Rubbermaid Containers

Can I share with you my most hated aspect of parenting? The clothes. The endless buying and washing and outgrowing and changing seasons, over and over again and again. I despise the entire process.

For starters, I am the only one in charge of the clothes. I guess the day Alice was conceived, Hatta and I signed an invisible contract stating that I would oversee all things clothing. I would be in charge of ensuring our baby had warm clothing in the winter and bathing suits in the summer...every single year for the rest of her childhood. Easter dresses and Christmas tights, all on me, and do be sure you buy during a sale. I suppose I should just shut up and be thankful that we can afford to buy Alice clothing, first world problem I know. Still, it's exhausting.

Please, someone, explain to me why I'm the only one to notice when her pants become capris? Which presents another aspect of this problem, what to do with the outgrown clothing. Not only is it my responsibility to purchase new size 5 leggings in the middle of the season (hmm, does Hatta even know what size Alice wears?) I have to sort and box up the size 4 leggings that are no longer an acceptable length. Every season it's a juggling act to comb through boxes of hand-me-downs, pull out the appropriate clothing for the season and box up everything else. This all translates to piles of outgrown clothing stacked up in various places as the season starts winding down. And please repeat this process every single freakin season for years and years and years.

Four times a year, it's the same, survey the clothing, force Alice to try on clothing, sort through hand-me-downs, force Alice to try on more clothing, wash everything, buy new clothing to fill the gaps in the wardrobe, wash more clothing, remove old clothing from drawers, stack around the room, wonder where in the hell you are going to stack yet another large Rubbermaid container in the basement, cry tears into your tequila, repeat over and over again.

I do apologize for this rant, I suppose I'm just a touch bitter after four and a half years of the same and with another season change barreling down upon me I'm feeling the blood boiling inside at the upcoming task. My mind is already in spring clothing mode, with preparations for summer being made when sales arise. The only comfort is knowing I'm not alone. All of my girlfriends with children are also solely responsible for the children's clothing too. Maybe I should coordinate a strike, instead.

March Mad-ness

Every year it's the same. Every year, it's only March Madness. I'm so very sick of it.

Let me back up a bit. When we were much more kids than adults, my dear husband and his boys started a tradition. A very bad tradition, in my opinion. They decided, being the avid sport's fans they were, to go out to the bar full time for the NCAA basketball tournament. They'd take a few days off work from their entry level jobs and party all day and night, like the kids they were. Fast forward to now when they are much more adults than kids and the tradition is still going strong. March Madness makes me a single mom.

Now, I'm the first to agree, husbands and wives need time apart. We need our space. We need our own hobbies and interests. We need friends other than each other. I really do agree with all this. But...March Madness and everything it brings makes my blood boil. Year after year, this tradition has become too big. I heard talk from one of the wives of a birth being missed if the baby should happen to come during March Madness. Last year a wife had to rearrange her annual girls weekend gateway because it was accidentally planned during the tournament. I will have two extra house guests until Saturday. Which means I will have three drunk boys coming home several nights in a row waking me and Alice up. Seriously friends, don't get the wrong impression, I like a good party just as much as the next guy. When this tradition was started, us girlfriends took part. We all had little responsibility and it was a great excuse to let loose. Fast forward ten years, we all have huge responsibilities and don't have the luxury to party like we used to. And yet, the boys still do. Maybe they do a few less shots than they use to, but they still demand the March Madness freedom from work and home.

Last year I was fortunate enough to get away for a night of it. My sister had Alice for a sleepover and I got out of town and stayed with a friend. This year I am not so fortunate. With Ellie's well being depending upon me, I can not leave. I'm forced to witness the men become boys. I think I should start planning now for next year. I'm going on a trip. Somewhere great, a spa retreat!

Punked

Dear Mother Nature,

Clap..............clap..............clap.

Bravo. Well played. Point Mother Nature. I see what you did today, your humor is not lost on me. I can appreciate a good prank. But, it kinda feels like you've won on a technicality. To be fair, I did only request for you to change the weather, which you did. At present there is zero snow accumulation outside my front door. Don't get me wrong, I am very grateful for this. I was dreading the shoveling and the wet snowboots cluttering the entrance to my home. But it feels like I was played. You changed the weather like it was one giant mood swing. Are you pmsing? Because if you are, just say so and I'll completely understand. You caused a lot of inconviences today constantly making it appear as it was going to snow any minute. Have a look at just one tiny example, three emails I received today.

Just think about all those poor moms who were waiting and praying swim lessons were canceled, all for naught. They still had to deal with the cold wet weather you provided. As a mother yourself, you should be ashamed. I lost my lunch bunch day, never to be gotten back. It's just gone. Dust in the wind. And to top it off, I didn't even get to Instagram adorable pictures of my child frolicking in the inches of snow you promised.

You may have won this time, but you can bet your ass I'll be bitching in the August heat.

Sincerely,

Nelly

 

P.S. If you skip spring and go straight to summer, there will be hell to pay.

