The Short Person's World View (Again)

I cleared off Alexis' camera again, and as always, it was filled with photos of her favorite things.

Her Princess Jasmine doll



Darby, the dumbest thing to ever appear on-screen with Pooh



The pups



Meg's head



Cody's head (Anybody impressed I know which end that is? I kind of was.)



Daddy wearing the shirt Alexis bought him



Ze Boss



I see a Meg. I see a Cody. I see an Alexis. Yet, I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking at.



**************************************************************************
A random update on dance class: Words cannot even describe the amazing difference between Alexis one week ago and Alexis today. There was participation. There were smiles. There was chattering with the other kids in class. There was laughter. Most importantly, there was fun. So . . . uh . . . crap. Alexis really is letting her dislike for the regular teacher stop her from doing something she enjoys. C-R-A-P.

Heart-Shaped Sunglasses: Still Funny After Months of Wear

Her Owner's Manual Didn't Mention This One

About a month ago, Alexis graduated from her parent/child gymnastics class--a class she love-love-LOVED. She was never much into the actual gymnastics portion of the class, but the music and activities and running around and general chaos was something that she was really into. We had to figure out whether to continue with the same class, move her up to the next level of gymnastics (parent-free), or enroll her in a combination dance/gymnastics class (also parent-free).

The whole reason we started taking her in the first place was for her to have fun while she works on her shyness a little bit, so we knew it was time to move out of the parent/child classes. It was time for her to have some fun without a parent in the room to depend on. But then came the hard part--dance and gymnastics combo (30 mins of dance followed by 30 mins of gymnastics), or just gymnastics? I struggled with the choice for weeks, but then in a moment of brilliance, turned to Alexis and asked her what she wanted.

Dance. A very, very animated and excited vote for dance.

And so it was.

Week one went precisely as I expected--Alexis was hesitant to participate. She spent the entire first 30 minutes clinging to me and refusing to let me leave the room, but so did a couple of the other younger kids. Week two was better, and week three was even better than that. The gradual improvement was promising.

Then came week four.

That week, for some unknown reason, the teacher's assistant wasn't in the room with the class. The assistant had been Alexis' crutch--the adult in the room who occasionally reminded her to participate and distracted her from wondering where I had gone. Without her there, Alexis ended up collapsing into a pile of tears just as I broke out of my hiding place on the other side of the windows that surround the classroom. I took her out into the hall to calm her down. Between sobs, she wailed, "I wanna go hooooome."

It was heart-breaking, and so definitely not what I wanted to hear.

She continued with, "I don't like dance class" and "I wanna leave" and the tears. OMG, the tears.

Then came time for the gymnastics half of the class and she jumped right back on the train and was happy again.

I was confused. I could understood that she was more comfortable with the gymnastics half of the class because she's more accustomed to that room (they switch from a dance room to the same gym we were in last session at the halfway point), but I couldn't figure out how she could say that she doesn't like dance class. While she hasn't been the perfect little participant, she has been very carefully paying attention. The kid trounces around the house talking about ballet, doing ballet, and generally gushing about how much she loves ballet. There's much talk about first position and plies, and even though she doesn't always practice in class, she more than makes up for lost time once she gets home. The kid LOVES ballet.

It's been nearly a week since the total and complete breakdown, and I've been struggling trying to figure out what to do, if anything. I've been racking my brain trying to understand the obvious disconnect--how can a kid who loves to dance at home hate the class so much? I got my answer today, directly from the mouth of the confusing little one.

She doesn't like the teacher.

I have never heard Alexis say she doesn't like someone before.

In a way I can see why she doesn't like the teacher, but the teacher really isn't doing anything wrong. She just has a different personality from the other teachers at the place. I guess I would say that she's not as "warm." She is certainly nice, she is certainly professional, she is certainly qualified, and she certainly isn't having any problems with the other kids in the class. It's all Alexis. Alexis has apparently decided she doesn't like her, and is done giving her a chance.

