It's a Tradition and Stuff

Once upon a time, there was a photographer who gave me what I thought were very wise nuggets of wisdom. He said that I should be sure to get portraits of The Toddler taken at 18 months of age because once she turned two, she would no longer be game for portrait taking festivities. I took his nuggets of wisdom to heart and made sure I got those 18-month portraits.

They were HELL.

HELL.

The Toddler wouldn't pose, she wouldn't sit, she wouldn't stand, she wouldn't anything. The only reason any portraits were purchased that day was because somewhere along the line, it became fun to play peek-a-boo by running around and around and around the background. That game of peek-a-boo required that I run around and around and around the background chasing The Toddler and that the photographer manage to snap a photo at exactly the right moment so as to avoid images of my booty jiggling as it chased a short somebody with an unbelievable amount of energy. Somehow, the portrait session was a success, although I nearly passed out from exhaustion right in the middle of the store.

The things we do to capture memories.

That portrait session was so bad that I didn't take The Toddler back again until around her second birthday. Considering that for her first year I took her monthly, that was quite the change in operations.

For her two-year portraits, I thought it would be wise to bring Mr. Husband along so that I could have a second parental unit helping to keep things under control. That didn't quite work out as expected. We'll just say it was an instance where Mommy's devil horns were in full display while Daddy stood around saying, "Do whatever you want, honey!" Looking back, it's not terribly surprising that things unfolded that way.

That brings us up to a few days ago.

I pulled into the driveway and realized the Shasta Daisies were in full bloom. I LURVE Shasta Daisies. I LURVE to pick Shasta Daisies and take them to Picture People for portraits with the kid. In fact, I had done it two years running. See:

Six-month portraits:

(Channeling her inner Jennifer Aniston.)

(Baby booties are the best!)

(She spent the entire portrait session eating flowers. It was fabulous.)

18-month portraits:

(Running.)

(Still running.)

(She looked at the camera? GOOD ENOUGH.)

OF COURSE I had to do it again. So, I picked out a white dress for The Toddler, picked a few dozen daisies, and drug our booties over to South Hills Village Mall fully expecting to be tortured for an hour.

WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THE KID IS WILLING TO HAVE HER PORTRAIT TAKEN NOW?

She sat. She posed. She smiled. She laughed. She made it REALLY FREAKIN' HARD to pick out just a couple of photos.

That moron that told me to make sure I got 18-month portraits because Two wouldn't be happening? Needs clubbed with a 2x4.

The 4th of July Miracles

And on this day, July 4th, 2008, two miracles hath occurred:

The first miracle comes in the form of a certain set of in-laws and their miraculous appearance in The Burgh. It has been just shy of 2 1/2 years since Daddy o' Mr. Husband ventured this far North. When I first heard rumors of an appearance, I did not believe. That's right, I was not a believer. But, a big white flying hunk of metal landed in The Burgh, and aboard were Daddy o' Mr. Husband and Stepmommy o' Mr. Husband.

The Toddler, for her part, appears to be so shocked by this miracle that she can't even make eye contact with her visitors. I'll be talking to her in the morning and reminding her that Daddy o' Mr. Husband is far more likely to purchase Dora toys than I am, and that she should kick the butt-kissing into overdrive immediately.

(I plan to continue posting throughout this miraculous appearance, but if you don't see me around, do not worry. I'm somewhere or other, just not here. Or there.)

The other miracle, while not 29 months in the making, is a pretty darn big deal. I finally did it. Finally, six months later than I should have. It only took a few minutes, and today I FINALLY remembered and got it done. So mark your calendars for on July 4, 2008, I finally . . .



. . . took down Alexis' Christmas tree. I was going to just leave it up for next year, but we're are knee deep in looking for a new house, so there's a chance I would have to pack it anyway. Rejoice! All Christmas decorations are finally put away!

Commence mocking in 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . mock away.

I deserve it.

If at First You Don't Succeed, Ignore Your Mother

My softball game was an early one tonight and the timing of it all made it necessary for Mr. Husband and I to do a roadside kid swap. So, Alexis and I were driving down the road on our way to meet him (I was the one steering and pushing the gas pedal, just in case you were concerned) and she decided it was time to start working on her rider for when she is a famous performer of some sort. She was running through the list of all her demands.

"I want strawberries."

"I wanna watch Dora dance." (She was referring to a specific DVD that I wish we didn't own. Major eye and ear bleedage right there.)

"I want milk shake."

"I want book."

"I wanna watch movie."

"I want apples."

"I want Signing Time."

"I want French fries."

I'm a special brand of crazy, so I interjected, "You want French fries? I don't think so, honey."

"No, I get French fries," she replied.

I said, "No, Daddy is going to make you dinner. It probably won't be French fries."

"No, I eat French fries," she replied.

"Why is talking to you like negotiating a hostage situation? No French fries," I retorted.

"I eat French fries," Alexis insisted, "and after I watch Dora Dance."