Ball of Emotion

Passion: A strong and barely controllable emotion.

Alice hit me today. She was mad at her swim teacher, so she hit me. That's logical, right? Alice is definitely a ball of passion that bounces around her world. Sometimes the passion is positive, sometimes it's not. Today has been a not kind of day.

"Alice has needed to work on using her words rather than her hands when she wants to assert herself with her friends. Alice can get very wound up if the activity level is high," said her teacher during our spring conference today.

This is my Alice. This is my world, reminding her to talk with her mouth not her hands, trying to help her establish self-control. We battle frequently when her passion becomes more than I can bear, positive or negative. Sometimes it's just too much. She plays with the very same energy she fights with. There is very little middle ground with her. She's in, all or nothing. Watch Alice tell you a story, watch the emotion flow through her body. It's the most adorable thing, she bounces around barely able to contain herself. She can hardly be still.

When the passion flows negative, look out. Her go to move is kill first, ask questions later. She rarely has enough control over her passion to think. The emotion fills her and her go to release is to scream or hit or kick or throw. When I think of this list of her reactions, two years ago I would have had to add biting and a year ago I would have included spitting. So I am reassured that in this never ending parenting saga, I am making progress. However, I fear I will always be struggling with Alice. I can not fathom things are going to get easier. Better, in regards to hitting, yes. But not easier. She is my artistic, inquisitive beautiful ball of emotion. And I love every ounce of her.

Way Up High

In my house there's a mythical place where toys go called Way Up High. The location often changes without notice, but the laws governing remain the same. In Way Up High land you never know who you may find. One day in my journeys, I stumbled upon quite a large group of inhabitants.

For one activity or another, the toys were banished to Way Up High never to be heard from again until that fateful day when they were given a second chance. I am not entirely sure what causes a toy to go haywire, is it peer pressure or are some toys just inherently misfits. Whatever the reason, the toys that don't conform to society find themselves in Way Up High. Most often they travel in packs, Iike the group above. But it's not unheard of to find a solitary.

On occasion I have even witnessed the natives of Way Up High so outraged at a toys actions, they are banished to the outskirts of the land. A place only whispered in the darkest of times, Way Way Up High. Here they are most usually forgotten about completely.

And sometimes there are repeat offenders. I will not mention any names, eh hem...lightsaber.

These toys are darker than most and stand no chance in normal society. Their forever home is Way Up High. The only hope they have at a new life is a place called Good Will.

 

Possession of a Deadly Weapon

Ever have one of those moments when you laugh out of fear of another even bigger emotion settling in? Yeah, that's been my day. Except I didn't laugh. But I am now, via letters on a screen. I will not write a sob story. I will tell the only semi funny part of it all.

Alice's school is a five minute drive from home and today after picking her up I had a four minute phone conversation with my doctor that left me worried and concerned and having to make another appointment. It's nothing too alarming yet, but needless to say, I'm not an individual that worries well.

I had one minute to try and process the phone call before I heard Alice's best friend in the back seat say, "Look! The door's open." In the middle of parrel parking, it took me a second to register what he was saying, what he had seen. I turned and saw the front door to my house wide the fuck open. My mind hit overdrive, thoughts racing trying to decide my next move. Why was the front door open? Was there someone inside? Had someone broken into my house? Oh my god, was someone with a gun in my house?! Was is just Hatta? Was he home sick from work? Had Hatta left the front door open?

Not knowing what was inside, to keep them safe, I left the kids in the car and locked the door. I ran up the front steps and was greeted by a scared Marley dog just on the other side of the threshold. Frozen in place, I looked around, tv still there, nothing disturbed. I saw one of two cats lying on the dog bed. There was still an entire house to be checked and with kids in the car I had to be fast. Heart pounding I looked for a weapon, anything I could club a guy over the head with. Shoes...no. Pillows, pictures frames...no and no. I had nothing. I could have run to the kitchen to get something deadly but in the interest of time, I took off empty handed. In a split second decision, I grabbed the guitar that resides on the first landing up the steps. I can now laugh, my weapon of choice to defend myself was a guitar. And the sad thing, as I was climbing the steps I was mentally preparing myself to use it. I even repositioned it in a way to get better leverage if I needed to start swinging. Thankfully, I didn't need to use it. The house was empty. No intruders. Nothing missing...except one cat.

In a total brainless move, Hatta didn't shut the front door before he left for work. He didn't shut or lock our front door. At all. I was already gone for the day, not to return until after picking Alice up at 11:45. In that time, Ellie cat had wandered out the door in search of adventure. For Hatta's sake, since I was ready to kill him with something more powerful than a guitar, maybe there is a God after all, because Ellie was found within a few hours of searching.

The Relish Tray

Thanksgiving came and went. We survived. I mean, really, it's a fairly painless holiday. You eat and drink and eat and watch football and drink and eat and drink and eat and eat.

