I Have Adored You So, Sleeping Cutey

Everywhere I look, there are signs. The signs that's she's growing up are like confetti falling from the sky. Everywhere, falling to my feet in a colorful puddle of reminders.

She buttons her own fluffy, white coat.

The diapers are gone, replaced by a rainbow of tiny underwear.

A Dora obsession is a dark figment of my memory.

The jars of baby food in the pantry wait for a cat's tongue, rather than the toothless grin of a chubby infant.

She spends more time planning her fifth birthday party than she does talking about Bert and Ernie.

And now, an era has ended. Where once a list of Disney Princesses meant chatter about Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Cutey, now it has been replaced by a more grown-up choice of words.

Cinderella.

Snow White.

Sleeping Beauty.

So long, Sleeping Cutey. I will miss the smiles you brought to my face each time Alexis incorrectly uttered your name.

I'll just stand here, continuing to watch the confetti fall, knowing that "makery books" will eventually transform into "cook books." I just hope it doesn't happen too soon.

Always Be Nice to Your Mother. Always.

In retrospect, I was looking for excuses. If I had just asked Alexis in the first place, the answer would have been a resounding, "YES."

A new semester of dance class started last week. Enrollment for the semester started months ago, but for whatever reason, I kept ignoring it. And ignoring it. And ignoring it. I truly wasn't sure if I wanted to sign her up again or not. Now that I've got my 20/20 Hindsight Goggles on, I know that it was because I wasn't in the mood to keep sitting in that room with those people and feeling those things any more.

Alexis loves the class. She doesn't always participate fully, but the only person who has a problem with that is me. She's totally fine with it. Alexis doesn't care if some of the people watching the class have voices shriller than Dora being shoved through a meat grinder. That's on me, too. Alexis has no qualms about her listening skills sometimes resembling those of a deaf dog. I'm the only one who gets embarrassed about that. It was all me, me, me.

Today I picked her from daycare with the intention of taking her to dance class and signing her up for spring semester. There was just one catch; I had learned that this time the teacher is the one teacher Alexis doesn't like. I couldn't decide if my further hesitation based on that fact was because I was still looking for excuses to not put myself through torture or not. I decided I would just ask Alexis what she wanted to do.

I started with asking her if she wanted to go to dance class. Enthusiasm burst from her mouth so fast I felt like a jerk for ever doubting that I should take her. Then came the moment of truth; I told her the name of the teacher.

Alexis started whining. "I don't want to go to dance class," she wailed. "I don't like that teacher," she continued. "Waaaah, waaaah, waaaaaah."

Hearing Alexis summon the waaaambulance was exactly what I needed. I decided right then and there that enough was enough. It was time that Alexis learned that you don't always get to hang out with people you like. I drug her out the door, stuck her in her car seat, and started in with a lecture.

I told her all about how sometimes there are people in your life you don't like and how you still have to be nice to them because it's the right thing to do. I told her that sometimes you have to listen to people and do what they tell you, even if you would rather run away. I might have slipped in that there will be days when she won't like me, but she had better still listen and be respectful because that is what you do when faced with people you don't like. I added that sometimes you have to be extra, extra, extra nice to people you don't like because it's the best way to make it through a situation.

I was certain she caught almost none of my meaning, but I figured if the only thing she got from it was that you should always be nice to your mother, it was still a success.

Then we got to dance class and this happened:



ZOMG! I created a monster! Not only was Alexis extra nice to the teacher, she even did everything she could to kill her with kindness. She was extra annoying towards the teacher, but always stayed on the side of Good and Nice and all that. And? She had fun doing it. Too much fun.

It's the Little Things That Make Me Happy

If you weren't already convinced that I have an evil streak, it's time to fix that. While we're at it, we'll go ahead and prove that the evil streak will live on within the heart of my spawn.

While perusing Amazon for birthday party invitations some time ago, I came across a little something that made my eyes sparkle with glee. I quickly pulled the trigger on that little something . . . er . . . big something. In fact, it was LIFE-SIZE something.

A life-size cutout of Troy Bolton/Zac Efron.

OH, YES I DID.

I totally bought Alexis a life-size cardboard Zac. The only thing was that on the very day that I made the purchase, she decided that she was in loooooove with Mr. Danforth. She spent an entire evening declaring her loooooove, so I figured I should probably order a second cut-out. Except, I planned to use the things as party decorations, so it seemed a little weird to have two boys and no girls.