The teacher is going to be gone for the next two weeks on a little vacation, so we'll be going to dance class this week as usual. I'm hoping she is more willing to participate with the not-liked teacher absent, but then what? When that teacher returns, will Alexis go back to hating the class? Should I just switch her to the all gymnastics class (with a teacher I know she likes) and be done with it? Or what?

And would moving her to a class with a different teacher just be caving to the shyness that she so badly needs to work on? Does it even matter, considering she's only three and has plenty of time to figure out that momma ain't always gonna bail her out?

Ugh.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

Kids say things. Loud things. At inopportune times. This I know.

So, the time when Alexis and I were in the grocery store and a VERY large guy wearing a leather Harley jacket, chains, and I-can-kick-your-ass boots went swaggering by, I wasn't surprised to hear her proclaim, "Look, momma, he has a ponytail! Boys don't have ponytails!" (I was surprised to learn he had a good sense of humor. He proved it by retorting, "Some boys DO have ponytails.")

I'm never embarrassed by Alexis' need to comment on my business in public restrooms. It's become expected for her to ask, "Are you pooping?" or "What was THAT noise?" I've never hidden after she commented on some stranger's actions either. "Wow! Somebody is pooping really big!"

She's a kid. Kids say things.

Thus, tonight when we were gathered around a table at Pizza Hut and Alexis glanced over a the register and yelled, "LOOK!" I full expected to hear some kid-like commentary. At the register stood two teenage boys who seem to be under the impression that it's sex-ay to buy pants twice the size that you actually need, and then to cinch them in place using a belt around their knees. I expected Alexis to comment on the fact that their underwear were hanging out, or that they needed to pull up their pants, or for her to say they looked silly.

We were seated not more than ten feet away, so I knew they would hear her. I mentally prepared myself for them to turn around to see who dared mock their fashion choices. Finally, Alexis figured out what she wanted to say.

"LOOK! There's candy in the kitchen!"

Of all the times to NOT comment on douchebaggery, she chose that moment. I was so disappointed.

It's Getting a Little Old

I have a lot of email accounts. A RIDICULOUS number of email accounts, in fact. I just never shut them down when I get a new one, so I still have sorta-active email addresses originating all the way back to high school.

OK, so I still have some AOL email accounts. And, yes, I said "some." As in, more than one.

Take a moment and finish mocking me for that. I'll wait.

Ready?

Anyway, right around last year's election, I started to notice that some of my different AOL email addresses appeared to have started developing different "personalities." I don't know why. I don't know how. I just know that the only time I use those addresses if for online shopping and bill pay. Maybe buying stuff from a gardening place gets you on a different spam list than buying from Amazon does. Whatever.

Right before the election, it became clear that one of my AOL accounts and its near twin in screen names had somehow managed to fall on opposite sides of the political fence. One account attracted HARDCORE Republican spam, and the other equally HARDCORE Democratic spam. If the two had ever had to be in a room together, I can guarantee there would have been a brawl.

Now yet another email address has decided to develop a "personality." It was my *real* email address for a long time, but then became so overcome with spam that I started only logging into it maybe once every two weeks. I was expecting something to hit that address yesterday, so I logged in and was met with a lovely little email from AARP.

I'm 33.

AARP can kiss my too-young-and-hot-for-them-booty.

After that blatant insult, I moved on with life, and realized that the email I sought wasn't there. So, today, I logged in again, quickly scanning for The Email.

Then I saw it.

An email from Ed McMahon.

As if the image of that particular life-sized wax figure weren't enough, good ol' Ed was there to tell me how I could qualify for a free motorized scooter.

So I can regain my mobility.

I'm shutting down that email account. I can handle being called a Republican. I will deal with being called a Democrat. Just don't call me old.

33.

GAH!

Game Over. I Lose.

Lately I've been trying really hard to get Alexis in the habit of cleaning up her toys when she's done playing with them. Be it her 8 kajillion dolls, a tub of Legos, a box full of Play-Doh, or a bunch of puzzles, she has a choice--she can clean it up the second time I ask, or I will confiscate it. And hide it. And probably forget what the heck I did with it.

