Happy as a (Boiling Hot) Clam

*Caution: Random Acts of Whining Ahead*

Yesterday afternoon as we ran all over town, as we are wont to do on a weekend, I took notice of the fact that the snot running from Alexis' nose seemed to be trying to work up enough momentum to make a run for the Mexican border. I coupled that with the fact that her forehead felt like she had turned up the thermostat on that kick butt little heater she had installed before birth and, like the genius that I am, deduced that my rarely ill child actually has a cold. It's the first time in . . . um . . . I dunno, a long time. At least four months. As I knew we were long out of Tylenol or any other sort of fever-reducing magic potion, I made a run into the grocery store to stock up on some pharmaceuticals.

When I (finally) located the child appropriate drugs, I was met with labels that pointed out that OH NO SHE'S TOO OLD FOR THE INFANT CRAP now. Besides the insulting implication that I should stop referring to her as my baby (you can't make me, Tylenol), this revelation posed a problem. There were several flavors to choose from and did you know I don't do decisions? Especially not life-changing decisions like what flavor of drugs to buy my baby. I tried to think like Alexis and eventually narrowed it down to the berry flavors.

Then I noticed that -OH NO!- I had to give her the drugs in a cup. My girl is admittedly not much of a spiller, but you know darn well that if you give a generally good kid a little cup full of super-staining sugary liquid, that will be the day that she decides to pour the liquid all over the only remaining clean spot on the carpet. So again I put on my genius cap and opted for the dye-free formula.

Oops.

It took about a millisecond to discover that my genius was wasted on she who was not willing to drink so much as a drop of medicine, despite the fact that she has been known to call up her dealer in the middle of the night for a little hit just because she thinks medicine is fun. But, you know, I'm smarter than a two-year old, right? So I dug out one of those little syringes from the kitchen drawer and made it look like her old baby meds.

She didn't fall for it.

It took two adults over twenty minutes to administer one teaspoon of fever-reducer to a child who's booty hole claimed she was running around 101.8. That, my friends, was a good time.

Fast forward to this morning, and it turned out that this particular cold has decided to take up residency for a little while. Alexis' diaper was dry and her temp was over 102 degrees. So, she and I spent the day at home together. I knew I could drug her and send her to daycare, but I also knew the drugs would wear off and I would just end up picking her up early. I didn't see a reason to spread her germy love to the other kids (one of which is probably the one that gave it to her in the first place, but whatever). Besides, I wanted to make sure she drank enough liquid to grow a few humps (like a camel).

We have spent the greater part of our day fighting over medicine. I have tried diluting it in water. I have tried slipping it in a cup of juice. I even tried chocolate milk. Every time I prepare a sneaky snake concoction for her, we end up having a conversation like this:

Alexis: I want juice.
Me: Here you go.
Alexis: No, I want milk.
Me: Of course you do. Here you go.
Alexis: Water, please.
Me: You're kidding, right? Fine, here's some water.
Alexis: No, thank you.

Yeah, she gets props for the whole polite thing, but I swear on my Girl Scout cookies, she can stop with the women's prerogative crap right about now.

So right now my dear child is sitting at her little table tossing Lima beans into the air, trying to catch them in her mouth, and then getting mad when Meg the Bulldog has the audacity to actually eat the ones that fall to the ground. Alexis worships at the church of the Lima bean, so I'm not really sure why she's leaving even a tiny opportunity for anyone to steal them from her. It must be the untreated 102 degree fever getting to her brain.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy every single flavor of fever-reducer under the sun, including the suspicious looking dissolving tablets, in hopes that she will take something.

Not Quite Ready for Prime Time

Alexis likes to announce her bodily functions. It's not always necessary since she doesn't exactly poop roses, but it's not a bad thing either. So earlier today when she declared, "Poop!" then proceeded to grab a diaper and the wipes, I thought nothing of it. She was just following the rules that I have established. I will wipe her dirty butt, but only if she fetches and returns all the necessities for me.