People talk about the Thanksgiving meal for weeks ahead of time. The proper turkey technique is debated, to brine or not, to stuff or not, to deep fry or not. Recipes are shared. Every morning show and cooking channel attempts to teach you how to prepare the easiest and tastiest Thanksgiving meal. Everyone has their favorite dish, the one aspect that makes it Thanksgiving dinner. For me it's a trifecta: mashed potatoes, stuffing, and dumplings. Without all three, it's just not Thanksgiving.

But, this isn't about me. Surprise, surprise...it's about Alice. Wanna know how much she liked Thanksgiving dinner? Wanna know what she ate? Pickles. And a roll. Not a roll with butter. No, she wouldn't try that roll. Just a plain roll. And approximately ten dill pickle slices. To say my daughter is picky is an understatement.

There were twenty four people seated at dinner, all of them piling food on their plates, the waist band on their pants stretched to maximum capacity. People helping themselves to seconds or thirds and Alice is only eating off the relish tray.

How is possible that my child will eat guacamole and hummus and gazpacho, but will not eat mashed potatoes? Or a roll with butter for that matter? When I was three years old, my mother walked into the kitchen one day to find me on the counter eating from a tub of butter. I was eating butter by the fingerful, but my child wouldn't eat a roll because of it.

I'm starting to feel she isn't going to make it in the world, survival of the fittest. She won't eat chicken nuggets, cheeseburgers, or french fries. No hot dogs, or fish sticks, or grilled cheese sandwiches. I can't make her try tacos or lasagna. She's never going to be invited to any sleepovers. Her friend's mothers are going to talk about picky Alice. She won't try fish or crab or any other seafood besides shrimp, ergo it won't be long before my family will ostracize her. In no time, she'll be banished from society completely. And to think it could've been avoided if she would've just eaten Thanksgiving dinner when she was four years old.

Dazed and Confused

I am too tired to write.

I know I said I wasn't going to give any more excuses for not writing, but I swear, this time it's different. See...I'm writing. Even though I'm so tired my brain is jello, I'm still stringing together letters to make words. Promise kept.

Alice is killing me. Slowly but surely. Autocorrect suggested surly instead, which may be appropriate too.

She's been having bad dreams. I suppose I would have patience for them if they were truly bad dreams, but I kind of feel they are merely less than stellar dreams. Correct me if I'm wrong, but your pink and purple heart Vans being tagless does not constitute a bad dream. It doesn't warrant crying and yet she was. Scream crying in the middle of the night because her shoes didn't have a tag. What tag? I don't have a clue what she's talking about. Yet, I was awake to ponder the thought.

I was awake to listen to the coughing, too. The rediculous coughing. Fifteen minutes of coughing, twenty minutes of rest. Ten minutes of coughing, fifteen minutes of rest. Ten more minutes of coughing, hour of rest. All freaking night long like this. I might have been more sympathetic and motherly if I wasn't already sleep deprived from the previous nights. All she got from me was "Go to the bathroom and get a drink of water, Alice." I vaguely remember telling her to get up and go play even though it was only five o'clock in the morning. Not exactly a shining moment in mom history.

Tonight I will sleep, damn it. I'm making Hatta buy Vicks Vapo-Rub as we speak, hopefully that will calm the coughing from her cold. I'm going to bed early. No Monday night football for me. Hell, I may even drug myself for a restful eight hours of sleep. As I tell a childless friend of mine, if you like sleeping don't ever, ever, ever, ever have kids.

Only Alice

Hand in hand, I lifted the latch and we entered the tot lot. All around were tricycles, plastic ride on cars, balls, plastic playhouses, and a small playground. I saw the tooth fairy, a bat, Snow White, Anakin Skywalker, a super hero, a baseball player, and numerous other children dressed in their favorite costume. They were all having fun, riding and running, laughing and shrieking. Orange, purple, and black balloons tied to the gazebo greeted us as we walked in. It looked and sounded like a fun birthday party.

Alice, dressed as the most adorable version of one of our favorite characters in Alice in Wonderland, clung to me for dear life. To her the party looked intimidating. Everyone already in play mode, after a long crying fit at home, we were walking in thirty minutes late. After several attempts to ease my daughter out of her shell, I stopped trying. I socialized with the other parents, periodically trying to pry itty bitty fingers from my own. Looking around, all the other children were behaving like "normal" children at a birthday party. Adults were standing around, children were playing together. Not Alice. She bounced from my leg to Hatta's leg, holding tight. Her friends from school called to her.

"Alice! Alice! Come play!"

I encouraged her to play. I reminded her we arrived late and the party would be over before she knew it. I walked with her to the playhouse where her friends were climbing and chatting together. She ignored them and hid further behind my leg. I talked to her friends, hoping she would see me having fun with them and join in. That plan was not successful. Finally as a last ditch effort, I took Alice aside.

"Alice. You know how I tell you that sometimes it's okay to be stubborn and sometimes it's not? How sometimes it gets in the way of you having fun? This is one of those times. You're being stubborn, refusing to play, just because. You know that if you just allow yourself to play you will have fun. These are your friends. You play with them everyday at school. So stop being stubborn and let's play or we are going to have to leave the party early."