(I have no idea why I don't just take stuff away if she doesn't put it away the first time I ask. Apparently I am a wimp. Who believes in second chances. Or something.)

Anyway, she is generally pretty good about picking up, just so long as the instructions are very specific. It has to be, "pick up these puzzle pieces and put them in this box." Not a big deal, really, just so long as I manage to keep my wits kinda-sorta about me. I've only confiscated one item in the past week, and since it was the Hungry Hungry Hippos Game, I might have been a bit quick on the draw with the confiscating. I love playing that game, but I hate hearing somebody else play it and play it and play it. And play it.

Tonight Alexis and I spent two solid hours doing puzzles. We put together a little Belle puzzle. We assembled a Mickey puzzle. Then we moved on to the biggie--the 100 piece Hello Kitty puzzle. It took us quite a while to put that sucker together, especially since a certain fuzzy cardboard-eating creature kept trying to "help." We finally finished it, and Alexis stood up to do a little dance of joy.

As she finished, I asked her to start putting the pieces in the box. She said, "No." I retorted with my last chance offer. She retorted with, "Make the puzzle go away, Momma."

Dammit.

I'm being beaten at my own game. Again.

This Photo Only Post Brought to You By Verizon and Their Craptacular DSL Service

Alternate (less whiny) title: No hair? No problem! Just call Hannah Montana!

Making 35 Look Not All That Bad

One Way to Save a Lot of Money

As Alexis rummaged through the silverware drawer, grabbing things left and right, I asked, "Alexis, what are you looking for?"

"Stuff," she replied.

"What stuff?" I asked.

"I need stuff," she clarified.

As she finally closed the drawer, clutching mixer beaters, a bag clip, a cupcake decoration, a pastry brush, a plastic knife, a plastic spoon, and a spatula, I asked, "Why do you need all that stuff?"

Alexis replied, "I need to fix Cody."

Guess I don't need to make that appointment for him to get neutered at the vet's office after all.

Loving the Moving Guys

If it's not 6:00am on a weekend morning, you probably won't catch me turning on the TV to keep Alexis busy. It's not that I mind letting the TV do a little child entertaining from time-to-time, it's more that I prefer to use other methods (think chains, traffic, rivers, and/or an old refrigerator). The thing is that too much TV turns Alexis into an Angry Little Freak who can't hear a single word I say. I'd rather deal with never-ending pestering while I try to get something done than a little girl who yells, "NO! I WATCH MICKEY SHOW! GO AWAY!"

Mr. Husband, on the other hand, is a fan of the giant glowing babysitter. It's fine with me if he wants to deal with the Angry Little Freak, because it probably means I'm getting a chance to sleep more than four hours. Totally worth it. If he is on duty, he is more than welcome to handle things however he sees fit, just so long as no one is severely injured or dies.

Since I am not around when Alexis watches things like the Disney Channel, I had no idea that I was actually missing out on a little something something. Make that four something somethings.



Why did no one tell me that there are kinda-sorta-maybe-in-a-way hot guys on the Disney Channel? Y'all have been holding out on me.

So I made this little discovery a few months ago, and since then, the "Magic Roofers" have become my heroes. (I have no idea why Alexis calls them the "Magic Roofers" but I do admit I actually thought that was the name of the show up until about two weeks ago. Oops.) Not only are they kinda-sorta-maybe-in-a-way eye candy, they sing songs that don't make me want to find a box of sporks and gouge somebody's eyes out. It's always good when music doesn't make me sporky.

But. But. BUT! Not only do I not hate Imagination Movers, I think I might luuuuurve them. A lot. Ever heard that song, "I Want My Mommy?" OMG! Greatest song ever!

"I love my mommy
I love my daddy
But I’m happy in my bed at night
Cause I’ve got my pillow
And I’ve got my blanket
And I know that everything’s gonna be all right!"

