Princess Hair

A few months ago, the girls' hair was getting long. I got home from work in the morning, put the girls in the bath, and after they had been washed, I got my scissors out, and trimmed the baby's length and bangs. I asked my 4 year old if she wanted her length cut, and she said, "No! Don't cut my princess hair!" and started crying, "Don't cut off my princess hair!"

"Ok sweetie, we'll just trim the bangs," and I trimmed her bangs, put the scissors back in the cabinet, and fed them breakfast. I put them back in their room and laid down on the couch for a few hours' sleep.

Who's Da Mommy!

When I was working day shift last year, my mother in law was (and is) a true gift. We would drop both girls off in the morning, and pick them up 9 hours later, and they would be fed, spoiled, and well-cared for. You should never overestimate the comfort you receive as a working mother when you know, you just know, that the person to whom you have entrusted your babies is trustworthy and reliable. I have small complaints (that I never express) but they are all due to differences in child-raising, and she's Grandma anyway. So I feel entirely comfortable anytime they stay at Grandma's.

So this epic story starts on a Tuesday. Tuesday the youngest (15 months at that time) was peckish, didn't want to eat, and a little feverish. Well, anyone who has kids at that age knows that 15 months is prime teeth-cutting age. She already had a mouthful, but their teeth pop up in unexpectedly sometimes, so I wasn't worried - Tylenol, cold drinks, etc. and I really didn't think much of it. Kids get fevers sometimes during teething.

Pener Pam

I might have mentioned a time or two that my 4 year old princess doesn't listen to a word I say. No seriously. I'm this bossy manager at work, and when I get home, my daughter constantly disagrees with me. I can't request her termination like I would an employee (well, I could, I guess, but that would be creepy and evil, and I'd like to think I'm not evil...yet) but if she was an employee of mine, I would have long-ago got rid of her ass for insubordination. And no, contrary to what some people might say, she does not act 'just like me.' Whatever.

So, she disagrees with me at every turn, and I mean at every turn! A simple request for lunch preference brings about an argument on whether she has ever eaten the particular food in question. And yes, my darling mini-me, despite what you say, you used to love pizza. It has never been yucky and up until this very instant, you have eaten every bite. (Pizza, the four-food-group-staple of every mom, right?) And by the way, water does not taste like ocean. I am also sure you have never seen an ocean, let alone tasted one, so there!

Pull My Finger

I grew up in a "pull my finger" kind of household, where farts were (and are) funny. By the time I was 8, I knew better than to actually pull the finger, because those farts usually stink. I work with a bunch of guys and guy farts are funny. And stinky. Well, the funny ones, anyway. But in my mom's house, she doesn't fart. Ever. That's just the way she was raised, I guess. I didn't realize I had picked up on this until I actually had a girl of my own. Who farts. Very, very loudly. She must get it from her dad.

My honey farts machine gun style, and strangely enough, they usually don't stink. Mine are just the opposite, where-in no sound is heard, just an incredible stench that permeates the very air we breath, sometimes for days, choking the life out of the air like The Fog. Uhm. Yeah. Anyway, my daughter must have inherited her "farts" (if such a thing can be inherited) from her father, because she farts just like him. And I laugh at her, just like I laugh at him.

I Should Have Known Then...

When I found out I was pregnant with my fourth, I was ecstatic! Maybe this one would be the long-awaited girl I wanted. My first three were boys, so working the odds, I should get a girl. In the meantime, I had divorced my husband and found the one man who would actually put up with my craziness. It's not an easy road, especially for him, but it works just fine for me. I'm sort of selfish at heart, though, so, if it works for me, well, it works for me. End of story.

Anyway, my excitement expanded when I found out it really was a girl! "Are you fucking shitting me?" I asked the technician.

"No, um, I'm serious," she stuttered. Maybe she wasn't used to such profanity as I use on a daily basis. "Look at the ultrasound, you can see, right there, no penis. It's definitely a girl."

"That looks like a penis. What is that line?"

She's Baaaack!

Well, my daughter came back from her cousin's house. I missed her, and she was all about stories of swimming in the pool, playing with her cousin, showing me her new skirt, and telling me how much fun she had. I was thrilled, especially to have her back. I asked if she'd had her hair washed, and she told me her aunt washed it, but had gotten some soap in her eyes. I said, "I bet you were a big girl and didn't cry,"

"No Mommy, I screamed really loud, like this 'Aaaaaahhhhh!" Well then.

As soon as she took a breath, we discussed her new-found affection for hourglasses, since she wasn't here for the actual clean up.

Sippy Cups

With the 4 year old gone, I kind of expected the baby (the 2 year old) to ... miss her a little at least, but nope. She's been happy as a clam in sand. Playing, knocking things over. She emptied out her toybox twice, climbed inside, and most mornings, I find her sleeping in there, curled up with a blanket and her favorite toy, a piano. She's been building block castles, and then knocking them down. And laughing. Loudly. Is that normal? Maybe she's a closet psychopath... or a closet demolitions expert. What? It could happen!