I walked with her, holding her hand so she had no choice, to the playground. I made us walk up the steps to the top. And there I encouraged her to go down the slide, promising I would go down right behind her. And finally, just like that, she did it and all was right in the world again. She ran to the steps, climbed to the top, and happily slid down the slide again. She was playing. Upon her insistence, I took my turn down the slide and waited for her at the bottom.

I'm hoping this is what the rest of the party goers saw. My adorable child finally allowing herself to have a good time. You wanna know what I saw?! Naked four year old vagina.

OH! EM! EFFING! GEE! My daughter was dressed head to toe in sparkly tulle, sliding down the slide on her naked ass. I swear, only my child would be devasted because her black bow headband wasn't completely centered on her head but could care less that she was out on the town with her naked parts out there for the world to see. In her crying fit of rage at home, we had neglected underwear. You may remember how my daughter has a fondness for going commando. She wasn't wearing underwear when I helped her dress into her costume and I, just wanting to get out of the house, completely forgot.

Luckily I'm a prepared mom and I had a skort in my bag. I grabbed her hand and walked a bit out of the way of the party, all the while scolding Alice for going out in a dress without underwear. She's four. She has to be aware of these things. I can't possibly be in charge of everything! With the skort slipped discreetly under her costume, Alice was free to run and play.

I have to say, I am a teeny bit worried about Alice's naked vagina showing up in some unsuspecting mother's photo stream. There was this one mom that was blasting her iPhone like she was the paparazzi. Please say my daughter is not on the Lindsay Lohan track.

Colliding Thoughts

Today is a thinking day. I'm not entirely sure why, but my brain refuses to do, only to think. I really wanted to write, help steer my thoughts into a focused direction...but sadly that doesn't appear to be happening. Instead, I find myself staring out the window thinking. I can hear Alice upstairs singing and playing, not napping like she should be. It's just background noise for my rambling thoughts.

Nothing monumental has happened to cause the obscure mood. My mind is like Alice's favorite DVD, "The Milkshake Band." It's scratched and will continuously play and replay certain clips until someone forces the DVD player to skip over the section. It will resume playing breifly until it hits another scratch, again it will loop around and around. The DVD is really useless at this point, but every now and again I give into Alice's insistent pleas and play it, knowing it won't be long until I'm forced to fast forward and skip the fickle disc. That's my thoughts today, worthless and continuously stuck on repeat.

I'm not getting anything accomplished. Before me sits three packages. Normally I love packages...it's like adult Christmas! But today the packages sit on the coffee table and I haven't even cared to open them. Amazon goodies and fall clothes for Alice. In time, I'll get to them.

My thoughts center around the usual pickle of a life I call my own, an email I received from a friend, and an uncalled for comment I made to someone who doesn't deserve it. Each sector running around my brain bumping into each other vying for the forefront. Meanwhile, these thoughts are competing with the standard operating thoughts...dinner, laundry, afternoon arts and crafts, dishes, etc. I need to lighten my brain's workload, cut the dead weight. It's clear to me now, I need to let the contents of the email lie. I do not need to analyze and process everything right now. Doing so will not change a thing, it will not set anything in motion, and honestly, nothing will be clearer. Second, I need to make right a wrong. I don't know what my intentions were in making the spiteful comment, but I know I was at fault. It didn't need to be said, and regardless of whether the person was offended, I need to apologize.

Phew...I already feel better. I do believe, now that I have that sorted, there will be more room for my thoughts to rotate in an orderly fashion. Look at that, writing did help me focus my thoughts after all. I didn't tell you a funny tale or talk about poop and pee, but, hey...everyday can't be a good story.

Have You Seen My (fill in the blank)

There's a person in my life that loses everything. I won't mention any names. I've already had to join the blogger protection program once before, not looking to do it again.

I don't even know how it's possible to lose some of the shit that disappears. Take for example a winter coat. How in world does a grown person lose a winter coat in your own home? It's only been a handful of months since it was last needed. Yet, it happened. How about a cell phone charger for the brand new iPhone 5? Mine hasn't even been delivered yet and somehow, in a matter of days, this person lost theirs. I could go on and on and on and on...sunglasses, debit cards, keys, concert tickets, shoes, et cetera, et cetera.

I tell you fine readers this saga because it amuses me. It didn't always. It used to drive me batty. Worse than batty. Wars have been fought over this shit. But somewhere in the last few years, I let it go. I realized it wasn't my belongings that were being lost (most of the time,) so I got over it and started laughing more.

I'm not a vindictive bitch, I've tried helping this person rectify the problem. I've put into place systems, a place for everything, everything in its place. Except no matter how I suggest, prompt, or bitch nag things don't end up in their place. And then they disappear. Maybe I'm blaming the wrong person. Possibly, and I'm going out on a limb here, these items all get up and walk away. It's some kind of sick trick they're playing. I dunno. All I know is the misfortune of one is entertainment to another. I am allowed that privilege as compensation for putting up with it for so many years. Retribution, if you will.