How nice of her to start using the concept of time as a means to plan her entire day. I don't know exactly how it happened, but the kid has suddenly integrated "before" and "after" into her lexicon, effectively turning one of my main ways of getting MY way against me. She wants to watch Sesame Street? I tell her she can, right after she finishes picking up all her books. I am not amused that I'm now the victim of this tactic. This was supposed to be a one way street.

"Alexis, you're not eating French fries and you're not watching Dora Dance. You can have some strawberries and then you can color, though," I told the little terrorist.

"No. I eat French fries and after watch Dora Dance."

Right about then, I managed to get Mr. Husband on the phone. We negotiated a meeting place based on our current locations. The best place for us to meet?

McDonald's.

Guess who got her French fries?

Even better, when I got home from the game, Mr. Husband told me some of the things that Alexis got to do over the course of the evening.

She watched Dora Dance.

Moral of the story: If you say something enough times, and to the right person, you will get your way.

Plotting My Revenge. Suggestions Welcomed.

It's no secret that I love me some AFF (pssst . . . she's giving stuff away this month). She's funny, she's sweet, she sends my kid stuff. OK, so I don't like her BECAUSE she sends Alexis stuff, I like her IN SPITE of it.

The latest in a lengthy list of things I would like to burn on the grill then use for batting practice off a very high cliff is Big Water. Big Water is a sippy cup that says "Alexis" on the side and is, well, big. Alexis LURVES Big Water. She takes it with her in the car. She drags it all over the house. She asks for it first thing in the morning. She even sleeps with Big Water. No joke, she has fallen asleep hugging Big Water on more than one occasion.

All that is fine and dandy. Whatever, the kid has a favorite cup. I deal.

Except.

You know how Alexis doesn't seem to think that her bed is where she should sleep the entire night? It's more like a temporary sleeping quarters and she MUST move her hiney to my bed at some point in the night. When she does, she seldom remembers to bring Big Water with her. Which, of course, means that she later realizes that she is thirsty and has a heart attack because she NEEDS Big Water in the middle of the night.

You know what's fun? When a two-year old starts screeching for Big Water at 4:00 in the morning, and really isn't willing to stop screeching long enough for you to explain that the bottle of water that is on your nightstand is the same as the water that is in Big Water, which is far, far away.

You're lucky you're cute, AFF.





(No toddlers, stuffed Bulldogs, or dolls were harmed in the taking of these photos. However, a certain parent did greatly enjoy that she had JUST told the Toddler not to sit there because she could fall over. A Mother is ALWAYS right about this sort of thing.)

Who Knew All That Work Would Actually Pay Off?

I am a trainer. I train people. OK, well these days I don't actual stand in front of a room full of 30 annoying people and talk, I tell other people how to stand in front of a room full of 30 annoying people and talk. But, I used to have to do it. Mostly I used to train people on how to use various software applications, but before I fell into that world of joy, I was one of those people that stood in front of a room and taught you all about how to communicate more effectively, provide better customer service, work as part of a team, and various other topics that were FREAKIN' ANNOYING.

Yeah. I was that irritating woman who talked about concepts that didn't make any sense and could never actually be used in the real world. I might have even made you *gasp* role play *gasp*.

(*ducks to avoid all the shoes being thrown*)

Except.

An amazing thing has occurred to me.

At least one of the craptacular concepts I used to train ACTUALLY WORKS ON THE TODDLER!

There's this thing that I used to cover in conflict resolution training that basically says that if someone is doing or saying something and they won't stop, you should practice XYZ. XYZ is when you say, "I feel (fill in the blank) when you (fill in the blank). I wish you would (fill in the blank)."

So.

When I heard Alexis was scratching kids' faces at daycare, I told her, "I feel sad when you scratch other kids. I wish you would please play nice without hurting them." When Alexis thought it would be Great! Fun! to throw a bunch of puzzle pieces all over the nice clean living room, I said, "I feel sad when you throw things. I wish you would please pick up your mess." When she got the fantabular idea in her head to smear her beans all over the cat, I told her, "I feel sad when you get the kitty dirty. I wish you would stop."

Hell if the kid didn't obey my wish in every.single.instance. It's like magical and stuff. For whatever reason, "sad" is the only emotion that gets her attention, but that's OK. I can be sad. No problem! Sad it is. I mean, she even apologizes when I use XYZ on her. Awesome.

Go forth and XYZ. Report back your results.

In the meantime, I think I'll be using XYZ to tell Alexis that I feel sad and icky when she tries to eat lilies and that I wish she would quit making me throw up in my mouth.

Blech.



"Ook, Mommy! Pretty flowers!"



"Mommy! Flowers smell pretty!"



"Ook, Mommy! This pretty flower would fit ever so perfectly in my cute little mouth. You know, the mouth that I use to kiss you. I wonder what pollen tastes like? Mmmm . . . tastes like chicken. Want some?"

The Apple is RIGHT, I Tell You

Whenever we venture into the big bad world as a family, Mr. Husband drives. That is not because I don't like to drive, it is because I don't like to drive when he is in the car. Once upon a time he trained people to get their Class B CDL licenses. Essentially, he was paid to sit in the passenger seat and critique every move somebody made while driving a very large bus. Guess who was really good at critiquing every move somebody made while driving? Why, yes, my husband is a back-seat driving overachiever. Yes, he is.

