look very much like this:



I'm gonna have to go with Ursula, I think. She is my Wicked Alter Ego. Definitely.



Okay, I'm not purple and my hair doesn't have quite that much white in it (yet, though the kiddo is doing her best to get it there, it seems...). And I'm a bit envious of all her limbs, because there are definitely times when an extra arm or six would come in mighty handy. But from the boobs (not to mention the rest of her curves) to the sass to the big volume both in hair and voice, yep, I think I can definitely channel Madame Sea Witch when I'm being wicked.



The kiddo (aka the Poor, Unfortunate Soul) eventually relented this evening and apologized for calling me wicked. This may've been induced partially by me informing her that Wicked Mommies don't read bedtime stories or sing lullabies. (When I was singing her a lullaby a short while later, she told me I sound a lot more like Ariel than Ursula. Awwwwww.) I'm sure there will be many more times when Kiddo thinks I'm wicked (or worse) in the future. Guess I'll have to get myself some evil animal sidekicks (think Swimmy could be converted? She already swims on the dark side...) and a sassy, magical shell necklace so I'm prepared...

Friday Five!

Okay, after a rough week of piscine assassination attempts, kiddo bad attitude and boo-boo crises, PMS, horrible weather resulting in being caught in even more horrible traffic and a case of the blahs, I'm so, so glad it is Friday!

In order to celebrate the end of this week (finally!), I'm going to try doing a Friday Five here. Hopefully folks will want to play along, either in the comments here or on your own blog (please let us know if you do)! For this one, I've gone with questions that can be more broadly interpreted, just to keep things interesting.


First Ever Friday Five (ideas from various websites - do a Google search and you'll find lots of websites devoted to the topic):

1) Where do you belong?
2) What do you carry?
3) What do you know?
4) What is strange to you?
5) Where are you going?

I'll be back to post my own answers in a bit - I promised the kiddo I'd play a round of Memory (Dora the Explorer version) and her patience is wearing thin with Mommy sitting at the computer.....

Taroo, Taroo, ta-ROAT

My dear friend Andy emailed me this after reading my whine about being a grouchy grump. It is a bit of an inside joke (well, I did tell y'all about Skeeter, the inside joke part just spirals off of that original story), but it made me laugh so I wanted to share.


And yes, I am feeling a bit less grumpy, hallelujah! I'm mostly just tired than anything, as opposed to tired and hormonally eeeeevil. (Goatlike, one might say....) I've told Hubby that I'm not waiting up for him tonight, but going to bed when the kiddo does. Hubby's softball team is playing in the semifinals of their league's tournament at 7:15, then if they win it's on to the final game in a doubleheadery sort of way. If they lose, he wouldn't be home before 9:00 and while normally, I wait for him to get home and then we eat dinner together, tonight, no way. Hubby was in agreement with this plan - I think he doesn't particularly want to see me at that hour in my mood! At least I got the front and side yards mowed (thunder started ominously rumbling before I could do the back) and took out my frustrations on some ginormous weeds as well as hacking back our Forsythia of Insanity. I have such a love-hate relationship with our forsythia bushes, which are the hardiest things, ever. I got them from a friend who was relandscaping her entire property. They'd been dug out and bagged in some garbage bags, then moved in a hot van and left on the side of the house for like a month, still in the bags and only occasionally watered, before we finally got around to planting them. Now, in the spring, I looooove my forsythia. It is the first thing to bloom besides my crocipetti (aka crocuses) and I always bring branches inside and force them even before they're blooming outside. But by midsummer? They grow in this psychotic frenzy and get gigantic and sprawly, no matter how severely we cut them back. Haaate that - the branches poke through the fence into the back yard and flop over to the side into our neighbors' property. When I was mowing that side of the yard today, I noticed that the leftmost bush was completely blocking the neighbors' access to the side of their house and back yard. I'm surprised they haven't hacked it down or at least (since they're very polite) asked us to cut it back, but I went to it with a vengeance. The forsythia retaliated with a vengeance as well, bitch-slapping me across my left side and tangling in my hair as I fought my way through the branches to a cutting point. Ow.

But forsythia trauma aside, I feel better about having accomplished that much yard work despite the crazy humidity and my bad mood. I cranked up A Chorus Line (the OBC) on my iPod and sang at the top of my lungs over the lawnmower. I was obviously loud enough that the mailman could hear me as he pulled up our block, because he turned onto our street during "Dance 10, Looks 3" and shot me a slightly more bemused look than usual. (Our poor mailman has encountered me out doing yard work with my iPod on more than once....)

For those of you who aren't show tune fans, here are the particular lyrics I was belting out to my audience of finches, cowbirds, butterflies, garter snakes and our lucky, lucky mailman:

Dance: ten; Looks; three.
And I'm still on unemployment,
Dancing for my own enjoyment.
That ain't it, kid. That ain't it, kid!

"Dance: ten; Looks; three,"
I'd like to die!
Left the theatre and
Called the doctor for
My appointment to buy

Tits and ass!
Bought myself a fancy pair.
Tightened up the derriere.
Did the nose with it, all that goes with it!

Tits and ass!
Had the bingo-bongos done.
Suddenly I'm getting national tours!
Tits and ass won't get you jobs
Unless they're yours.

Didn't cost a fortune neither.
Didn't hurt my sex life either.

Flat and sassy,
I would get the strays and losers.
Beggars really can't be choosers.
That ain't it, kid. That ain't it, kid!

Fixed the chassis.
"How do you do!"
Life turned into an endless medley of
"Gee, it had to be you!"
Why?

Tits and ass!
Where the cupboard once was bare
Now you knock and someone's there.
You have got 'em, hey.
Top to bottom, hey.

It's a gas!
Just a dash of silicone.
Shake your new maracas and you're fine!
Tits and ass can change your life.
They sure changed mine!

Have it all done - honey, take my word.
Grab a cab, c'mon, see the wizard on
Park and Seventy-Third
For

Tits and ass!
Orchestra or balcony.
What they want is whatcha see.
Keep the best of you, do the rest of you.

Pits or class - I have never seen it fail.
Debutante or chorus girl or wife.

Tits and ass,
Yes, tits and ass
Have changed my life!

Now for the complete picture, you have to imagine my yard work ensemble: scrungy, once-was-orange tank top (with bra showing more often than not), faded, bleach-spotted brown capri pants - actually, I believe technically they're cropped gauchos, not capris - white crew socks, ratty old sneakers, filthy green and white (at least once, long ago, they were white) gardening gloves - the rubber-and-fabric kind that always make my hands smell like a balloon for hours even with much scrubbing - iPod and gigantic sunglasses, dripping with sweat and bearing red marks up my one side from calf to cheek from the forsythia that looked like I'd been flogging myself. Hair curling out every which way from the humidity, too. I was looking hawt. I tried to restrain myself, as I was in public and all, but I believe the occasional shimmy escaped, too (behind the screen of my lawn mower, but still). That's the danger of playing show tunes on one's iPod in public - one cannot help but dance as well as sing along. Well, if one is me, at any rate.

Anyhow, thanks for my goat, Andy! I'm off to change Swimmy's water, then make a lasagna for dinner (that'll reheat well for Hubby whenever he gets home) and crash on the couch with a book while the kiddo eats.