And that is how we came to own life-size cutouts of Sharpay, Gabriella, Troy, and Chad.



They are magnificent. Truly.

Alexis, for her part, LOVED them. So much. She giggled when she saw them. She grinned from ear-to-ear as she moved them around and posed them just right. As Mr. Husband and I stood back and watched her joyfully play puppet-master with the 20-something high schoolers, we noticed something.

The dogs didn't seem to be real found of the fake people who had invaded their house.

At all.

I kinda sorta might have taken advantage of that fact and spent an entire evening chasing the dogs with Troy and Gabriella.

(Caution: Mucho barking in the video.)



My favorite part of that video? The fact that Alexis joined in on the dog chasing at the end. Oh yes, she did. It brings a little tear of pride to my eye just thinking about it.

This little hobby never gets old. Ever. In fact, I think I'm going to go chase the bulldog right now. Heh.

A Little Something for the Grown-Ups

When we first walked down the party decorations aisle, Alexis uttered the most frightening words I've ever heard:

"I want a Dora party!"

*shudder*

Fortunately, she spotted the High School Musical stuff a little while later and changed her mind. Before she could, though, I had an idea. A brilliant idea.

A Dora piñata.

I'm not a big fan of highly structured birthday parties for little kids. I tend to think if somebody is paying for pony rides and clowns and petting zoos and performances by the Jonas Brothers for their 4-year old's birthday party, they aren't doing it for the kid. Regardless, I figured it wouldn't hurt the hoodlums coming to Alexis' party to stop setting off bombs in the playroom long enough to smash Dora's face.

Oh. Em. Gee.

I wish I had videotaped it, if only so I could relive some of the most fantastic lines ever uttered by preschoolers.

"Hit Dora in the face!"

"Smash Dora harder!"

"Hit Dora between her eyes!"



I have to admit, the Latina Whore is one tough hussy. She was battered, she was bruised, she was dented, but she would not break. Of course, she was the lame type of piñata that has the strings you're supposed to pull to open her, but I wanted her decapitated. Judging by the gleeful faces of the other parents in the room, I was not alone.

We kinda sorta let the kids keep whacking the Whore for a REAL long time. Every single parent in the room was grinning from ear-to-ear. There might have been a few celebratory fist pumps each time the Latina Whore took a good hit to the face. She never quite died, though.

I had to ask Mr. Husband to pull the ribbon. I nearly passed out laughing when I glanced over to find him trying to get the candy unstuck from the Latina's nether regions, but sadly, other than a giant hole between her legs, she was pretty much alive and well.

Until my new hero got hold of her.



You know your party is a success when one of the guests brings you Dora's head on a stick.

She didn't stop there, though. My new hero bashed and smashed and hit and whacked that Dora until she was REALLY dead.



Have you ever seen anything quite as beautiful as a decapitated Dora? I haven't.

Except maybe the look of pure bliss all around when Dora got ripped from limb-to-limb.



:-D

My only regret is that Alexis missed the carnage. She was too busy hiding because her guests had the nerve to look at her when she was about to take a whack at the Latina Whore.

Ready to Party

Thank You, Target

I'm not sure if it makes her crazy lucky or if it means she gets screwed, but Alexis having a birthday at the end of January means she is a child of the clearance aisle. She winds up gifted with whatever is most on sale. It probably means she gets more, but at the same time, we spend less. It definitely means she winds up with stuff we wouldn't otherwise purchase.

Like, a Fur Real Friend. We don't do electronic much of anything. We especially don't do expensive electronic much of anything. But when a panda ends up marked down to less than $10, suddenly it sounds like a good idea.

It was.

If Only She Would Use Her Magic Powers to Slow Time Down

Dear Alexis,

FOUR! Can you believe it? Of course you can. You've been anxiously awaiting this day essentially since your last birthday. I'm not real happy that you went out and found that flux capicitator and magic juju that allowed you to fast forward time through the past year, but I'll forgive it because you have enjoyed this day more than Meg enjoys sleep.

Speaking of sleep, this is the year that I finally came to terms with something--you don't need sleep. I keep saying it because I find it so incredibly hard to believe. I mean, what's not to love about sleep? It's really my most favorite thing in the world. Besides you, that is.