Since I can't handle being asked when I last checked my blind spot and having somebody count the seconds between my glances in the rear-view mirror, I just force let him drive everywhere. It's FAR less stress for me, and probably for him as well since I would probably bite off his head, chew it until it was super mushy, then spit it into out the window right after he asked me if I was maintaining the proper following distance on the freeway for the eleventy seventh fourteenth time.

The only thing is that I am also a bit of a back-seat driver. I'm nowhere near as bad as him, but I do have a major paranoia about rear-ending a car (been there, done that, it wasn't my fault but my brand new Civic looked an awful lot like a Smart car when it was all over). So, if he maybe waits a millisecond longer than I would before braking, I'm not above, I don't know, shrieking like a teenage girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. I might yell, "LOOK OUT! THAT CAR IS STOPPING!" Or maybe it's, "WE'RE GOING TO DIE. STOOOOOOOOOP!"

Anyway.

The littlest apple in our family fell very near both trees. No doubt about it. Alexis has become quite the little back seat driver. She is always telling me that I've missed my turn if I happen to drive past the playground, she likes to tell me to go faster, and she sometimes gets a little crabby about my inability to park next to yellow cars. It's all good.

This morning, Mr. Husband experienced his own moment of enduring the littlest back-seat driver. Alexis and he were running to the store to get a new propane tank for our grill when Alexis suddenly shrieked and yelled, "WOOK OUT! THERE'S CAR!" She very nearly scared Mr. Husband to death.

That's my girl.

Wiping the Slate Clean

It's very difficult to remember just how horribly your child behaved through the last 30 minutes of Wall-E (and not just because she couldn't sit still and be quiet, but also because she seemed to have gotten the impression that she should start working on her clawing/hitting/hair-pulling skills just in case a new sport is added the Olympics wherein you are supposed to beat your Mother until she's ready to strangle you) when you find photos like this one on your memory card:

Every Time I Start to Think I Know What's Going On

The CD player in my car has been broken from the start. It seems that the only CDs that it will play are Signing Time CDs, and interestingly enough, it nearly always plays just one song, Move and Groove, over and over and over and over until my head explodes and my brain matter flies across the car, smashes into the radio console, and somehow manages to hit the off button. The Toddler, however, is very happy about this little "glitch." She sings along, signs along, dances along, and generally is one happy camper when she gets to hear her Signing Time buddy Rachel tell her to jump, dance, sway, etc.

I do not complain because at least I'm not listening to the purple dinosaur who does not exist in PA. (Shh . . . don't tell Alexis any different.)

So, imagine my confusion earlier today when we were driving to the mall, jamming to Move and Groove, and the Toddler very clearly said, "I wanna listen music."

It's a trick, I thought.

She repeated her request.

"Do you want to listen to Justin?" I asked. (We went through a SexyBack phase and for months that is all we listened to. I put the kabash on it when I heard Alexis correctly use the words "Sexy" and "back" in a sentence. Nobody under the age of 18 needs to be bringing the sexy anywhere.)

"No, I wan music."

It's a trick, I thought. "You want to listen to music?" I said.

"Yes."

"OK, let's see what is in the CD player," I said. Mr. Husband cautiously pushed the button that called up a different CD in the CD changer. Can you believe that button actually works? I HAD NO IDEA!

I flinched.

I prepared myself for the fit.

Coldplay started wafting from the speakers.

I moved to put my hand in place so that I could change the CD player back to Signing Time the instant the waling and whining commenced.

"Thank you!" Alexis said.

It's moments like that when I realize I really have no freakin' idea what I'm doing with this kid.

Aaaaaaaaaand Rant

We live in a very small townhouse which is part of a very large complex and comes complete with a very annoying Home Owners Association. I say "very annoying," but really it's usually just this thing that we pay monthly so that our grass stays cut and the snow stays out of the driveways. It's only actually really annoying about once a year when our jerkface neighbor decides to make it annoying.

While there is a whole long list of rules and regulations to go along with our HOA, very few rules are actually enforced. If you walk through the joint, you'll find houses that are painted a non-Association approved color, tacky five-foot tall rope light palm trees, dogs running loose while the owner stands inside his or her front door, cars parked where the very clearly don't belong, flowers that are taller than the five-foot maximum technically permitted, and a whole host of other so-called violations. That's not to say the neighborhood looks bad; it's more that nobody cares about anything as long as it's not affecting them.

One of the rules is that no children's equipment can be left out in a yard. So, despite the fact that we OWN probably half an acre, that technically means we can't leave any pools, slides, swings, basketball goals, or the like in the yard. But we always have. It's not like an aisle of Toys 'R Us going on or anything, but if I set up the inflatable pool on Saturday, I'm very likely to leave it in the yard until Sunday. When we recently re-stained our deck, we stuck a bunch of plastic kingdom items in our driveway, under the deck, for the three weeks it took to finish the project. They weren't permanent residents of the blacktop, but we had to stick them somewhere until we were done.