A SONG THAT ENCOURAGES KIDS TO STAY IN THEIR OWN DAMN BEDS!

Be still my heart.

You know this is a cause near and dear to my heart. VERY near and dear my heart. My exhausted, sleep-deprived heart.

So. Here's the thing. Right around her birthday, Alexis started singing that song all the time. Also right around her birthday, she started staying in Her Own Damn Bed (the bed is forever going to be known as "Her Own Damn Bed"--it's an official title of sorts).

Coincidence?

I THINK NOT!

She's still not staying in her bed 100% of the time, but it's close.

And close is spectacular.

I love you, Imagination Movers!

Matchy Matchy Happy Happy

Dear Target,

I'm about to ask you a favor, and I just want to make it clear that it PAINS me to ask it. PAINS ME. And kind of makes me want to puke. Sadly, though, I have been left with no choice.

You see, my dear daughter has decided that it's really fun for me and her to wear matching pajamas. There was a time when I very nearly fall to the ground laughing hysterically when I saw mothers and daughters wearing matching clothes, but I'm coming to realize that sometimes it's the kid's fault. I assure you, in this case it is definitely the kid's fault. Alexis gets ridiculously excited when she digs through her pajama drawer for a particular pair, then digs through my drawer for a matching pair. The smile on her face as she hands me my pajamas and says, "We match the same!" is enough for me to forget just how dumb grown woman look when they wear clothing that kids can wear.

In return for me voluntarily dressing in matching pajamas, I get a little gift from Alexis. She has dropped the whole thing where she would only wear wretched Disney Princess gowns. This. is. spectacular. Truly, it brings a joyful little tear to my eye to think of all those obnoxious Disney sluts sitting unloved in the back of the drawer. Definitely worth it.

So, here's the thing: Alexis needs to wear gowns at night. She can't do two-piece pajamas because just as the bottoms start to fit, the tops make her look like she's channeling Britney Spears in the bare belly days. I need to wear two-piece pajamas because me and gowns are not on speaking terms ever since that little incident with the bedpost. Alexis is OK with us wearing different types of pajamas, the fabrics just need to be matchy matchy.

Now, Target, you have made this little complication possible to overcome. The Nick & Nora pajamas are fantabulous, and I have managed to obtain three whole sets of Matchy Matchy Happy Happy Kid Pajamas. But, now that Alexis wants to match every. single. night we are experiencing a bit of an issue. We need more pajamas.

Sadly, you have exactly one set that will fit the bill right now. One is better than none, but that one? IS A UNICORN AND RAINBOW PRINT. *gag*

I can't do unicorns.

I can't do rainbows.

I DEFINITELY can't do them both at the same time.

So, will ya' please get some new Matchy Matchy Happy Happy Kid Pajamas in stock? I would be fine with sock monkeys, ducks, or even clouds. Anything but unicorns and rainbows. Just follow the above rules about gown vs. two-piece, and you can have my money.

Thank you for your time and consideration.

With much retail love,
The Lady Who Simply Can't be Caught Wearing Stuff She Liked When She Was Five

She's Got Moves. Unfortunately.

When Jen agreed to meet on Sunday to let our kids play together for a little while, I don't think she was expecting that she would need a protection order for her little boy, Dylan. She does. STAT.

Miss Alexis started out slow. A sideways glance here and there, a few location checks, but she kept coming back to me. Then we decided to relocate from the play area in the mall to the food court. This happened:



Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Cute. Also, totally a "starter" move. Once we sat down to eat, Alexis moved in for the kill.



And again.



And again. And again. And again. And AGAIN. Seriously, I have fifty photos of my kid putting Dylan in a choke hold and then making out with the side of his face. And him enjoying it.

The good news is that I *think* Alexis was more "playing mommy" than she was hitting on the poor little guy. She was all about fussing at him that he couldn't run off while his mom was ordering food, and downright herded him back to us adults any time he tried to stray. At one point she even lectured him about "safe."

Don't try to argue with that little story I've built in my head. I either need to go with that, or look into investing in some crazy security system so I can lock Alexis is the basement for the next 20 years.