You are, in every way, my little buddy. You had to be forcibly evicted four years ago as you had absolutely no interest in doing anything but drop-kicking my lungs and punching my bladder for the rest of your life. Now you've spent the past four years trying to find a way back in. I could say you are like a gangrenous growth that is constantly attached around my body, but I prefer to think of you as "cuddly." Very, very cuddly. (Secretly, I love every second of it. If I told you that now, though, you'd probably hire a plastic surgeon to just finish off the permanent attachment. We'll stick with me telling you to "find a hobby" instead.)

When you aren't busy trying to find your way back into my womb, you're running around belting out the songs in your heart. If you hear a song once, you own it. You will sing it, you will dance to it, you will be it. It's absolutely fantastic when the Song of the Day is something from High School Musical, but not so much when it's Opeth. My current favorite is when you start yelling, "BOOM BOOM POW" because there's nothing quite as funny as a short person declaring, "You're jackin' my style."

Simply put, nobody could ever jack your style.

You have an amazing style that is all your own, from the way you dress to the way you carry yourself day-to-day. With your heart in your pocket, you seek to make the world a better place, and you're doing it on your own terms. You enjoyed helping me select toys for some kids in need so much at Christmas that every shopping trip is now filled with requests like, "Can we buy this for the kids who don't have a lot of toys like me?" That giving heart is going to take you great places some day.

I can't wait to go those great places with you.

I love you, kid, and don't you ever forget it.

Happy birthday, Alexis. I hope Four is your greatest year ever.

Love,

Your Sleep-Deprived but Completely in Love with You Momma

One Last Look at the Face of Three

Psst . . .Last year's Birthday Eve post.

Only One of Us Knows How to Act Like a Mature Adult

So, it turns out I have issues and baggage and such. SHOCKER! OK, not really shocking, but birthday parties and the like seem to have the ability to knock 20 years off my life instantly. It's like the fountain of youth over here, complete with the insecurity and stupidity that comes with worrying about party lists.

The last time I had to figure out who to invite to a birthday party, I was about two feet shorter and walking around wearing green knee socks, clear jelly shoes, a pink skirt, and a purple sweatshirt. While you should be very grateful there are no photos of said fashion tragedy, I remember very clearly putting together a list of kids I wanted to invite to my birthday party and failing miserably at it. It was probably my 8th birthday, or so, and the one and only time I ever had a party. Because I screwed up the list. Like, really.

I wanted to invite all of the girls in my class. I listed them, wrote out the invitations, and realized I had one more invitation that I had names. No problem! I would just invite a boy!

WRONG.

I forgot a girl. Just one, but still. She knew I forgot her. I knew I forgot her. She was devastated. I knew she was devastated. There was no patching it or fixing it or whatever. I wasn't even smart enough to ask my parents to bail me out. I just snubbed her because it was easier.

I still feel like a jerk for it. See also: I have issues and baggage and such.

So when it came time to figure out who to invite to Alexis' first ever birthday party, I opened the closet, grabbed all that baggage, and set it down at the table beside us. I would have liked to have invited every single kid at her school, but this party is going to be at our house. As much as I would like to be super nice and avoid drama, I'd also like to still have a house next week. So, that idea was out. Then I thought we would just invite her class, but the darn kid complicated that issue by being smart enough to sometimes hang out with the class ahead of her. Really she's about 50/50 with two different groups. So, I was left with only one option--I made her decide who to invite.

"You can invite ten friends to your birthday party. Who would you like to invite?" I asked her.

Oblivious to the potential future social implications, she started rambling off a bunch of names. I quickly wrote them down. When we got to ten, I looked down at the list and went, "WOAH, WOAH, WOAH." She had named eight boys and two girls.

"Don't you ever play with any girls?" I asked. I really don't know why that mattered, it just seemed weird that a little kid would have been so lob-sided with her gender breakout.

We tweaked the list a little and then we tweaked it a little more. Then I realized I couldn't figure out where some of the kids she had listed had a mailbox at school (as in, I'm not sure one of the kids actually exists), so I kinda sorta substituted a few with kids whose boxes I was able to find. In the end, I felt like we had a pretty good list of the kids that she frequently talks about even when she's not at school.

Fast forward a few weeks and I realized I had not gotten any RSVPs. While I know I am a complete goobernugget about RSVPing for things, I still had that moment of flashing back twenty years to insecurity and drama. What if nobody showed up? OMG. FREAK OUT!

Of course, that was totally unfounded insecurity because the kid is already more popular than I could have ever hoped to be. She's oddly magical like that. People just suck about RSVPing. No big thing.