Apparently, that annoyed someone. Today we got a letter from the HOA stating that there had been a complaint about the toys left in the yard. Now, most of it was already gone. It took me approximately 13.531 seconds to clean up the two items that were left. Whatever. What has me FLIPPING MY LID is that the notice said we had to take down the swing that has been hanging from the underside of our deck for well over a year.

WELL OVER A YEAR.

Puhleeze. Nobody can tell me that swing was bothering anybody. We own an end unit at the end of the complex, so nobody even drives past our driveway. They have no business being in our backyard as it is private property. If they would keep their eyes to themselves, they wouldn't even know it was there.

I'm PISSED.

Never mind that the Toddler is pretty much too big for it anyway. Never mind that she hardly has used it this year. All I care is that somebody complained about something that makes meh behbeh happy.

We know who "somebody" is. We can't prove it, but I'm pretty sure it's the same "somebody" who once filed a complaint because we wouldn't let him park in our driveway (if that doesn't make sense then you are reading it correctly--doofus thought that since they had lived in the complex longer he should have "seniority" and be able to park wherever, including on property that we own and pay taxes on). It's the same "somebody" who complained that we don't clean up after our dogs. At any given moment in time, there's a trash can full of individually wrapped stink bombs in our garage that say otherwise. It's the same "somebody" who whined when I planted a tree at the end of the driveway to keep people from driving across our grass to get to another driveway. Every freakin' year, the guy apparently scours the rules and regulations until he finds something to complain about.

We need to move. Before I kill him.

In the meantime, he works in Customer Service at our local Wal-Mart. I think I'm about to become a royal pain in his arse. If my baby can't swing in her own dang yard, I'm going to do some swinging. Oh, yes I am.

(Aaaaaaaaand end rant.)

Caution: A Rare Glimpse into the Mind of the Male Species

A few nights ago, Mr. Husband was sitting with Alexis at her art table coloring with her. (I know, swoon. Men should spend more time coloring with their kids. It's hot!) (I love that I know Mr. Husband just blushed reading that.) Her latest "thing" with coloring is that she will tell YOU what to color while she supervises. (I have no idea why we have a bossy kid. Now shut up and stop asking silly questions.) She requested a picture of Mommy and Daddy, so away he went, sketching and coloring and shading and drawing a picture of Mommy and Daddy. Between strokes with the dull, fat crayons, he would glance up at me to make sure he was drawing me just right. And he would cackle. In no way did I at all expect that he might be up to no good with that cackling because, you know, I'm not smart enough to figure THAT out.

Mr. Cackles eventually finished his beautious piece of artwork. It's title:



Because OF COURSE you should make it a battle of the sexes when your kid asks you to draw her Mommy and Daddy. I mean, how could it possibly be appropriate to draw Mommy and Daddy holding hands and singing Kumbaya in a field of pretty little flowers?

You know what IS appropriate? Drawing Mommy with devil horns. OH, YES HE DID.



MY TEETH ARE NOT THAT AWFUL. Gawd. But, um, I do tell Alexis it's time to go to bed. A lot. Apparently, that makes me the devil. And I bet you can guess who is the angel. Yup.



Nice halo, Buckeroo. I might have to use it to (*&*$^ the (*&#%^ out of (*^*&% and ^#@#%^$. Yes, I will.

So the next time I'm getting dirty looks or snide remarks from people because Alexis is awake waaaaaay past her bedtime (seriously--why do people always think it's the Mom's fault?), I am going to refer the judgmental goofus to this lovely post. IT'S NOT MY FAULT. Gah.



BTW, Mr. Husband, I'm glad you think your pretty little picture is so.dang.hysterical because I think it proves my point. You are SO wrapped around that kid's little finger and she knows it.

"Do whatever you want, Sweetie!" BLRGPHAZIZZLE.

The Official Day of Waiting Your Turn

I'm all about not rubbing in all the fun the Burgh Moms have when we get together, so I won't mention the circumstances under which Alexis and I found ourselves at the Pittsburgh Zoo yesterday. *cough SO.FUN! cough* I do, however, have to mention that among the attendees was Gina and her two kids, who I have named Her Majesty and The Prince. Her Majesty is an important part of the story that explains just how it was that yesterday became the Official Day of Waiting Your Turn. The Prince needs mentioned because I plan to clone him in miniature form, tuck him in my pocket, and take him with me everywhere I go. He is one useful (and cute!) little man.

So, Alexis is continuing her I'm Too Shy to So Much as Make Eye Contact with You Phase. It's really a joy having a 30+ pound kid glued to your body with her face buried in your armpit. Really. It's even more of a joy to have a 30+ pound kid decide that she's not real fond of being told what to do by someone twice her age. The more Alexis decided to loosen up and actually acknowledge the existence of some of the other kids at the Zoo yesterday, the more she realized that Her Majesty was irritating her. You see, Her Majesty had the nerve, no the AUDACITY to tell Alexis she couldn't go up on the super big and probably toddler crippling slides in the midst of the massive play area at that Zoo. When Her Majesty VERY politely told Alexis they had to stay on the smaller slides, Alexis had a cow.