I wanted to take this opportunity to get to know her a little. Sometimes with so many kids, it's hard to see the gem behind the shine, you know what I mean? I know each of the kids, their quirks, their strengths, but at times it's hard to see the particulars. Knowing their favorite food isn't the same as knowing what they'll eat and what they won't. I had opportunity with each one to bond, but the littlest one confuses me. She just doesn't want to talk to me. Oh she babbles, she communicates, she sings, and she dances. But she just has no need to make other people (specifically me) understand her. She wants something, she screams, eventually she gets it. End of story.

With All My Bitchy Heart

I complain a lot about the kids getting into stuff, and it is a true pain in the ass (I mean, really, life would be easier if she would just listen to me when I say things - although I do recognize the absolute futility of that hope and dream) BUT I do realize that what she's getting into now has absolutely no comparison to what she used to get into. At one point, we had the fridge locked up tighter than a whore in .... Anyway, very tight. You know why we did this? Because milk is a bitch to get out of carpet. And she would dump every gallon of milk we had on the den floor. Then play chemistry teacher and combine.

Some of her most memorable combos were:

Language

My daughter and I speak different languages. I speak English, but she speaks Toddler, with a slight lisp. We're working on her pronunciation - she is four, after all, and will start school soon. I don't want her in speech therapy though if I can help it. Her after-school hours are probably going to be taken up with actual therapy. She'll need some time to do dishes.

She ran into the living room, crying her little quiet cry. I asked her what was wrong, and she showed me her left thumb, and said, "I have an owie. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts! Ooooowwwww!"

"Ok, ok, sweetie, come on, let's rinse it and I have some stuff to dump on it," and I washed it, put witch hazel on it, and she screamed. Witch hazel doesn't usually hurt, and that's one of the reasons I use it. Hmm. I told her it wasn't that bad, and she didn't have to scream. I dried it off, and she was fine. It was dinner time, so I took her and her sister to the kitchen to make a quick dinner for them. The princess tells me that her finger still hurts.

Party

My kid threw a party, and didn't even invite me. My four year old is currently on her way to visit her cousin for a week with Nana and Poppa. We were in a rush this morning, mainly because she had to be dropped off at such an early hour. When I got home, her dad was putting on her shoes. I took the dogs outside and come back in. My honey had some news for me.

"Uh, both the girls had something red on them when I got them up today. I thought at first it was blood, but then I realized it wasn't, and I think it might be fingernail polish."

Oh no! I thought, and ran over to the very high shelf where I had put the red fingernail polish after I had painted her fingernails yesterday. Shit! Gone. "Child, where is Mommy's nail polish?"

"Well, uh...well," she stalled, and put her head down. "I don't know." which is the standard answer when she doesn't want to say what happened, or admit culpability.

The Littlest Bit

This little BIT (bitch-in-training, FYI) walks into my living room... As joke opening lines go, it sucks. But true, none-the-less. So, my 4 year old 'little bit' walks into the living room with her sippy cup, "Can you get me a drink, Mommy?"

"Sure, where's your sister's sippy cup?" The standard procedure involves two sippy cups, not one.

"I looked, and I looked everywhere, and I couldn't find it. It's not on the floor." Hmmm.

"Really? So if I walk into your bedroom right now, look on the floor, and find the sippy cup, can I spank you for not telling me the truth?"

Animal Control

We have two dogs, an 11 year old lab/dalmation mix, and an American pit bull puppy, 16 months. Both females, and at first they got along great. Last summer, though, they were picked up by the dogcatcher and things haven't been the same since.

The pound here is rather "anti-pit bull." I've had friends that told me this, but until I saw it with my own eyes, I thought they were exaggerating. I don't think that now. This was the second time the puppy and the lab mix were picked up, and the puppy had two weeks to go until she turned six months. After talking to the staff, they took me to the female area. There was my lab mix, but where was the puppy? Then they took me through the male side.

"She's a female," I told the attendant. I didn't really think I had to mention it, but I guess you never know.

The Princess

Sometimes, in my head, I decribe things with Native American-sounding names, I dont't know why. I've always been told that we have a lot of Indian blood in the family, maybe that's it. Or maybe it's just very descriptive. Anyway, 'The Princess' walks into the living room, having just woke up.

"Good morning, sweetie. Go potty real quick and I'll get you a sippy cup. Is the baby awake too?"

"No," she tells me.

"Ok, well hurry up and go potty, and either Daddy or I will get you a sippy cup when you're done."

She puts her hands on her hips. "No, either Daddy or you will get me a sippy cup, now."

The Littlest Dictator

My youngest child may be smarter than all of us combined. She just turned two, and runs the house with an iron fist. Being Mom, I am wise to her ways, but alas, it seems I am the only one who sees her for what she truly is - a master manipulator in the making.

When she was a year, I took her in for her check up, and told the doctor that I was a little worried because she wasn't talking. He asked me how she communicated, and I told him: when she screeched like a fire engine, she was pissed, usually because someone had taken something away from her. When she yelled loudly, she wanted food/drink/diaper change, and usually all three. When she threw herself on the floor and screamed, she was tired. And when she cried like a normal baby, she was bored.

He asked me if she was saying any words at all.