OK, 30 years.

The Trailer Trash is Furious

I grew up poor. Really poor. As in I grew up living in beat-up trailer in the crappiest trailer park in town. My mom, when she was able to work (which wasn't often), worked at Wendy's. My dad, once he got out of the Air Force, worked assorted temporary jobs, including a stint at a gas station. Right now I make about six times as much money as my parents made combined, even in a good year.

Because nothing was ever handed to me, I learned something very important very young--I learned that if you want something, you have to work for it. I delivered newspapers for three years to save enough money for my first car. I babysat so that I could buy myself clothes. I worked three jobs my senior year of high school so that I could go to Spain as an exchange student. I worked my ass off.

And I would have it no other way.

A strong work ethic has catapulted me to success. Meanwhile, I have watched former classmates who were given every privilege in the world grow into adults who can't function without talking to Daddy first. The same people who once looked down on me because I wore crappy second-hand clothes are now incapable of making it a month without asking for hand-outs from their parents.

There was a time when those people could get under my skin. A little insult there, a blatant put-down here, they were able to get me down. Then I grew up and realized that money isn't everything, and that working hard will get you what you want. As a bonus, I don't have to worry about being manipulated or guilt-tripped by someone who paid for something. Nobody paid for anything I have now.

I thought I was past all that feeling bad about myself cause of economic status thing, but it turns out not so much. Why? Because recently someone has made me feel like crap for not putting Alexis into an elite preschool. We CHOOSE not to put her into one, and I absolutely believe it's ridiculous to think the freakin' preschool a kid goes to makes any difference whatsoever on his or her success. I am absolutely evidence that the school you go to makes ZERO difference in one's success. It's all about learning to work for you want that matters. Period.

So, Alexis, we won't send you to a preschool that "auditions" its students. We won't send you to a preschool that costs more per semester than some people make in a year. We will not put you in a class filled with snobby kids who don't know what it means to be told "no."

We will require that you earn what you get.

And if anyone makes you feel like a heel for any of that, just ignore them. Your trailer trash mom will take care of it.

Giant No More

On Friday Alexis finally had her three-year doctor's appointment, and I learned something I had suspected--she's no longer REALLY tall for her age. The kid was born tall and then stayed in or above the 95th percentile for height and weight right up until her 2nd birthday when she slipped a little ways, down to the 75th percentile. This year, however, she slipped even further. She is now in the 50th percentile.

For some bizarre reason that I can't even begin to explain, hearing that was like someone took away a bunch of my Good Mommy Gold Stars. Had I not fed her right? Should I have forced her to eat less salad and more potatoes? Should I have insisted she drink two cups of milk instead of just one? Would she be taller if I made her drink juice instead of water?

Stupid, I know. Ridiculous, even.

You don't have to tell me height can't be controlled. You don't have to tell me it doesn't matter ONE IOTA. I know. I also know I was one of the shortest kids in my class in 4th grade, but came back after summer break to be the tallest girl in 5th grade. Mr. Husband is 6' 2" and I am 5' 8", so odds are Alexis will be tall. And if she's not? WHO CARES?

Gah!

I need my head checked for even giving Alexis' height a moment of thought. It's ridiculous.

But.

It has dawned on me that since the kid STILL doesn't have much hair, and she's no longer a giant for her age, I should be able to get by with calling her "2 and under" a little bit longer.

That might just come in handy from time-to-time. *ahem*

You Know Your Kid is a Pittsburgher When . . .

. . . She insists on putting french fries in her salad.

Kid Pics, Volume 1

A while back someone was harassing me about photography and basically asked me to explain how I manage to get so many halfway-decent photos of Alexis. I happen to think there are lots and lots and lots and lots of people who rock the camera action MUCH better than I do, but after some brow-beating, I agreed that I would post a few tips to getting halfway-decent photos of a kid. I figured I would post them on the weekends when hardly anyone is reading anyway. I'm not sure how many there will be . . .until I get bored of it, I guess. Anyhoo.