A very big cow.

From that moment forward, if Her Majesty so much as glanced at Alexis wrong, Alexis turned into Tattler McTattleteron. She would come running to me, in tears, rambling about whatever it was that Her Majesty said. It was ALWAYS something that was very much so appropriate for a 4-year old to say to a 2-year old. Her Majesty may rule the kingdom, but she's doing it in a very polite way. The worst of Her Majesty's so-called offenses took place on one of the smaller toddler-sized slides when there was a whole gaggle of kids waiting. My little angel just sort of toddled her way around a few kids all the way to the front of the line and started to go. Her Majesty very politely told her, "You have to wait your turn."

Alexis had TWO cows. She blubbered and whined and moaned about how horrible and no-good Her Majesty was for being so awful as to have suggested that people should take turns when going down the slide. Alexis was not very amused when I told her that Her Majesty was RIGHT. You SHOULD take turns.

Fast forward to about half an hour later. We were patiently waiting in line to pet a deer. Alexis was still a little ticked off by being told by TWO people that you have to take turns. I was chatting to her about how nice people take turns and we have to be nice because it makes people happy and look! it's almost our turn to pet the deer! See how nice it is to wait and let everyone have a turn! It's going to be our turn next! Just wait another few seconds!

And then it happened.

They happened.

A gaggle of teenagers most certainly old enough to know better went plowing through the line, right in front of us, shoving kids aside and posing so that a woman who very obviously gave birth to at least one of them could take a photo.

Alexis had A Fit. A Royal Fit.

Really, I can't blame her. Why should she have to wait turns if other people don't do it? Gina is posting more about the gaggle of teens (her name for them is much more appropriate, but contains words that I try not to use here), so I'm going to leave it be. She'll be able to do the multiple fiascoes that followed much more justice than I can. Besides, she has photos of the brats and their so-called role model. (See, Alexis? That's why you have to take turns. Otherwise, somebody somewhere is liable to blog about how rude you were and they just might have very un-flattering photos.) I can guarantee you that the next time a gaggle of teenagers comes plowing through a place and their mother stands by and lets them? I'm going ballistic on the mother.

I suggest y'all teach your kids to take turns so I don't have to get all Angry B*tch on you. I mean, c'mon, I'm trying to teach my kid to be nice.







(BTW, somewhere along the line, Her Majesty was able to overcome the snob that is my child and the two of them became best buds. In fact, Alexis was asking to play with Her Majesty this morning, right after she asked, "Where'd Gina go?")

Wanna Fight About It?

I am forever telling Mr. Husband to quit arguing with the Toddler. I understand how it is that he ends up in verbal sparring matches with her--she is, in many ways, a miniature version of me. Given that the man seldom manages to win a battle with me, it only makes sense that he would turn to my mini me for a little entry level competition. But really, arguing with a two-year old is about as pointless as trying to convince a wall that it should move over a a foot or two.

Tonight, however, I found myself being the goober who felt the need to try to move walls with the power of the spoken word.

Alexis is full-on in that stage where kids do whatever they can to avoid going to bed. Every night she asks for umpteen drinks of water, she discovers six or seven babies that need to be in her bed so that her little slumber party will be complete, and she is forever dragging out the reading portion of the goodnight festivities. I always declare early in the proceedings how many books we will be reading, and count down as we go through them. Tonight needed to be a Rapid Fire Tuck-In, so I went with one book as the magical number.

"Alexis, we get to read one book tonight," I warned her.

"No, not one book."

"Yes, we are reading one book," I said.

"One," she started.

"Yes," I interjected.

"Two. Three. Four. Five."

"No, we are reading one book," I replied.

"We read six books," Alexis said.

"No, one."

"Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven."

"Why do you keep upping the number of books we're reading?" I asked.

"Reading nine books."

"Alexis, we are reading one book."

"No, we're not," she said.

"One."

"No. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten."

"I'm glad you know how to count, but we're only reading one book," I said.

"We read more."

This went on for over ten minutes, with her expectations continually rising.

I don't know how long it took me to realize it, too long for certain, but in the time I spent arguing with the Toddler, I could have read pretty much every book in this house.

I am such a goober.

Never So Happy to Drop $60 and Some Coffee

I have this little game I like to play. I know I can't be the only one that plays it. I've lost the game a time or two and I REALLY thought I was about to lose it tonight. It's so much more exciting when I have a new opponent, and fortunately, I was able to beat my new opponent tonight.

I like to play chicken with my car's gas gauge.

Way back in an ancient time and place, before Audrey (of course I have named my car Audrey--there are no other names that would be appropriate), I really knew my buddy Mitsi (the Mitsubishi--are you sensing a pattern with my car names?). Mitsi and her gas gauge would yell and scream and throw a fit at me, trying to convince me that it was time for a stop at ye old Money Drop-off Point (sometime referred to as a gas station). But I knew better. I knew Mitsi was a Drama Queen and could make it 24 more miles after that light came on, so I would proceed to drive 23.9 miles before filling her up.