Mismatched Clothes

My boyfriend came to parenting late in life. I already had three boys from a previous marriage when we became a couple, and three year later, we (well, I, mostly) decided to have a child together. But he had never been a father, and his parents had kind of given up on grandchildren from him. When he told them they were going to be grandparents again, they asked, "You mean, your sister's pregnant?"

"No, Amy is."

"Your Amy?"

It took them a minute to figure out that he meant that he was going to be a dad. He was over 35, and wasn't married, so I guess they gave up on that idea years ago. But his sister (and their only other grandchild) live 5 hours away, and his parents were really thrilled, so they spoil the shit out of the girls. I am very lucky in my in-laws.

The Storm of the Century. Whatever.

When the boyfriend bought this house, I knew we needed at least 5 bedrooms, and this one only had four. He really liked this house, and since he was purchasing it, this was the house we got. It does have a finished basement, though, and I suggested we put our bedroom in the basement. The basement has carpet, finished ceilings, and over 600 square feet of space. It was called a "mother-in-law suite" because it has a separate kitchen. Plenty of room for all of my clothes, storage, the laundry room, my dressers, my shoes, et cetera. Oh, and his shit fits too. There was even a half bath, complete with raised "throne." I labelled it "his bathroom," and threatened to find a gold toilet seat.

I told him while we were moving that eventually I want to get a steam shower for the basement. It has always been my dream, a two-person steam shower.

Eggs

When my second son was 4, he used to get into the refridgerator and take out food at night, too. Shortly into summer that year, I came home from work to find my (now ex-) husband returning food to the kitchen, and throwing stuff away. I naturally asked what he was doing, and he showed me what he had, and said he had found it all under the second son's bed. A peanut butter jar (sans lid), a loaf of bread (opened), a bottle full of apple juice for the baby (half-full), a 7-up can (unopened, thank God!), a bag of chips (you guessed it, opened), and a half-full carton of eggs. Yes, an egg carton. With eggs. Upstairs, under a child's bed, in the summer.

Y'see, it was just after Easter, and they had of course colored boiled eggs and hid them, then found them, and ate them. At that time, I didn't yet understand that the path of a child's thought is made of squiggly cork-screw lines, with little resemblence to reality. And every lesson you give your children is never the one you're trying to teach them.

He got most of the stuff this particular day from the fridge (the peanut butter was out on the counter) except for the chips-those were kept on top of the fridge. I naturally asked my son how he got the chips down. "Did you climb on the cabinets?"

The Gated Community

My fourth child is willful. And very imaginative. And will be a holy terror when she becomes a teen-ager.

My 4 year old and her sister (2 years old) live inside what I call the "Gated Community." Outside of the gate, there is a decided lack of kid-mess, mischief, and mayhem. Outside of the gate, most things are no-nos, toys aren't allowed to be left lying on the floor, and tag is only allowed under certain circumstances. No throwing balls, no jumping on the couch, and no high-pitched girl screams. Outside of the gate, grown-ups live in a land of uncovered outlets and breakable items. And don't touch my shit. (Also, their clothes are kept in this area, because they dump everything out of their dressers and the prima donna would change clothes about 6 times a day or more if we let her.)

Inside the gated community, they can dump out their toy boxes, play in playhouses, squeal repeatedly. and cause chaos in general. Dolls are dressed, house is played, teddy bears are carried around like babies, and princess dresses are worn. Imaginary friends (that are named Monster) inhabit the room, which is child-proofed, with a TV playing Nick Jr, toys stored (initially anyway) in tubs, and no clean-up rules except at night. I really don't care if they carpet their floor with toys. And they do. Every day. They play in there most of the time, and I can't really blame them, it's a really cool room. And I don't touch their shit.

Boobies!

My 4-year old daughter and I were in the shower a few weeks ago, washing her hair. This usually involves screaming, crying, and yelling, and not just by me. Four years old, and she can scream loud enough to pop my eardrums! It doesn't matter how carefully I pour the water on her head, some of it always gets in her eyes and/or ears. (And yes, she screams equally loudly with either one.) Screaming ensues, followed by guilt, and usually candy. This time, after everything is rinsed while I'm still getting soap out of my eyes, she asked that dreaded question, "Mommy, what are those?"

I wiped my eyes with my fingers, and opened them to see that she's pointing to my chest area (ok, ok, my abdomen area) and for a moment, I couldn't think of what to call "them." "The girls" sounds confusing, "breasts" sounds so clinical, "tits" so perky and vaguely obscene, for "titties" see above with a slightly lower cup size. She's still staring at me, so out popped, "Boobies, honey, those are boobies."

She looked down at her own chest-slash-abdomen, so now I'm super worried (boob-size complex in the making, Dr Phil!) and told her that mommy-boobies are different from girl boobies. She said, "Oh," and I thought I dodged a bullet.

But children never forget ANYTHING you say that can cause embarassment. Yesterday, my mother-in-law gave her a new bathing suit for summer. It was a purple two piece, bikini-style (enjoy it while you can, my sweet!) with a matching skirt. What's the first thing my little angel of inappropriateness says? She picks up the top and says, "Boobies!"