I had a good laugh this morning. Remember that iPhone charger? Well, apparently the replacement that was purchased just yesterday, turned up missing. It was only MIA for a few moments, but for those moments I was peeing my pants laughing, in my head of course.

Congrats, I Hope You Like Pee

You know what I hate? Pee. I am sick to death of pee. Not mine of course. My pee is fine. I put it in the appropriate receptacle. I think the next time a friend exclaims in her zealously, novice voice she's pregnant, instead of the traditional congratulatory words, all I'm going to say is, "I hope you like pee."

From the moment you laboriously push the babe from your nether regions you are inundated with urine. I should have expected it. I'd heard the story countless times. The first moment my father held all 8lbs 7oz of beautiful baby me, I peed on him. All down his side and his leg. There's even a picture to prove it.

Alice was no different than any other baby. She peed nearly every time she had her diaper changed. Luckily, she was a she and her pee didn't, um, go anywhere. It still made a puddle to be cleaned.

Potty training brought new mess. Lucky for us, (is the sarcasm font working?) when Alice was 19 months old she wanted to be just like her slightly older best friend who just got an Elmo potty seat and Cookie Monster big boy underwear. Her body wasn't quite ready, but she had made up her stubborn, bullheaded mind. She was getting herself some Zoe big girl underwear and a Dora potty seat. I invested in large quantities of rug cleaner and away we went. We arrived at her two year well check up in said underwear.

After such a momentous achievement, I thought we were in the clear on the urine front. Nope. We still had the night time potty training task ahead of us. Many, many, MANY loads of laundry later and she was done. A bonafide kid. Not a baby. Not a toddler. A real kid.

So the next logical question is why, oh God, why am I still cleaning up pee?! She's four freakin years old! She's been at this for over two years now. It's not hard, really. YOU PUT YOUR MOTHER LOVIN PEE IN THE EFFING POTTY!! One would think, after awhile it would be second nature, like eating and breathing. Never am I tempted to pee in the recliner because I'm too engrossed in Pinterest to get up.

You can imagine my displeasure when Alice woke me up the other night.

"Mama. My shirt's wet."

"Alice. Your shirt's wet because you peed in my bed. You're soaked in pee. Alice. Get up. Go get clean clothes...Alice, please. Get out of my bed. I've got to change the sheets."

That's right she was in my bed. Operation "Big Girls Sleep In Big Girl Beds" has only partially worked. She starts the night out in her own bed and whenever she feels like it, she meanders into my bed. This night she decided to meander into my bed and pee. You know why crib mattresses have a waterproof top surface? Pee. You know who's mattress doesn't have a waterproof top surface? Mine. The next day, when I properly stripped the mattress down it's like a Picaso in pee. My mattress that I once loved so dearly, now belongs in a frat house. Do you know how many loads of laundry I have to do every time she pees in my bed? Four. That's right. The mattress pad, the sheets, the duvet, and finally the cover. I HATE PEE!!

Can you even guess what greeted me when I picked Alice up at school, after I had spent the entire morning trying to sanitize my mattress? A baggie with pee pants inside. She had her first accident at school. On one hand I felt for her. She's made real friends at school and I imagine she didn't enjoy wetting herself in front of them. On the other hand...ARE YOU FREAKIN KIDDING ME WITH THE PEE, CHILD!!

Getting My Shit Together

Today marks the first day of "Get Your Shit Together."

I need to get my shit together.

When some folks say that, they may be referring to their physical condition, maybe they need to exercise more, finally get in shape, eat healthier. Others may say it in reference to their career. Maybe they are stuck in a dead end job, making far less than they deserve. While an entirely different set of individuals may use that phrase to describe the stage of life they are in, finally stop being a kid and grow up stage. Not me. I mean it in the most literal sense. Well, maybe not quite literal, I'm not trying to organize feces or anything, just the four years of shit I've accumulated since Alice was born. Memorabilia, if you will.

I am not a neat freak. I have no qualms with a minimal amount of clutter. Given the choice between playing games with Alice or cleaning, I'll always choose the game. The dirt will still be here day in day out for the rest of my life, four year old Alice will not. I am, however, organized. I always know where everything is. Hatta loses countless things every week. Not only does this not happen to me, I can usually locate the lost item for him. Now, I'll be the first to admit it doesn't appear that I have a grand organizational system, but clearly I must. I don't lose things. I don't misplace items. On the rare occasion that it happens, sadly, I am merely human, I berate myself to no end. I do not enjoy "pulling a Hatta."

When it was just my shit I was keeping track of, it was easy breezy. Enter Alice and the gawd alfuwl responsibility of preserving her childhood so one day thirty years from now she doesn't criticize me for not saving every freakin memento of her past. I speak from experience. I chastised my mother countless times about my baby book, or lack there of. I know what it felt like to see my older sisters' baby books and know that mine ended well before kindergarten.