(I am conveniently ignoring the part of the dating process where Mitsi and I ended up stranded on the side of the road for two hours because she won a round of chicken. That may or may not be how I found her exact limits. It also may or may not be how she ended up with lipstick on her roof.)

But Audrey, dear Audrey, she is still a bit of a mystery to me. I do not know the inner workings of her gas consumption reporting. Is she exaggerating for comedic effect? Is she minimizing her needs?

Yesterday Audrey's "You May Want to Consider Purchasing a Wee Bit of Fuel at an Appropriate and Convenient Moment" light came on as I was driving home from the Softball Game of the Century (which I will not be talking about because it wasn't what I would call the prettiest game ever). I figured I would just stop in the morning. That was before I remembered that getting Alexis out the door in the morning is like trying to shove a herd of buffalo into a groundhog hole. Once that reality smacked me in the face, I figured I would run at lunch. That idea was destroyed by a really fun day at work that did not involve any eating or running (or breathing, for what it matters).

So, after work.

Except, I never leave work early enough to do something constructive BEFORE I pick up Alexis, so I had to do that first. Once Alexis was in the car, Audrey's Polite Reminder Light had been on for about 15 miles. A wise person would have driven directly to the nearest gas station, but not a cheap person. Nope, a cheap person has to drive an extra five miles to a gas station that takes Fuel Perks (a local grocery store gives us money off gas for shopping there--it's kind of like trading bags full of money for a few cents off gas, but I do manage to come out ahead on the game). I had 40 cents off per gallon to use, OF COURSE I was willing to risk running out of gas on a busy road in the middle of rush hour.

About half way to the gas station of choice, Audrey's Polite Reminder Light turned into something entirely different. The damn thing started flashing and dinging and flashing and dinging. I don't speak Ding, but I think it was saying, "You @#%@#ing moron, get your @$^%@$@# !##$ to a gas station NOW. Or else. @#%@#$."

(*&*&^

At about the same time, I suddenly realized that chugging a Caramel Macchiatto as you are walking out of the office will result in a desperate need to visit a whole other part of the gas station not long after. To say that I was tense and VERY FOCUSED on reaching my destination would be the understatement of the century. I was muttering obscenities under my breath at each and every driver that stood between me and the gas station. All the while, Alexis was alternating between playing LELLO CAR! and calling out what she wanted to do.

"Wook at fish!" (She recognizes the aquarium store. Yes, that is a sad statement.)

"I wan French Fries!" (The Golden Arches get that reaction every.single.time.)

"LELLOW CAR!"

"Go eat noodles!" (Thai restaurant.)

"LELLO CAR!"

"Go toy store!"

I didn't even care that I was losing LELLO CAR! by a landslide. I just wanted to take care of business and put some freakin' gas in the car that was yelling at me REPEATEDLY. I was soooooo focused on the road and getting through all the obstacles that stood between me and my destination.

Then, suddenly, from the back seat came the most blood-curdling scream I have ever heard. That scream -OH SO- very nearly scared the macchiato right out of me.

Alexis dropped her stupid barrette.

We made it to the gas station and I made it to the bathroom, but that stupid barrette will never be heard from again. It didn't deserve to live after it caused the Toddler to very nearly scare the pee out of me.

Oh, and Audrey? GAME ON.

The Next Michael Jordan?

I Said Baa Baa, Baby

Since my life is just plain awful, horrible, and no good, I have been doomed with a child that insists that we go for a walk together every day. Just the thought of it probably will give you nightmares, and for that I am very sorry (OK, so I love every second of it. I admit it.). Lately I've gotten brave/stupid and started doing walks in our own little neighborhood, instead of going up the road to a walking trail. I'm probably setting my self up for hours of annoying because there are three little playgrounds in our development. I have to weave and dodge and circle back to try to confuse the Toddler when we're walking around because once she figures out how to get to even one of those playgrounds, I'm going to be in BIG trouble.

Past the playgrounds at one end of our development is a miniature little farm, or rather a house that has a bunch of sheep. I have declared it a farm, because if you have a dozen or so sheep and a barn, I think that qualifies as farm. Back in my North Dakota days I wouldn't have considered a place with only one or two acres a farm, but this is Pittsburgh, so I get to change the rules as I see fit. Considering that we can see downtown from our deck, I think it's like there is a little farm in the middle of a metropolis. I'm amused by it.

Today I took Alexis up to the farm for the first time so she could get up and sort of personal with the sheep.

She was floored.

She has known for months that sheep say, "Baa," but she had never actually heard a sheep say, "Baa." I SO wish I had the camera ready when she first heard one of those sheep make noise. It was as if she had discovered that the sheep were in on a secret that she thought only she and the CIA knew about. With eyes as big as dinner plates, she picked her jaw up from the ground and yelled, "MOMMY! SHEEP SAID 'BAA!'"