However, when I rounded the corner to change her, I found that I hadn't quite understood what she was saying. She filled me in, "Bear pooped." She sat there with her Bear pinned down, wiping his bottom with a baby wipe. I was thinking this was really rather impressive, probably further evidence that I should quit being a lazy, self-centered Mom that plans to wait as long as possible to potty train the poor kid. (I do not want to deal with potty breaks when driving somewhere, eating, standing in line, shopping, or doing anything else that I enjoy. Go ahead, call the Potty Police on me. I don't care!) She set the wipe down, picked up the diaper, and tried to finish the job with Bear. When she couldn't quite get the tabs to reach, I offered to help. Just as I was fastening the first tab, I glanced at her and was startled to realize that she was EATING THE (not really) POOPY WIPE.

OK, so I know it was imaginary poop and all, but I think if you are willing to eat imaginary poop, well then that is all the evidence I need to know that you are not ready for changing real diapers. No siblings for you, you poop eater!



And now I present video of Alexis once again changing Bear's diaper. Please note the lovely gagging sound she makes when opening the diaper and the clever way that she stuffs the (not really) dirty wipe back into the container. So clean and classy. Oh, and the debate around whether Bear should wear an Elmo diaper or a Cookie diaper? She's just trying to push them off onto Bear so she can have all the Zoe diapers for herself. That is how she rolls these days--only Zoe is good enough for her poop.

Irritating the Prisoners, One Day at a Time

Alexis and I have adjusted to stay-at-home life quite nicely. We've settled into a routine and while I think she would prefer that I let her watch Signing Time all day every day, she's getting by just fine.

There is, however, a dog that has not adjusted. In fact, I do believe the dog has had it up to here, young lady. To be honest, I sort of expected it with Jasmine. We are, after all, talking about a dog that has previously been known to like kids because they taste really good with a side of ketchup. Meg, on the other hand, has never displayed anything but the utmost of patience with kids. She has spent many a Thanksgiving and Christmas at family gatherings with no less than 10 kids simultaneously chasing her, tackling her, stealing her toys, riding her, pulling her face, poking her in the eye, and otherwise torturing her in ways that only kids can think of. The freaky part is that she has always loved every minute of it.

So it's a little surprising that Jasmine is still clutching her last shred of patience. She has nipped Alexis a few times, but always when Alexis had ripped enough hair out of her to perform a complete hair transplant on her bald Cabbage Patch doll. In other words, the kid deserved it. I really can't fault the dog when I have been known to want to chew a hole in Alexis' belly for ripping out a chunk of my hair. Actually, come to think of it, Jasmine is showing an amazing amount of tolerance.

No, it's Meg that has had it. Anymore, all Alexis has to do is look at her and Meg will snarl. I don't know if it's the competition for space on the couch (it is, after all, Meg's couch, and the rest of us should never forget it), the fact that Alexis never seems to leave, the constant noise, or what, but Meg is so over the Toddler known as Alexis.

Meg tries to hide, but she's just not the sharpest tool in the shed. She can't seem to figure out that as a 50-pound beast, there is nowhere that she can fit that the 30-pound toddler can't follow. Crawling under the table happens to be a Toddler hobby. Waddling around under the chairs is a Toddler specialty. The Toddler is completely capable of walking into the kitchen. And on the rare occasion that it occurs to Meg to "JUST GO UPSTAIRS ALREADY, YOU MORON," she goes and announces her location by snoring so loudly that Alexis mistakes it as a homing beacon.

I've tried to explain to Meg that all this people food she's been gaining access to can be directly attributed to Alexis. She doesn't see the connection. Even when Alexis begs to give the dogs treats and I go along with it, Meg seems to give me the credit. Alexis is the only one that will pet the dogs (nicely, even!), but yet, she gets no love in return. The poor kid devotes so much love and affection to the dogs and cats (aka the Prisoners), but she gets none in return.

I guess Meg will be thrilled to learn the end is near.

Gimme a Break, Gimme a Break

I present to you photographic evidence that eating too many Kit Kats does indeed cause bodily harm:



THAT is Kit Kat Belly. It's a condition that is likely to result in your shirt riding up and your jeans coming unsnapped. Repeatedly.