But then today came and, once again, I had to haul that luggage out of the closet. I checked the email account where I asked people to send their RSVPs AND THERE WERE THREE! I squeed. And then I wanted to punch myself in the face for being such a dork, but I'm really tired and that sounded like a lot of effort.

Thank goodness the kid is completely oblivious to all of this self-imposed drama I'm creating. Maybe by the time she has grown up enough to care what other people think, I'll have done a little growing up myself.

Finding Her Purpose

I recently wound up in a conversation with someone who is about a month from becoming a father for the first time. I feel like it's my sworn duty to make sure all soon-to-be-parents are given two valuable (and unwanted) pieces of my infinite wisdom: 1.) Don't spend good money on a good changing table because your kid is just going to cover it in poop and 2.) That thing people say about newborns not sleeping? They lie. A lot.

It's about 135134098535 times worse than anyone tells you it's going to be.

It's not that people are trying to lie, of course. It's that there just aren't words in the English language that adequately describe the level of sleep deprivation that comes with that first month or so. The closest I've ever come is to tell people that it's like you set your alarm clock for 2:00am and then hit snooze when it goes off. Instead of going back to sleep, you walk down the hall, thread a needle, watch a high school drama club reenact an episode of Seinfeld, sell a life insurance plan to a 7-year old, and then go back to bed, only to have the alarm go off again 15 minutes later. Once again, you hit snooze. You repeat the whole process. Over and over. All night long. For a month. Or longer.

I then mentioned to the soon-to-be-father that it really sucks that I apparently got a defective model of baby girl. Mine STILL doesn't sleep. I explained that she just plain doesn't need sleep, as if she's some sort of robot or something.

Somewhere along the line, his eyes got big and he started to look a little worried. "My wife is like that. She doesn't need sleep either and never has."

He was concerned that the baby might take after his wife, but some of the words he said floated out of his mouth bearing flashing lights, sirens, exclamation points, and pure joy.

His wife is a doctor.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A purpose!

A goal!

A use for that no need to sleep superpower!

When we're done paying for med school for Alexis, I'm making her buy me my very own sleeping quarters. I don't care where they are or what they look like, but the kid owes me nearly five years of good sleep.

A Win!

I spend a great deal of my time walking around confused. It's pretty much a constant state of being for me. A great deal of the blame for that state of being can be attributed to the short person who does random weird stuff daily. Like this:



For most kids, torn up knees wouldn't be a big deal, but that is Alexis' knobby knee, so THAT IS WEIRD. The kid has not destroyed a pair of pants in . . . actually, I can't remember. It's been a long time since I started praying to the Church of Gap, and since then she has outgrown stuff long before she has destroyed it. She just doesn't tear up her clothes (Exception: Target or Children's Place clothes--those last two wears and then fall to pieces at our house.).

More bizarre, those were new jeans. She had only worn them once before, so it wasn't like they should have been beat up. I asked Alexis what happened.

"I took a nap," she said.

There were about fifteen things wrong with her response. First, I had to quiz the kid to determine that her definition of "nap" and my definition of "nap" are not at all the same. My definition is superior because it involves actual sleep, but whatever. I asked more questions to figure out how you tear up both knees on a pair of pants by lying around on a cot for an hour or so. I never got an answer better than she "took a nap and fell off the cot." The thing is that her "cot" is really just a mat and sits no more than an inch off the floor. Apparently her cot was hungry and decided denim looked yummy.

The good news is that the universe heard my annoyance at the little incident. I didn't pay much for the ripped up pants because, well, I refuse to pay much for anything, which is exactly why I wound up trolling the clearance rack at Kids Gap again today.

Looky what I found!



Before you get too impressed, please note that all clearance at that Gap was an extra 40% off. Those jeans? Were $5.38. I found four pair in four different styles. I AM A SHOPPING NINJA.

Good thing, since apparently my kid's nap cot is out to get her.

Picking and Choosing Her Audience

This video, which was sent to me by one of our daycare teachers, has been in my possession for a few weeks. We've watched it something like 2346241.41 times. Each time it cracks me up, althoughy really my response should be more like OMG! How rude! followed by a stern lecture and maybe a stint in prison. For her, not me. I'm not that rude.