In the not-so-distant past, I was one of those people who bought a disposable camera once per year, and still never managed to actually fill it. In fact, I know that somewhere in this house is an undeveloped disposable camera that has the before photos from when we remodeled our kitchen five years ago. I never had it developed because I never managed to take 36 photos, and now the camera is lost. Nowadays, I take more photos in one day than I used to take in a year. Nearly all of them are of Alexis, and the #1 thing I have learned with all that practice is to fill the frame with kid. For example:

Bad!



See how it's hard to focus on the kid with all that crap in the background? It's distracting, and Alexis is so small in the photo that you can't really see her.

But if I move in closer, it's a much better photo:



(Totally a crappy set of photos, but they serve the purpose.)

Here's another example of filling the frame with kid:



It's no secret that I lurve me some extreme close-ups. I happen to think kids have the most incredible facial expressions, and the only way to truly capture them is to get close. (BTW, I have been using a 50mm lens--i.e. NO ZOOM--since mid-December. So far I have found that using my legs to get closer to what I'm photographing is much better than any kind of camera zoom because it forces me to really "see" what I'm trying to get in the frame.)

Of course, sometimes you want to photograph more than just a kid's face. You still probably want to fill the frame with kid. Like this:



Just to complicate things, there are times when the "rule" is meant to be broken. Like this one:



In that photo, it's the white space that makes the photo. If Alexis were filling the entire frame, you wouldn't be able to see the trail of footprints, or the otherwise undisturbed snow. All that blankness gives the photo a certain tone, and that would be lost with a close-up.

I tend to check my backgrounds and figure out if they detract from the photo. If they do, I move closer. Once I think I'm close enough, I move even closer. That's how I end up with a lot of photos that I'm happy with. Like this oldie but goody.

Shhh . . . Can You Hear Her Laughing?

I'm Talking to You, You Wimp

Now that we are no longer spending enough money on Pampers to keep Proctor & Gamble executives rolling in the hookers and blow, I have a confession to make:

Mr. Husband has changed more diapers than me.

Yes, you read that right. Despite the fact that I have always been the primary nighttime care provider, and the fact that I was home with Alexis for the first six months of her life, he changed her diaper more often than I did. Easily.

Weekends? He changed nearly every one. Last change of the day? He got those ones, too. The really stinky ones? Almost 100% his problem.

That part wasn't exactly his doing, or my doing. It was all Alexis. For as long as the kid could speak, she has been saying, "Daddy, I poopy," and asking him to change her. She could be sitting with me on the floor playing with Play-Doh while Mr. Husband was all the way upstairs doing something constructive, and she would stomp her way all the way to him to get changed, without so much as a whisper to me.

I didn't exactly try to stop her. I know a good thing when it passes me by.

Real men change diapers and I totally married a real man.



(It's Play-Doh, people. Don't be getting any crazy ideas in your head.)

On This Day . . .

On this day . . . Gas was $1.99 per gallon. We all think it is a MASSIVE bargain because not long ago, it was $4 per gallon.

On this day . . . The Pens beat the best team in the league in a shootout. It was OUTSTANDING.

On this day . . . Alexis shocked me by asking to wear jeans and a t-shirt for the third day in a row. Could the dress/skirt obsession be coming to an end?

On this day . . . The nation was in the midst of a major economic crisis. It has reached the point where if someone has a healthy family and any job, they have no reason to complain.

On this day . . . An economic stimulus plan was passed. We can only hope it helps create new jobs and works to lessen the blow of this crisis.

On this day . . . It was unseasonably warm. Nearly 70 degrees, in fact. I would have liked to have spent the afternoon on a nice long walk, but Alexis said she had to go to the bathroom the minute we got to the park. The walk had to be abandoned.



On this day . . . A major storm rolled in. Buh-bye warm weather, and hello February. Can't say that I really wanted to see you again.