So, I've been saving it all. Every birthday card. Every potty sticker chart. Every height/weight card from the pediatrician. Every letter from the Easter Bunny. If it could be saved, I did. Then there's the artwork. I've saved a lot. More than a lot. Samples of her drawing at each stage of her life. Collages, paintings, handprints...saved them all. I tried to remember to date the back, but to be honest I wasn't always successful. Not knowing what to do with all of this shit, I've been creating stacks of it here, paper bags of it there. Four years of Alice's life is starting to take a toll on my sanity. It's always been my crux. In the back of my mind I've tortured myself with the stacks of cards and drawings, the incomplete baby book, all signs of my failure as a mother. Now, I'm smart enough to know a baby book does not measure a mother, nevertheless, it still haunts my thoughts.

Today I started. I began separating and categorizing, organizing and purging. I've simplified my original grand plans to a much more managing filing system. The end outcome will be the same. Alice with have tokens of her childhood to look back on when she's older. She will know I cared.

And to you dear Alice, when you look back on the memorabilia and you come across the photos of you sitting in Santa's lap and you feel a picture is missing and your initial reaction is to blame your mother for losing your two year old Santa picture, think again missy may. I did no such thing. I took you to see Santa. I placed you in his lap. You screamed bloodly murder. Three years in a row. They actually used your one year old crying picture in their advertising. I refused to buy another photo of you crying. We tried on two separate occasions to convince you he wasn't the second coming of Satan. You had your own opinions and now you have a blip in your Santa photo saga.

Addicted to a Certain Kind of Sadness

Bless me followers, for I have strayed. It has been seven days since my last post.

I haven't been able to write. Well, that's not entirely accurate...I haven't been able to write anything nice and as the saying goes, if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all.

Over the weekend, I drove to Hershey, Pa to attend the sold out Farm Aid. The line up was stacked with well known artists, young and old. It was an amaaazing festival, a great cause and mostly great music. One act, Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, stood out from the rest.

Dave Matthews is a brilliant musician, I don't think anyone can dispute it. I will go above and beyond and say he's far more. He's a captivating storyteller and one hell of a performer. I watched him bare his soul again and again, song after song. Don't misunderstand, I'm not claiming Dave Matthews is all feelings, he has silly songs of fluff just like every artist. But, I found myself mesmerized by his uninhibited emotion as he sang lyrics that clearly meant something to him. And at that moment I realized maybe the saying should be changed.

If you have nothing nice to say, make sure you say it brilliantly.

Life has been hard for me lately. Eh, maybe it's been a little longer than lately. I feel as if the dominating thoughts in my mind are not nice, pleasant, peaches and cream kinds of thoughts. I'm swimming in the heavy, heart crushing ones. I've shared a few with you fine readers, but frankly I'm very concious of drowning my sorrows in my blog. No one enjoys reading a sad, woeful mess day after day.

I have no crystal ball and I haven't met with a physic; I have no knowledge of when my life will flip. But it has to happen. Eventually something has to give. Right? There's a lyric in Gotye's now famous song that concerns me. "You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness." I think there is validity in that thought. I do not enjoy turmoil and drama in my life. I am, without a doubt, sure of this. It is fact. However, when you live something for too long it can become you. I experienced this with my mother's illness and as a new mom, it took a lot for me to pull myself out. As life tries to spin out of control, I do my best to mantain equilibrium staying focused on my sun and my moon. All my daily efforts working towards remaining grounded on her. When I embrace it, Alice can brighten the dreariest of days and I count my lucky stars she's in my life.

She's a Cutter

Alice is a cutter. No paper is spared. I shit you not, from sun up to sun down my daughter cuts.

If it wasn't so damn annoying, it would be cute. Her current favorite pastime is coloring people in coloring books and then cutting them out. She says she's making her own paper dolls. Cute, huh? Which brings me to the so damn annoying part.

These "paper dolls" are everyfreakingwhere!! She takes them in the car. She takes them to nap. She leaves them on the coffe table. I find them under couch pillows and under tables. I'm up to my ears in "paper dolls." So...I did what any good mom would do. I forced her to purge. She was able to keep ten and the rest would go to other kids who aren't fortunate enough to have their own paper dolls. Hehehe. While she was away at school, ahh school, I recycled the scraps. She arrived home that day, shocked the give away pile was gone, I simply explained what happened. "While you were at school, I saw a few kids walking by and I asked them if they would enjoy playing with the paper dolls. They said yes, so I gave them away." Alice bought it. She actually seemed pleased in herself, like she was helping make mankind better. Let me inform you it lasted a day or two at most.

"So Mama. If the paper dolls are on the couch, you can't give those away. And if you find them on this table, you can't give those away either."

An hour later.

"Mama. These paper dolls that I'm putting here on this shelf, these you can't give away. These are for me to keep. And those over there, I'm keeping too. You can't give any of these away."