I think the most amazing part of this little display of cute followed by obnoxious followed by OMG! How rude! is that it took place in the midst of the absolute chaos that is 20+ three and four-year olds running loose in an enclosed space. It's like Alexis was standing in the middle of a pinball machine while multi-ball was in effect. She is completely unphased by it all and magically manages to avoid getting smashed in the back of the head by a shiny silver ball. That may very well be because the short people are crazy, but not crazy enough to go near the kid with the floppy hat and dangerous purse.



Fickle? Yes. Bossy? Yes. Mine? Definitely yes.

Sigh.

If you had asked me yesterday what I thought I would be posting about today, I would have guessed that it involved violent thoughts, threats, frustration, and maybe a spork or two. OK, maybe a whole box of sporks. After multiple concerts and shows and programs, I've come to expect this:



It doesn't matter how early we get there. It doesn't matter where we sit. It doesn't matter how nice we are. We ALWAYS end up sitting right behind at least one bobbleheaded gooberface who makes it impossible for us to catch even a glimpse of our kid. It's like a law, or something. (FYI--That's the BEST photo I have from Alexis' Christmas show because it's the only one where I can find so much as a strand of her hair.)

Today was Alexis' dance show, so I walked into the building ready to bore holes in the back of someone's head with my eyes.

It didn't happen, because this was the view:



Alexis sat off to the side, not participating, swimming in a puddle of self pity for the entire hour.

It sucked.

It's not a secret that she's a shy kid. She keeps her heart in her front pocket, but clenches it tightly when there is a large group of strangers. That's actually why she's in dance in the first place. I don't care if she memorizes First Position or can do a Shuffle Step or knows the difference between Tap Dancing and Square Dancing. She's there to work on her confidence and to become a little more comfortable in groups.

All semester, she's done really well. Really, really well. So well, in fact, that I had actually forgotten that it was a problem. We've gone to make-up classes comprised of nothing but total strangers, and she was fine. We've had a couple of shows, complete with parents in the room, and she was fine.

And then today she was not fine.

It was my fault.

Work was chaotic today, the kind of chaotic that makes you wish you could hit the reset button and start the day over just so you can get a few extra hours. It was also the kind of day when leaving early just wasn't a possibility. It was beyond my control when I left 15 minutes later than I would have liked. It was beyond my control when I picked Alexis up 15 minutes later than I would have liked. It was beyond my control when we walked into the dance center right on time.

I know we need to be early. I know Alexis needs those extra minutes to mentally prepare herself to deal with strangers. I know it would have been much different if we just hadn't been the last ones to come rushing in, just before the program started.

I hate that I set her up to fail.

Why, Yes, I am Bragging. And?

Kid art makes me happy. I mean, who else but a 3-year old would figure out a way to make Violet from The Incredibles look like a character from The Princess and the Frog?



Trippy.

Recently Alexis came home from school with this masterpiece:



Of course, I immediately asked, "What is that?" I really didn't know.

The artist was a little offended that I needed to ask. She sighed, rolled her eyes at my stupidity, and then said, "It's you and my friends." The word, "Duh" was implied, but not actually spoken.

"Oh," I said. I found the explanation even more confusing than the picture because, uh, what's up with my nose?



Oink? Oink.

I won't even address the 82354609134 other things that are horribly wrong with that depiction of me. Nothing about it is flattering, that's for sure.

Then there is "the friends." I was going to ask what is up with the circles on their bodies, but I was afraid the answer was going to be even more disturbing than anything my imagination could come up with.



I'm just going to go with cow udders. So, uh, moooo.

I looked at that particular piece of art for days trying to decipher all the mysteries it holds. DAYS. And then I noticed it:



The sun. THE SUN LOOKS LIKE A SUN! Suddenly, I don't really care that my kid thinks I have a pig nose and an booty wider than a semi, SHE CAN DRAW THE SUN!

The only question is, how did she learn what it looks like? It's not like she sees it all that often in Pittsburgh.

How Many Times Can I Type, "Really?" A Lot. Really.

I often joke that Alexis doesn't sleep. Mind you, it's not really all that much of a "joke" because she really doesn't and I REALLY REALLY wish she did. Like, REALLY. The kid frequently stays awake far later than any kid her age should, only to rise again bright and early and perky. She certainly has days when her refusal to sleep catches up with her and she evolves into a two-headed bratty monster, but generally she soldiers through it. Happy.

Yesterday was a typical day, one which made it seem like she might just be a robot. She was awake ridiculously early after having gone too bed insanely late. In theory that should have meant that she would take a nap, even if only a short one.