On this day . . . A woman who gave birth to octuplets was in the news. She was in the news partly because the octuplets put her at a total of 14 kids, but mostly because she seems to be a bit cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, if you know what I mean. I think it would be safe to predict that we'll be seeing her for a while, as her only means of income appears to be whoring out all her kids to the media.

On this day . . . Alexis' major concern at bedtime was that Cody would try to eat her computer. Actually, he seems to have lost the last of his puppy teeth, so he's not been eating the house as much lately.

On this day . . . Bruce Springsteen and Kelly Clarkson topped the charts. I think he might be old enough to be her grandpa.

On this day . . . We spent $2.50 on a jar of peanut butter, despite a nation-wide salmonella scare. We're totally living on the edge.

On this day . . . I adored Miss Alexis, and I look forward to comparing notes when she reads this in a few years.

Something that Makes My Head Go *KABLOOEY*

I mentioned in passing that Alexis has officially moved to the Preschool Room at daycare. It was a very big deal, both for her and for me. Of course, I was totally all WAAA! WAAA! MY BABY IS GROWING UP! Alexis was all WAAA! WAAA! I DON'T WANNA MOVE! Fortunately, we both survived. Although, there was the little matter of the Introduction Letter that nearly landed me in the asylum.

The Introduction Letter was a note sent home that seems to be a standard sort of letter given to all parents of preschool kids. It outlines the rules of the room. It's mostly stuff like no toys from home, kids need to be able to identify their own coat, blah, blah, blah. Totally reasonable and expected. But, one little section caught my attention and I fixated on it for a solid week. (OK, so I'm STILL fixating on it. Whatever.)

"Preschool children should walk into the center, and not be carried by his parents. This encourages children to feel confident in themselves and have a more mature attitude."

*KABLOOOEY* (That was my head exploding. Again.)

Ignoring the grammatical mess that is that statement, the whole thing just bunched my panties. (Keep in mind that Crazy Daycare Owner Lady is very condescending, especially in person, and I'm not at all the only person who feels that way.) Someone trying to tell me whether or not I should carry my kid 20 feet from the parking lot to the door? Really?

*KABLOOOEY*

Alexis usually gets carried into daycare. There are multiple reasons for it. For one, I don't want to deal with snow/salt getting on her shoes. Crazy Daycare Lady will go Linda Blair on my ass if the kid gets the carpet dirty--I know this from experience. Another major reason is that Alexis is a cute little snugglebug in the morning. She LOVES to cuddle early in the day, and usually spends a great portion of our getting ready time hanging on me like a leech. It can be a bit annoying when I'm trying to hurry, but I figure there will come a day when she doesn't even want to be in the same room as me, so I should probably milk the cuddles for as long as I can. Most of the time I haul her in with her head on my shoulder, and she and I whisper back and forth about what she is going to do that day.

I enjoy that little moment with her. A lot.

So, telling me that I'm doing something WRONG by carrying her inside? Irks me. A lot.

And the part about encouraging confidence and maturity? *KABLOOOEY*

Ahem.

I would LOVE to poll the parents of grown-ups I consider confident and mature. I'd be willing to bet a lifetime of Starbucks that there is no correlation between getting carried 20 feet once per day and whether or not a person grows up to be confident and mature. The mere implication drives. me. batty.

So far I'm ignoring the "rule." Nobody has said anything yet. If they do? *KABLOOOEY*

(Feel free to tell me I'm being crazy. I can take it.)

Everybody Deserves a Fan

When there's a full moon, Britney Spears is sort of sane, and the wind is blowing from the West at precisely 6 mph, I actually cook dinner. It's a rare event, and one that Alexis enjoys immensely. She immediately asks me to pull up the tall stool in our kitchen so that she can sit in front of the stove and "help."

"Help" is, of course, not exactly the right word. She wants to stir and pour and flip and do all sorts of thing that would be wonderful, if she weren't three and completely clueless about the whole HOT thing. So, instead of relaxing as I concoct a little vegetable paella, I spend most of the time trying to distract her and fussing at her not to touch anything.