Hitting the dog on the head with a maraca will not cure your Kit Kat Belly. It will, however, get you in big trouble with your Mother and she WILL make you feel bad for being mean.

Bodily Harm All Around

I decided to join in the madness that is NaBloPoMo, although it won't be much of a challenge. For those not in the know, November is National Blog Posting Month. So lots and lots of bloggers commit to posting every single day during the month. I always post every day and have for over 21 months (give or take a handful of days when Verizon was trying to suck my brains out of my head). It won't be that hard to go the whole month. It wouldn't even be a challenge if I decided I would only blog about parents that annoy me. Cuz' really, those are everywhere. Or at least they have been this week.

Exhibit A crossed my path at Gymboree the other day. Apparently kids feet grow or something because while Alexis was busy wearing way cute sandals all summer, she went and outgrew all but like three pairs socks. Since you can only flip them inside out a few times before it becomes a little too obvious, I thought a sock shopping expedition was warranted. Off to Gymboree we went to dig through clearance bins. Alexis, of course, bee-lined straight for the television. The child that will not just stare at Sesame Street while I'm in the shower, despite my fervent pleas, cannot wait to watch Elmo on the TV in Gymboree. She ran over as fast as her little legs would carry her and prepared to flop down in a chair.

Just as Alexis' little butt was about to meet bright blue plastic, the little girl seated nearby in the bright orange chair gave her a shove. A shove hard enough to send her flying under the clearance rack, four feet away. I dashed over to check for blood and nurse the Category 4 Meltdown while ignoring the urge to go all Jeff Reed on the demon spawn's head. As tears poured down Alexis' chubby little cheeks, a woman previously perusing over-priced sweaters broke from her Very Important Cell Phone Conversation regarding ugly water heater repairmen to toss a nugget of wisdom over her shoulder, "Oh, she's not good at sharing." She then turned back around and resumed her discussions of Ted as her demon spawn unleashed on a second victim.

Anyone who does not see anything wrong with the woman's response, please leave now. I can't be your friend.

Yesterday Alexis and I had another lovely run-in. The mother of the little boy who ripped a book from Alexis' hand as she was holding it and asking me to read to her? Definitely not my friend. That woman was perhaps five feet away, certainly within hearing range, and sitting right next to a whole bookshelf of lovely books not currently in use. I was so proud of Alexis when she politely asked for the book back with a soft "Book, please?" I was even prouder of her that she didn't have a meltdown when the little boy didn't give it back. The whole time I was thinking that if Alexis pulled that, I would be over there making her return the book and apologize. But whatever. What REALLY got my blood boiling was when Alexis and I walked over to the bookshelf to pick out a different book only to have the first one launched directly at my head. Oh yes, it made contact. The mother, on the other hand, didn't. She just kept sitting there watching her little boy. Not one word to us or the little boy.

Is it just me, or are people letting their kids get away with way too much these days? (So asks the woman who let her Toddler eat Kit Kats for breakfast this morning.)

The Gringa is Annoyed

As I sit here typing away, I am annoyed. ANNOYED, I tell you. At this very moment, and since way too early this morning, there have been people out in our yard and neighborhood mowing the grass.

Now, don't hate. We aren't all wealthy and cool enough to have professional mower types mowing our lawn. For goodness sake, we live in a townhouse that's so tiny you can stand in the living room, dining room, and kitchen all at one time. And have you seen our half bath? It should have been called a quarter bath because if you raise your arms up even a little, you can't turn around. Claustrophobics best go to McDonald's to pee, cause they won't survive in there. Anyway, we live in one of those Association-type neighborhoods, so we pay a fabulous fee of $27 each month to allow people who don't speak any English to do a really crappy job of mowing our grass. Oh, and they don't speak Spanish either because I TRIED THAT (Antendi el colegio en Alicante). There are still grass clippings getting shot into the pond and perfectly good plants getting run over with a mower. The grass wasn't even long enough to need mowed. If only we could mow it ourselves . . . Oh, and, dude, there are extension cords running all over our front yard lighting up the cemetery and ghosts and ghouls and if they hack even one of my precious extension cords, Ima gonna be doing me some Spanglish yelling in hopes that maybe they'll understand at least one word. STEP A LEJOS DE LOS EXTENSION CORDS, COMPRENDES?