Even better, though, was as we were walking away. She didn't want to leave, so I had to pull out my usual trick. For whatever reason, if I tell her to say, "Bye-bye" to something, she will leave it willingly (it works for toys, places, just about anything--it's MAGICAL). So, I told her to tell the sheep, "Bye-bye." Just as she waved and yelled, "BYE-BYE SHEEPS!" one of them let out the most perfectly timed series of baas of all time.

"Baa Baa."

Alexis very nearly laid an excited little toddler egg right then and there. She spent the next twenty minutes gushing to me that the sheeps talked to her and that they said, "Bye-bye."

How much do you want to bet that if she ever manages to escape our watchful eyes, she'll run right past those playgrounds and go straight for the sheep?

Yesterday's Tough Girl is Today's Super Wimp

This morning Alexis was shoveling her morning waffles and strawberries (the breakfast of champions) when suddenly she blurted out, "Mommy, I urt finwer!" I examined the pudgy little finger and found no signs of anything that could hurt, just a tiny little fleck of strawberry. But, Alexis insisted that she was injured, "Wan medicine, please" was followed by, "Owie!" Each little plea was progressively whinier, so I thought maybe I had missed something. I looked again, only to have the Toddler shove her not-at-all wounded finger into my face. "Kiss owie." It seemed easier to pucker up than to argue (story of my life, right there), so I kissed the finger. "Need kitty ban-aid," the Toddler reported before throwing in a good solid whimper. (We are currently using Hello Kitty Band-Aids because I have had enough of the Dorafication of this house. *stomps foot*)

At that point, I was starting to get annoyed at that little blood-colored fleck of strawberry, so I reached down to wipe it off. In my moment of not at all remembering how the mind of a 2-year old works, I thought she would think I was Magical! Mystical! Mommy! who could make boo-boos heal with just a light touch of her finger!

Oops.

"MOMMY! OWIE! OH, NO! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Real tears.

Obviously, I missed the FDA's warning that strawberries may cause drama.

A REALLY Long Friday Afternoon

When you're sick, how do you act? Do you jump on the couch and giggle with glee? How about beg to swim and then spend hours playing in a tiny pool? Do you continue to carry on like a stark raving lunatic? No? Just Alexis?

Yeah.

So, earlier this week I had to take a field trip for work. Said field trip was going to land me back near work before quitting time, but not more than an hour or two before quitting time. So I found myself looking for excuses to just call it a day and not end up back in the office. I mused that perhaps I would take Alexis to the doctor since she had been suffering from a runny nose for a while. In the end, I let it go when I ended up getting back too late to actually get an appointment.

Then I got to thinking . . . that nose sure had been running for a while. Definitely a week. Actually, definitely two weeks. Come to think of it, when was the last time it was NOT runny? I dunno. A month, maybe? With that thought, I started to pay a little more attention to any signs or symptoms that might tell me that the Toddler was suffering from more than a case of Igotodaycareandswiminnastygermsallday-itis. Lo and behold, she was coughing, too. Not often, maybe once every couple of hours. But, when she did cough, it was gooey. Like, the river that was flowing from her nose clearly originated in her lungs.

At that point, I was 99% in favor of taking her to the doctor, just in case. That 1% hold out was the part of me that was clinging to the "it's just a runny nose" thing. I opted to throw the question out on twitter, and within minutes, a bunch of moms said they would take her.

That was enough for me to pick up the phone.

I'm pretty sure that when I call our pediatrician's office, the triage nurse opens up Alexis' folder, sees that she is an only child, and immediately goes into You Stupid First-Time Moms and Your Overreacting Mode. She heard "runny nose" and "occasional cough" and put me on hold, probably so she could mock my Crazy First-Time Mom ways. When she picked up again, I sensed that we were headed down the path of Just Wait and See, so I started to tell lies. Bold-faced lies. Suddenly, the kid also had a fever, watery eyes, and was extra-fussy. I didn't mention the part where she was at daycare and I hadn't seen her in hours. Or that she totally seemed fine, except for that runny nose and occasional cough.

The whole time I was telling lies, I was wishing that woman worked at the door at Target. I could save thousands of dollars a year if she just stood at the door and made sure my venture inside was warranted.

"I see here that you aren't due for a routine visit for seven more months."

"I know, but it's sort of an emergency."

"What do you need?"

"Razor blades. I really need to shave my legs."

"You're an old married lady with a kid. Nobody cares if you're growing a new National forest on your legs. Admission DENIED. You can call back when it's a real emergency."

Seriously, if Target made it as hard to go drop $100 as the pediatrician's office does, I would have zero debt.

I managed to somehow finagle an appointment for later in the day. An hour and a half into the joy that is a Friday afternoon at a pediatrician's office, I found myself wondering if I could track down that triage nurse and punch her. The kid had a double ear infection and some sort of respiratory/sinus thingy going on. If I hadn't resorted to lying, I'm sure she would still be suffering.