Despite the fact that she is determined to give me a heart attack by trying to sniff peas as they cook (picture face headed straight for a hot pan--GOOD TIMES!), cooking time with Miss Alexis is one of my favorite times. I get a chance to get caught up on all the good daycare gossip, hear all about how Alexis intends to buy a long flowy dress just like the one Olivia wears to the museum, and listen to whatever song is stuck in her head that day.

All of that is great, but the absolute best part about cooking with Miss Alexis is that she's a fan-freakin-tastic cheerleader. Successfully add a few spices? She will cheer as if you just climbed Mount Everest. Pour some broth without spilling? She hoots and hollers like you just picked winning lottery numbers. And if you manage to crack an egg without making a mess? She rejoices as if you are Ben Roethlisberger and just threw the Super Bowl winning pass to Santonio Holmes.

It's good to have a fan.

Not a Post about Potty Training

When I'm thinking about what to write in this space, and what not to write, I always consider how I would feel if I were the subject of the story. If I would be embarrassed or less than appreciative to have people know the tale, it doesn't belong here, no matter who is the prime suspect in the story. With that in mind, I figured I would pretty much leave the drama of potty training unwritten. Nobody wants to read the painful details of all that, and I'm sure Alexis will gain nothing from reading about it some day. I decided to let her business be her business.

That said, go ahead and imagine a lengthy potty training post here. Make sure you include a Vtech laptop thingy that Alexis wanted soooooo badly, right up until it was in the house and was being used as Dry for Two Straight Days bait. Then add in Mr. Husband discovering a nearly impossible to find copy of Beauty and the Beast on DVD, and me practically jumping through the phone urging him to hurry up and buy it before it disappeared because OMH MOST ULTIMATE POTTY TRAINING BAIT EVAH! Make sure you add in a transition from the toddler class to preschool at daycare, because that was a HUGE factor. Mix it all together, and THROW A FREAKIN' PARTY!

*ahem*

So, yeah. Anyway. Alexis' business is her business, and her business is officially going where it belongs.

WOOOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Looky What We Found

If you ask Alexis to take you for a little walk through our back yard, one of the things that she will make sure you see is the Pussy Willow shrub. She'll probably proclaim, "Wook! It's wussy lillows!" as she points eagerly to a few limbs. As you are giggling at her pronunciation, make sure you appreciate that the appearance of those fuzzy little orbs is an excellent sign that spring really can't be that far away. Puxatawny Phil can shove it, because wook! It's wussy lillows!

Pint-Sized Photo Shoot

For as long as I've had Mr. Canon, Alexis has had free reign to my old digital camera. She will go months without taking any photos, but then will take hundreds in a matter of days. I tend to forget to download her photos until I need that camera for something and find that it's full. When I do finally download her photos, I always find some most excellent stuff. For example, I found what was obviously a photo diary of many of Alexis' favorite things.

Alexis' play kitchen. She's had it for two years, and there have been very few days that she hasn't played with it.



This little photo shoot took place a few days after Alexis' birthday, and I guess she really liked her princess decorations. She took pictures of all three of the dangly things.





I'm not exaggerating when I say we scored The Greatest Birthday Present EVAH this year. I have a whole post about it coming soon, and Alexis made sure to take a photo of it because she really, really, really likes it.



Of course, Alexis really likes the cats. Powder:



And Coal:



She also apparently likes the TV, even when it's showing the really awful American Idol contestants.



She's a fan of her new penguin t-shirt, which came via the fabulous Anglophile Football Fanatic.



I can tell you that Alexis has been paying a lot of attention to me as I take photos, because she has almost as many extreme close-ups as I do. Although, I don't think I've ever taken a photo THIS close to Meg.



This is Alexis' magnet toy that hangs out on our fridge. It's another huge hit, even though she's had it for over a year.



And, of course, the proof that she was taking photos of her favorite things. Me!



She couldn't possibly have been taking a photo of the bowl of ice cream I had in my hands. No way, it's that she lurves me.