The Power of the Disco Ball

There have been plenty of parenting failures around these parts, as is clearly evidenced by the Christmas video in which Alexis rips the paper off a gift, looks wide-eyed at whatever was in the box, and proclaims, "What the hell?" We accept full responsibility for those failures, and by "we" I mean me and the mouse in my pocket because THAT lovely word choice was all me. And the mouse.

However, if I'm going to accept responsibility for the failures, I also get to take full credit for the successes.

The disco ball in the playroom? TOUCHDOWN! GOAL! HOME RUN! SCOOOOOORE!

Not only is the disco ball like a flame to the screamy, obnoxious moths that Alexis calls her friends, it has given me the most ultimate comeback in pretty much every conversation.

"You never buy me ANYTHING!" the kid will try to say when I refuse to buy her a 37th Barbie doll.

"Disco ball," I'll reply.

I WIN.

"You never let me do anything fun!" she'll whine.

"Oh, really?," I'll ask. "I guess I'll move the disco ball to my room."

I WIN.

She'll complain, "My friends' moms buy (insert random, obnoxious, unnecessary thing here)."

"Do your friends have a disco ball?" I'll ask, followed by, "I didn't think so."

I WIN.

Of course, the disco ball has more use than just those examples. It serves as the reason Alexis needs to finish eating her dinner, the explanation for she can't wear THAT shirt to school, the justification why she can't go shopping at Justice, and my excuse for why she can't marry Justin Beiber. It doesn't matter if "Disco ball!" makes sense in the situation, I still get to use it.

Alexis does not question the power of the Disco Ball. When she hears the words, her head drops and she mutters, "FINE."

Here's to hoping THAT lasts for a few years.

She Would Have Missed This

When I hear women lament their evolution into their own mothers, I stand silent. I am *not* turning into my mother.

I'm never going to wake up seven inches shorter, one hundred pounds heavier, and with thick, black, curly hair. I'll never hear the words, "You look just like your mother."

But the differences are more than just physical. Our personalities are just as different as our faces, if not more so.

Severe clinical depression held her back, suppressed her personality, took away her will to do...anything. It took away her will to get off the couch, her will to be present, her will to socialize, her will to live.

Depression stopped her from finding the joy in life's every little moment. Days and weeks and months passed her by as she slept, a prisoner to the demons in her mind.

I don't know why fate spared me the curse of depression, but I'm thankful it did. I wouldn't want to miss an opportunity to enjoy tea with Alice.

I'm Going to Need More Girl Scout Cookies

On either side of the verbal beat-down the pediatrician doled out over Alexis' weight (which, still, ::blink::blink::blink::), there were two wondrous moments that confirmed that anyone other than me will be winning Mother of the Year.

First I refused the flu shot, which pretty much made the pediatrician all ::blink::blink::blink::.

Whatever. I have my reasons.

Then . . . THEN there was that whole thing where I knew something but didn't say it in time to make it known that I knew. I have evidence that I told someone BEFORE the appointment that I was pretty sure that Alexis had an ear infection, but given that I was all ::blink::blink::blink:: THROUGH the appointment, I kind of sort of forgot to mention it at the moment that mattered most. So, I looked like a rock star when the pediatrician discovered it. Not only do I force my kid to eat nothing but junk food, I make her suffer with an ear infection for several days. I'M THE BESTEST.

Hey, she wasn't complaining. In fact, she mentioned that her ear hurt exactly once. I figured that since she wasn't completely miserable, she could probably soldier through so she didn't have to tempt the Antibiotic Resistance Gods.

Anyway, thanks to THAT glorious moment at the pediatrician's office, Alexis managed to score a nice little bottle of antibiotics. At first I wasn't going to give it to her, but then I figured I probably should since she had been battling the same minor cold for over two weeks.

BIG. MISTAKE.

Here's the thing--the kid was a little sick. Not a lot sick. Not miserable. Not in pain. Not complaining. She was just a little congested and apparently her ear was all filled with rage. Not a big deal. But. BUT! But it was enough to slow the kid down a bit.

Once the antibiotics did their thing, HOLY HELL. The kid turned into a little Tazmanian Devil of destruction and mayhem. She wasn't just back to her usual level of obnoxious; She seemed to have found a whole new level that was like 62350496842 times more intense. She has spent the past week pouncing on nerves, playing those nerves like a banjo, and then riding them like a mechanical bull. She won't shoosh or sit still for even a second, going so far as to even talk in her sleep.

Talk.Bounce.Talk.Talk.Jump.Jabber.Bounce.Jabber.Jabber.Dance.Sing.Talk.Bounce.Sing.Non.Stop.

GAH!

There was a point today when she went from talking non-stop all through dinner to singing non-stop as we drove to our house. She was trying to master an original tune which I believe might just be called, "I Have a Booboo." It went like this:

I have a booboo ::clap::clap::clap::
I haaaave a booboo ::clap::clap::clap::
I have a booboo ::clap::clap::clap::
I haaaave a booboo ::clap::clap::clap::

That's the first verse, second verse, third verse, fourth verse . . . even the fiftieth verse. Every verse for ten minutes . . . all the same. Every verse was sang with the same level of gusto, the same enthusiasm for life, and each and every clap was executed with an ear-splitting precision that only a small child could possibly deliver.

I might have considered shoving a spork into my ears to dull the pain. Possibly.

Instead, I spent the rest of the night rewarding myself with a Girl Scout cookie each time I survived five minutes of the non-stop jabbering without snapping at the kid.  I won't be able to fit into any of my jeans tomorrow, but that's OK. I chose to let today be a good day, even though it was really, really, really, really, really hard to do so.

Then, suddenly, as Alexis was brushing her teeth before going to bed, she fell off of the Obnoxious Train. Spontaneous tears began to cascade down her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"My froat hurts," she whined. (I'm going to be SO sad when she starts enunciating "th" correctly.) She continued on, "I fink I talked too much today."

Is it wrong for me to hope her throat hurts just a tiny bit tomorrow?

Yes?

Damn.