To be honest, after being trapped in a small room for an hour with Alexis, I didn't really think the trip was going to be worth it. But then, as if on cue, Alexis started hacking up a wet lung the very moment the doctor came in the room. I'm sure the doc thought I was AWFUL for letting the kid suffer that long, but seriously, she coughed more in those five minutes than she had in several weeks combined. She actually coughed enough in front of the doctor to warrant a breathing treatment.

I would tell you all about that ten minutes of joy, but I looked at Will Smith's little light and bloop-blooped that from my memory. All that's left is the knowledge that at some point in my life I tried to hold a little mask up to a psychotic hippo's face. I don't think it was fun, but I can't be sure.

So now my Not-at-All-Sick child is taking the happy pink crud in hopes of putting an end to her nose trying to run all the way to Mexico. I just wish she would have told me she was sick.

(And, Alexis, if you're trying to create a "Tough Mystique," you might want to put an end to telling me to kiss the boo-boo on your foot when you accidentally kick a speck of dust. Telling me your ears hurt is GOOD. Keep all pains less significant than an ear infection to yourself, please.)

Just Tube It

The Problem: Your Mother is far too cheap and cruel to buy you pudding in a tube. This is a heartbreaking disappointment as EVERYTHING tastes better in a tube.

The Solution: Dig in the trash and find a four-day old empty fruit snack package. Then carefully spoon the contents of a pudding cup into the package. Voila! Pudding in a tube! As an added bonus, the cheap and cruel Mother will get to spend twenty minutes cleaning up after your moment of creative genius. Just don't get the idea that you were being all sneaky with this endeavor. The cheap and cruel Mother most likely knew everything that was going on, but was curious to see how far you planned to take this little project. The cheap and cruel Mother thinks that was a heck of a lot of effort just to get to eat pudding out of a tube. But cute.

The Karma Doesn't Fall Far from the Tree

I rarely feel the need to punish Mr. Husband when he does something mean. All I have to do is wait, and the universe will punish him for me. That time he called me a moron for putting a giant comforter in the washing machine and flooding the basement? It was only a matter of minutes before he slipped on the stairs and fell on his bum bum. If he makes a snide remark about the fact that I'm domestically challenged, give it ten minutes. He'll smack his head on the door of the kitchen cabinet he left open. When he gives me grief about spending too much money, he invariably drops a heavy object on his own foot.

I have no hand in any of the incidents. I just wait for Karma to catch up to him. It ALWAYS does.

I guess since Karma is so used to hanging out around our house, she has decided to pay a little visit to The Toddler. After she was so cruel to that little girl on Friday? She ended up with this face:



(It looks 417 times worse in person, btw.)

I would like to say that I'm all sorts of ticked off that it happened at daycare, but the fact of the matter is that she was walking outside, holding hands with Abby, and randomly fell flat on her little piehole. I'm going to have to go with it just being one of those things that happens when you're 2-years old and klutzier than an elephant in high heels walking a tight rope.

That, and Karma is a bitch.

That Girl Had Better Learn to Be Nice

Remember That Girl? That Girl was the prettiest girl in the entire school. That Girl was smart enough to not have to work too hard in class, and yet not so smart that she was ostracized. That Girl was the epitome of popularity. The girls wanted to be That Girl. The boys wanted to be with That Girl.

That Girl could garner an audience just by strolling through the lunchroom. She held her head high as she walked confidently across the room, secretly enjoying the knowledge that all eyes were on her. She shunned the friendly geeks that greeted her at various tables. She spoke only to the cool kids, and even then, it was as if she was doing them a favor. She was cooler than the cool and destined for so much more.

I'm afraid Alexis thinks she is That Girl.

Earlier this week, I dropped Alexis off at daycare while breakfast was still going strong. Three kids, THREE KIDS, stopped eating, yelled out, "ALEXIS!" and clambered for her attention. One jumped out of her seat to come over to us, another pulled out a chair and invited Alexis to sit right next to him, the third asked Alexis to sit at her table. Alexis turned tail and ignored them all, choosing instead to sit at a table on the other side of the room.

I didn't think much of it at the time. Alexis has a pretty strong shy streak. Perhaps she just wasn't in the mood for small talk and wanted to warm up to the thought of morning in a quieter locale. Surely it was just an isolated incident and in no way indicative of a superiority complex.

Except, it wasn't an isolated incident.

This morning when I dropped Alexis off, there were several kids in line at the sink. Each was waiting patiently for his or her turn to wash some grubby little fingers. Standing near the end of the line was Abby (not her real name). Abby will eventually be voted Most Likely to Never Crack a Smile. The kid is serious. Very serious. She rarely shows any sort of emotions whatsoever. She's just -eh- all the time. It's who she is.

This morning, Abby turned as Alexis and I walked through the door. She gleefully yelled, "ALEXIS!" With a grin, she started jumping up and down all the while clapping excitedly that her good friend had arrived.

She was so.darn.excited to see Alexis.

As Abby rushed over to us, Alexis quickly tilted her head so that she could clean the boogers out of her nose with the clouds, then passed right by a clearly disappointed Abby. She didn't just snub Abby, she SNUBBED her.

My daughter is That Girl. I've got a lot of teaching to do because that? Is not acceptable.