As we piled into the car on our way to a play date, I figured I would toss a few more ingredients into the Take a Nap Stew. I set the music just right. I explained to Alexis that if she took a nap, when she woke up she would get to play with her friends. I even made sure I took the least bumpy route possible.

She spent the entire trip telling me about how she was going to be good and take a nap. Lots of talking. No sleeping.

After several hours of playing hard and having way more fun than a kid should be allowed to have, I thought FOR SURE she would fall asleep in the car on the way home. I even made sure that it would be horribly inconvenient if she did by deciding to make a stop along the way.

She still didn't fall asleep.

Until we were less than 10 minutes from our house. At 7:00pm. When she still hadn't eaten dinner.

She was in a fantastic mood when I got her out of the car. And by "fantastic" I mean, have you seen my head? Because she bit it off and spit it out. I haven't been able to find it since.

Five packs of fruit snacks later, she recovered and then proceeded to stay up way past my bedtime.

Today could best be defined as lather, rinse, repeat. Only, there was no long car ride, so she wasn't presented an opportunity to take a pseudo-nap.

Which is probably why she ate dinner and then promptly disappeared behind the couch. I found her like this:



Anybody brave enough to come over and move her to her bed? Anybody? PLEASE?

And how great is my life that this is my biggest worry at the moment? I mean, really.

What Kind of Super Power is a Stare Anyway? LAME.

Within hours of closing on the new house, I stood with Alexis in the paint aisle, holding a shower curtain in one hand and some paint chips in the other. We had just acquired a sugary sweet Hello Kitty set for her bathroom and the mission was to match it all together.

I knew the kid was going to choose pink, but I still showed her a plethora of options. There was pale blue, white, gray, dark blue, light pink, dark pink, all sorts of choices. She studied the paint chips, studied the shower curtain, and then looked up at me and declared that she wanted the walls to be pink like Hello Kitty's hat.

And so it was. A pink bathroom. A bright pink bathroom.

For some reason, all of which probably have to do with the fact that I hate pink, it took until this past week for me to pop open that can of paint and get to work. The second I pulled the lid off, I gagged a little. As I stirred and stirred, I reminded myself that it would dry darker on the walls than it was in the can. That was certainly a good thing. I scooped a little onto a paint brush and slapped it onto the wall.

It looked like Care Bear blood.

I kept going, working my way around the room, drop of Care Bear blood after drop of Care Bear blood. When it was done, it truly was so pink that even Strawberry Shortcake, the Queen of Gross Pink Things, would vomit immediately upon entering the room.

It dried darker all right. Now it looks like there was some sort of Care Bear massacre. Instead of the Bears successfully using their magical Care Bear Stare to ward off evil, they got their asses kicked and now their blood has dried all over the walls.

A Care Bear (or two) died so Alexis could have this bathroom.



(Pictures do not do the horror justice. Trust me.)

That bathroom is always going to be Alexis' bathroom. No one else will ever use it. I know for a fact that some day she is going to come to me, stick out her bottom lip, open her eyes wide, and whiiiiiine that it's ugly and I'm so horrible and OMIGAH can we please paint it any other color but that pleasepleasepleaseplease?

I'll be ready with a response.

Alexis, it's perfect just the way it is.



She had very important Alvin and the Chipmunks viewing to finish so she had to rush off. Truly, she loooooves it, and I'm never going to let her forget it.

**************************************************************************

If you haven't been keeping up with the BRESMA orphanage story, please go over to That's Church and see if there is any way you can help. Every email, tweet, and blog post does help. We need to get supplies to the kids and get them to the families who are waiting for them. You never know if the person reading your words will be the one who can make things happen. I'll be looking at you again when the kids are safe and it's time to start rebuilding that orphanage. :-)

I Want to Fix the World with You

It has been one of those days, one of those days when I wish I could wrap my arms around the world, give it a hug, and then reach into my toolbox and pull out just the right thing to fix all of the heartbreak.

I wish I had a tool that could give two kids back their father, their father who was murdered senselessly while protecting all of us.

I wish I had something . . . anything . . . that could fix the pain for a mother who buried her child today.

I wish there was a way to undo all of the damage and destruction that has been done in Haiti, a way to make it all OK.

I wish I had a plane in my toolbox so I could fly to Haiti and help these Pittsburghers make sure that the families who are waiting to adopt these beautiful babies will get to do so.

I wish I could fix it all.