Sigh.

My world is full of paper barbies and paper princesses. Paper wings cut from paper fairies and glued to paper mermaids.

Do you know what all of this paper cutting leads to? Little shreds and scraps and strips of paper all over the freakin place. There are so many little pieces of paper on every surface and littering the floor, I hardly see them anymore. No, I still see them. I soo see them. They drive me mad. I wanna scream, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! PICK UP YOUR TRASH, CHILD!!" But I don't, something about stiffing her creativity or something. I encourage her to clean up after herself, knowing she's four and I'm likely to be doing the majority of it myself. As I'm on all fours pinching bits and pieces, I remind myself, this too shall pass. It's just a phase, an adorable, irritating phase in the creative life of Alice.

Hell Weekend Do-Over

I'm a glutton for punishment. It's the only logical explanation. You recall hell weekend, right? I've agreed to a do-over.

Shaking my head in disbelief.

Tomorrow morning we will load beach chairs and sand toys, suitcases and duffle bags into my new car (yup, I finally got the new car. Another post, another day.) I will drive us nearly three hours to attempt to have a relaxing few days.

I used to be a faithful Oprah viewer and I can still hear her, "When you know better, you do better." I'm not sure if this exactly falls under that quote, but I know better than to expect the next few days to be a breeze. In order to fully embrace realism, I give to you my expectations for the next few days.

• I expect Alice to force herself to stay awake on the ride to the beach. We will leave home at nap time and do everything under the sun to provide optimal sleeping conditions. She still will not sleep. Hatta and I will threaten severe punishment if she doesn't allow her body to fall asleep. No nap will be taken by Alice. She will start our "vacation" tired and irritable. Hatta and I will start our "vacation" stressed and on edge.
• Alice will not eat for two and a half days. Food will be prepared for her that isn't identical in color, texture, and consistency to the foods I prepare for her at home. Family members will beg Alice to eat, convincing her that she is running the show and calling the shots. I will spend double the days when we return home reminding Alice that she is in fact NOT in charge.
• Sleep will be lost. Alice will stay up too late and wake up too early. Unfortunately, the same will be true for Hatta and I. Sleep deprived Alice will become grumpier and bossier as the days pass. I will spend an equal number of days trying to help her catch up on sleep when we return home.

Oh friends, I think I'm having my very own Aha! moment right this second. Pertaining to this trip, I think I fully understand the quote. I know better than to expect this trip to go smoothly, so I won't. I will not stress about it. I know how it's going to shake down, why do I get upset when it goes exactly how I predicted?

So let me try again, now that I'm all enlightened and shit. My expectations for the next few days...

• I will enjoy the long drive in my new car. I will caress the new leather and learn the feel of all the buttons. I will provide Alice with hours of video to watch in hopes of not hearing a peep out of her.
• I will eat well. Screw everyone else!
• I will sunbath on the beach and allow everyone else to ensure Alice's safety.
• I will drink good beer and wine. No Coors light and Ménage a Trois Red for me.
• I will drink good beer and wine often.
• I will drink a lot of good beer and wine.

Wish me luck!

Time Out-Side

To be a good parent, my methods constantly have to evolve. As my darling daughter grows, I have to adapt to keep ahead of the madness. When I find myself shrieking obscenities, mostly in my head of course, it's time to reevaluate.

Last Friday was spent reevaluating. Alice was fresh off an I'm-sick-and-I-can-do-anything-I-want high. She walked around like she was queen of the castle and I was her lowly servant. Demanding tv at all times of the day. Eating when and what she felt like with no regard for the schedule. And the screaming. Ooh the screaming! Choice word being NO!! Not like a two year old who says it because it's novel and fun. Rather because I piss her off with my rules. How dare I try to control her and the things that go on in my house! Just who the hell do I think I am!

Traditional time outs weren't working. Removing privileges didn't bother her. I was forced to think outside the box on this one, outside the house maybe. In my head, I pondered the genius idea, my evil hands rubbing back and forth. I may have even cackled a time or two. My desperation had caused me to sink to a new low. I was going to use my knowledge of Alice's fear of bugs to my advantage. I don't think I've covered Alice's bug phobia yet, have I? She has an extremely grand, unwarranted, debilitating fear of bugs. It's so gargantuan it deserves it's own post. Soon, I promise. Anyway, I know that Alice hates being on the back porch by herself. You know, those man-eating flies. I've threatened before to stick her out back like I do with the dog when she's plucking my nerves. (I seem to compare my child to the dog a lot. Maybe I should reflect and get to the bottom of this.) The time had come to stop threatening and follow through. The next high pitch "NO!" she belted out and I was off. I took her by the arm, said nothing, put her on the back porch and shut the door. For a few glorious moments it was silent. When reality of her predicament settled in, the tears and the pleas to be let back inside started. She quickly waved the white flag, begging to be given a second chance, all the while looking back at the porch in fear of the imaginary bugs that were obviously coming to get her.