Gawd, my head hurts from all that Spanish. No more thinking for me.

The other source of my annoyance is that I have been outsmarted by the one-year old. Again. Yesterday, when she asked to take a nap? It was a trick. A mean, mean trick. I'm reaping the benefits right this minute.

Peoples, we took away the pacifier months and months ago. I happen to hate the things and really had no intention of ever crossing into over the darkside. But that kid? That kid NEEDED to suck something when she was little. And I breastfed. So I had a choice, I could have a kid attached to me at all times, or I could give her a pacifier. Did I mention that I love pacifiers? Anyway, we took them away months ago.

While we were doing a stellar job in that arena, we were doing a crap-tastic job teaching our kid how to take naps. The girl went over a year without taking a single nap in her crib. At daycare they would wave a magical wand and get her to nap on her little cot on cue. At home, we would go for a drive so she could take a nap in the car. Seriously, the girl has been in the car for her afternoon nap every single Saturday and Sunday for a very long time. It was never really a problem since we are ALWAYS out running around on the weekends.

Now enter the issue of being home with her 7 days a week and suddenly paying for gas while your kid catches a few z's doesn't seem like such a brilliant idea. Sooooooo, I cheated. I decided I would give her a pacifier at naptime and she would fall asleep. It was brilliant in an avoiding self-torture sort of way. What I didn't realize is that Alexis the Genius quickly associated naptime with pacifier time. So, yesterday when she asked to take a nap? What she was really asking for was her pacifier. It just so happened that she was sleepy, so I didn't realize what was going on. Today, on the other hand, she asked again to "nap." And she has now been running around with a pacifier in her mouth for nearly two hours. Not sleeping. Because she's not sleepy. She just wanted her fix.

Hello, my daughter's name is Alexis and she has a problem. She has a very serious addiction to pacifiers. Is there a 12-step program for this kind of thing?

Anybody Missing a Toddler?

I don't know who the child was that just toddled up to me and asked to please take a nap, but she smelled like pineapple. She was about 2 1/2 feet tall and wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She's currently napping in the crib upstairs. If you are missing a child that fits the description, please leave a comment.

Destroying Things One Step at a Time

Take a guess at what is in that child's mouth . . . Is it:

A) One of them new-fangled fancy candy cigarettes.
B) The bullet she plans to use to shoot me with when I won't let her stay out past 9:00 on a school night.
C) Another toy from Fisher Price that's chock full of fun (and lead).
D) A large bolt from her crib.

Um, yeah. It's a bolt. That she found, unscrewed, yanked out, and then cheerily chewed on until I ripped it from her grubbly little hands.

Some thoughts:

--Furniture that is generally used for climbing, jumping, running, and sleeping is best held together with all of its parts.

--I'm pretty sure that a one-year old should not be able to loosen and remove a three-inch bolt from her crib. I am not the Household Master of Assembly, but it does seem to me that these things should be a wee bit too tight for that sort of activity.

--WHY IS ALEXIS TRYING TO DESTROY ALL THINGS RELATED TO HER BED?

Hi, I'm Helmet Head

I'm really not one to get involved in the whole to co-sleep or not to co-sleep debate. Frankly, I don't care whether or not you sleep with your infant. I would prefer that you don't come crying to me when he or she is 6 and still won't leave your bed, because in my mind there's a high probability of that side effect. Just do whatever works for you, and for the love of all things insane, please don't use some silly book as your justification for doing it. Do it because it works for you. If it does, then great!