Instead, I'm left to fix the problems that overwhelm a 3 (almost 4)-year old. I reach into that toolbox and find the right thing to make it OK that there are no Chad Danforth fruit snacks in the High School Musical fruit snack box. I use my arms to comfort her when she gets frustrated trying to write the word, "Dad." I cover her with another blanket when she cries that she is cold.

I'm grateful for the tools that I do have, the tools that allow me to remember that after a long, chatter-filled bedtime delay, that 3-year old turned to me and said one last thing before falling asleep:

"Momma, I have one more thing to say. I love you."

Winner Winner Chicken Dinner

If the success of a weekend can be measured by the number of times that you scream as you go hurtling down a hillside with snow flying in your face, WE WIN. We spent essentially the entire weekend taking turns crawling into a cheap plastic sled and throwing ourselves down a hill.

A big hill.



It started out all wrong. On Saturday we stopped at the big hill with the idea that we would just give it a shot. Once. We just wanted to see if the short person in our lives would enjoy the thrill of flying much faster than she can on our little "hill" in our back yard.

Uh, if screaming and crying and yelling, "The kids threw snow in my face!" is disliking real sledding, then Alexis hated it. HATED IT. I spent half the evening fussing at her about lying (the kids did not throw snow in her face--the sled did) and the other half studying what she was saying when words weren't actually coming out of her mouth.

I had a hunch that she actually maybe liked it.

So, Sunday we loaded up and headed to the hill again. When Alexis was quick to start pulling her sled up the hill, I became more confident that I had read her right.

And then she came back down the hill with Mr. Husband.



That's not her I'm Having the Best Time Ever Face.



But that is. It seems she just needed a second to think about it.

The trick for the little nutjob is that she has to face backwards. She doesn't like when snow flies in her face, but she sure does think it's hilarious when her weight ends up distributed unevenly and she makes you go spinning like a top.



I don't think the pictures really show just how big and just how steep that hill is, but that's us flying backwards down that hill at crazy high speeds, just before we nearly crashed into about a dozen people. Apparently the eyes in the back of my head are only good for detecting Alexis shenanigans. Fortunately, the kids we nearly crashed into have enough of a survival instinct that they moved out of the way.

Up and down we went, over and over and over. The only reason we managed to drag the kid away from her new favorite hobby was that she ended up needing to go to the bathroom.

Later Sunday night, I turned on the news to see if there's a chance that the snow will still be there next weekend. We NEED to do a ton more sledding. Of course, I turned the TV on just in time to see a story about the dozen or so kids who wound up in the emergency room after sledding accidents. I'm not sure what the universe is trying to tell me with that crazy coincidence, but I think I'll ignore it.

Counting Down the Minutes Until this Month Ends

Apparently we should mark our calendars for the next fourteen years. We need to grab a fat red marker and write CHALLENGING across January. For four years running, January has been "challenging." And by "challenging," I mean OMG! This kid!

Alexis is, generally speaking, an easy to get along with kid. She's mostly good, complete with a side of sassy. The thing is, she likes to express all that is impossible about a particular age nonstop for about a month before she actually is that age. Every year has been the same.

Right before she turned one, she thought it would be GREAT FUN to carry out the whole One Year Olds are Insane Plan. All the new-found independence and lack of concern for safety that you expect of a one-year old was bottled up for Alexis, and she dumped that sucker out all. at. once. Walking through a parking lot with her was like trying to hold a spastic Frogger's hand as you drag him kicking and screaming to the safety of the log on the other side of the river. Only, Frogger doesn't want your help because he thinks he would look spectacular splattered on the front of that semi. Oh, and he plans to scream "PLEASE CALL CYS! I'M BEING ABUSED!" Just for fun.

A whole month. Impossible. And then, all of sudden, it stopped and the kid was almost human again. Sure, she still had her I'm Feeling One moments, but not that frequently.

Then there was the month before two. "Terrible" would be an understatement. Imagine a whole year's worth of terrible concentrated into one short month. THAT. THAT is what we survived. And then two itself was actually pretty damn fun.

Three was the same thing. Everybody who has been there will say that three is WAY worse than two, and that it is. When you concentrate all of its drama and whining and general buttheadery into one month? It's a miracle no lives were taken. Truly.

And now here we are on the cusp of four. I know that we just have to hang in there, be consistent, and scare the rotten out of her with lots of love. All the fun that four can bring is right there, just waiting for us. If we survive this month.

That's a big if.

This is What Almost Four Looks Like