Co-sleeping does not work for us. Mostly it doesn't because of me. In my perfect little imaginary world, we would have a seven bedroom house. Every human and four-legged creature would have his or her own bed to roll around in, sprawl across, and throw the blankets from. I would, of course, have a very serious lock or two on the door to my own personal bedroom to keep out any wandering souls. It would be essential because, dude, EVERYBODY likes sleeping on me. On any given night, you will find me huddled into a tiny little corner of the bed, trying desperately to get an inch or two to myself. I never succeed.

The last two nights have been worse than usual. Somehow, someway, The Toddler has managed to invade my sleeping quarters. The first time it happened because she was listening to music with Daddy, dancing on our bed and having a generally fantabulous time. It was well past my bedtime, let alone hers, so I went for the path of least resistance and just laid down and went to sleep. Eventually she stopped with the cabbage patching and two-stepping and laid down as well. Last night she thought we would fight about going to bed and wound up in Daddy's arms, then in our bed. Both times I was very quickly reminded why that child should not sleep with me. EVER.

Alexis agrees with everyone else that the most comfortable place to sleep is on top of me. But since two dogs, a husband, and a couple of cats have already laid claim to nearly every square inch of my body, she's left with just my head. That works just fine for her because it means that she will have easy access to my hair. Whether she's awake or asleep, if that child can reach my hair, she has her nubby little fingers intertwined in it, creating what can only be described as matted knots. Really tangled, matted knots.

To achieve maximum Zen with my hair, Alexis wraps herself around my head like a helmet. Her legs act as the strap, her feet as the buckle. Did I mention that my helmet gets put on backwards? Of course it does. I lie awake for hours, staring at baby belly, gasping for air as I am suffocated by 30 pounds of human flesh. I can't move the human flesh because it's wrapped so tightly that a mere shake of my head will not dislodge it. What of my hands, you wonder . . . they are weighted down by the 50-pound snoring bulldog. I would kick them both off me, but my feet are restricted by the furry little thing we call Jasmine. She may only weigh 15-pounds, and 13-pounds of it is surely fur, but that dog can make herself weigh 200-pounds if it means staying right where she is. So I just lay there, silently praying for someone to put me out of my misery.

In the morning, the insult is piled on top of the injury. A full night of nubby fingers twirling and tangling leaves me looking pretty much like this:



I would show you a real picture of just how big and bad the hair can get, but I can't seem to find a camera with that wide of an angle. It's that bad. I'm left to wonder, where was Alexis in the early 90's when big hair was a good thing and I was left flat and out-of-style?

You Guys!

Somebody, somewhere must have thought it was about time I drug myself out of this pity party I've been throwing, and decided to make my day by nominating me for Hot Stuff of the Week over at GNMParents! I don't know who you were, but thanks! (And feel free to out yourself so I can thank you proper and stuff. I promise I won't bite.)

(If you happen to be even slightly interested, you can go vote here. But don't feel like you have to because it's all about what makes you happy. If you want to, great! If you don't, great! Just be happy!)

So back to that pity party . . . I'll have you know that it is continuing. I do fully realize that the current situation will work out for the best, but that doesn't change that it sucks harder than a three-month old while breastfeeding. It totally sucks. It sucky, suck, sucks. Even though I know that I did absolutely nothing wrong, and there is nothing that I could have done differently to alter the outcome, I still keep replaying the past few months in my mind, looking for some sort of way that I could have prevented the bizarreness that occurred last week. I keep coming up empty. I suppose that is because there is nothing there to find, but I can't help but to keep searching.

(Sorry that I continue to be so cryptic about what exactly happened. But, you see, I have seen multiple IP addresses from a certain server on this here blog the past few days and there really is no reason to provide any ammunition for anything. Just goes to show that no matter how anonymous a blog is, it's never truly anonymous. Or maybe it is. I have no way of knowing.)

Really the problem is that I am a worker. I like to work. I especially like the stress of working. Actually, I shouldn't say "like", I should say that I THRIVE on the stress that only a corporate environment can bring. Need fifty things done in the next ten minutes? I'm your person! Need somebody to calm a pissed off customer? I'll do it! Want somebody to be in two places at once? OK! I love that kind of drama. The longer my To Do List gets, the happier I am. The more people are counting on me, the better.

Let's be honest here, being a stay-at-home Mom can certainly be stressful and by no means is a walk in the park, but there are plenty of things that can always wait. There will be no angry people screaming in my face if I don't put away laundry for a few weeks. That dirty diaper? It can wait a minute. Dinner? Y'all will survive if I toss some leftovers onto the table. I mean, I started painting the murals in Alexis' room over two years ago. The only person that is even slightly bothered by the fact that they're still not done is me. And I ain't losing sleep over it.

Of course, there's probably a solution to the moderately stressful situation. I'm sure the addition of a few more kids would heat things up considerably. But, alas, Daddy said something last night to ensure that won't be happening anytime soon. It was something about him seeing no reason why any other kids we have wouldn't turn out to be just as easygoing as Alexis. No reason except for the fact that he SAID THAT OUT LOUD.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go create some stress for myself. Maybe I'll bust out the paint and see if Alexis wants to finish her own murals. Watching her paint Humpty Dumpty's face black will most certainly get my blood flowing.



Oh yeah, go vote (if you want)!

Better Than I Expected

As Alexis and I try to adjust to this strange new journey where I am home with her ALL DAY, I am finding that we are not quite on the same page when it comes to how things will be.

First example, I am of the opinion that we will be waking up at something that resembles a decent hour of the day. If you were to ask Alexis her opinion on this topic, she would most certainly say, "Awake by 6:00, please!" I'm willing to compromise on this one. I won't expect her to stay in bed until 10:00 (which would totally ROCK), but only if she will just expect that I WILL be in bed until 7:00. Seems to me I'm doing the most compromising there, so I don't fully understand what the problem is.

I suppose part of the problem might be that she came out of her package programmed to wake up around 6:00. She has always done it, no matter what time she goes to bed or what activities I force her into in hopes of extending sleeping time. There has been exactly one day when she waited until 8:30 to wake up (a day in which I probably checked on her 400 times in one hour thinking she must have died in her sleep), and then there was the beautiful thing that was our Disney vacation. I think Disney does things to your kids to make them easier to deal with, like drugging them so that they sleep late. She achieved greatness all through our fun family vacation, but morphed back into her early bird self upon our return. Boo.

Our second point of contention involves the activities in which she will participate as the day goes by. She says all Signing Time, all day long. I say no Signing Time, don't even bother to ask. Frankly, I don't think she needs to be sitting in front of a television any more than she does on the weekends hanging out with Daddy. It hasn't escaped my attention that she has started to sing the songs from the DVDs all. the. time. I have heard her singing/humming "Oh, oh, look at my hands, they're dirty" at least 572 times in the past few days. As much as I'm sure she would really like to learn the rest of the words so that she doesn't have to hum parts of it, I'd really like her to try doing a little coloring, playing in the yard, building with Lego's, setting dogs on fire, whatever. Anything that does not involve a TV.

Despite these little disagreements, I know that we are going to be able to make this situation work. I started to think that a little bit after she stole my Kit Kat and tried to give me back the empty package. I told her to go throw the paper in the trash because if you are going to steal my food, then you should at least get rid of the evidence. Guess what--she did! Well, OK, so she put it in the recyclables bin, but that was probably because the trash bin was, as always, full. After that, I started cleaning the living room and sent her to the trash with all sorts of items. She may have a future as a waste engineer, because she did a fabulous job.

After the living room, we moved to the kitchen where she was quite literally helpful by handing me clean things out of the dishwasher so that I could put them away. Then I put her in charge of putting the dirty, disgusting silverware in the dishwasher (mostly because I CAN'T STAND THAT CRAP). And would you know, she actually did a better job than Daddy. She put all the sharp parts of the forks and knives downward, and I do believe I have nagged Daddy about that at least 1,056,982 times (to no avail). Why anyone would prefer to get stabbed every time they reach into the dishwasher, I don't know.

What I do know is that I officially believe that having a kid is WAY more fun than a having a helper monkey, even if the kid does have a habit of rolling her eyes at me for no apparent reason.