I had won. I wasn't proud of my below-the-belt tactics, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Eventually I hope she will want to be kind because it's the right thing to do, it's who we strive to be. Until that day comes, I'm okay with her choosing to be good to avoid consequences. And if I have to, I can ride the bug phobia for a very long time. Rest assured, dear Alice, juvenile detention center's are laden with insects.

Think Again Before You Offer Judgment

I couldn't decide what I wanted to write about today. Two topics are in the forefront of my mind. One where I ask the Judgey McJudgerson's to kindly back away and come back another day, so I can tell my tale. Or the other one where I talk to them personally.

I'm opting for the latter. This post is for those who judge. Nay, since judging is human, this is for those who feel compelled to voice their judgment.

As my loyal readers know, Alice has recently challenged me as a parent concerning her pink medicine. We (Hatta and I) have received various forms of criticism from friends and family on our parenting skills, or lack there of, because we couldn't make our daughter take her medicine. I have a few things that I would like to get off my chest.

How dare you criticize my parenting! I'm a damn good mom and I know my daughter and what is best for her. I know her temperament. I have learned her strengths. I was the one that learned her needy cues when she was a newborn. I was the one that learned the exact floor board to stand and bounce on that gave just the right amount of give and squeak to calm her insistent crying. I learned to read her face to know just how much stranger anxiety she could handle before I had to intervene. It's been my job for over four years to keep my daughter happy and safe and now you're going to tell me how to do my job. I DON'T THINK SO!!

I don't care one iota how your father used to parent you. I don't give a flying fuck what you used to do when your kids were little! All I care about is my daughter and her physical and mental well being.

Do you think we didn't try to force Alice to take her medicine? What do you think we said, "Hey Alice, if it wouldn't be too much trouble do you think you could possibly, maybe take your medicine honey baby?" Of course when our attempts at reason didn't do the trick we tried what worked in the past when she was little. I'm not sure what amount of power and force you are okay using on a 35lb child, but my goal as a mom is not to teach Alice that I am bigger and stronger than her. I do not enjoy using my body against hers. So when after several attempts at forcing medicine down her throat didn't work, I stopped trying.

Funny thing, when I called the pediatrician, who by the way has been in countless medical publications and has won numerous awards, he never once suggested I hold Alice down and use force to get her to take her medicine. No. That wasn't what he said at all. Instead, he, the medical expert on children, suggested something else entirely. Something more civil.

So the next time you feel like offering your opinions on how I should raise my daughter, I suggest you just don't. Find something else to do with your time that you actually know something about. Cause, trust me, you don't have a clue about how best to parent my daughter.

You Can Lead a Horse to Water

You know the old saying, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink the got damn pink medicine." So that's not exactly how it goes, close enough. That's been my life since Friday. Words do not do justice to what my sick life with sick Alice and sick Hatta has been. Let me share the ailments as they pertain to the individual, starting with Hatta: strep, bronchitis, and conjunctivitis, myself: strep, mild swimmer's ear (wtf?) severe inner ear infection, and sinus infection, and lastly, Alice: strep, stubborn, strong willed, defiant, bullheaded, relentless, persistent...shall I continue?

The list of ailments required medication: eye drops, ear drops, antibiotics, and perscription strength cough syrup. I shudder at the thought of how much, as a family, we've dropped at CVS in the past week. Alice was prescribed one simple antibiotic, Cephalexin, the pink medicine. In her previous years, my daughter worried me with her strong love for drugs, pink medicine included. She always wanted more. She'd fake an illness just to take more purple medicine. I thought surely we had a drug addict in the making. Suffice it to say, I'm not longer concerned.

I've struggled to get Alice to take her antibiotic, wait...I think that's a bit of an understatement. It's vastly greater than an understatement. Over the course of the weekend, I learned even though she is small I can no longer control what she does or does not do. To my novice, childless readers who are questioning my words right now, who think surely you can be the parent and make her...to you I say, if only it was that simple. Yes, I can force her to lie still. Yes, I can force her mouth open. Yes, I can force the medicine into her mouth. That's the point in which I no longer have control. What happens once the pink gooeyness hits her tongue is up to her. No matter how much I attempt to close her mouth, she still has the power to spit it out. All over my hands, all down her hair, all over the floor.

Plan B, hide that shit! First attempt, smoothie. Success. But, I can't make her drink two smoothies every day for ten days. Maybe I can reason with her. That was where I went wrong. Hatta warned me; I chose not to listen. I ruined the secret. I told her she had taken the pink stuff when she drank her smoothie. Alice was ecstatic! She was overcome with joy and wanted her morning medicine in a smoothie for sure. Seriously. I'm not being sarcastic. There was high-fiving all around. The next morning the warm and fuzzy feeling of the previous night was replaced with an air of gloominess as Alice began what would become a three day fast. No food. Little water. She was boycotting life. The mention of medicine would send her running to bed. From her mouth I heard, "No. I don't want to. I don't like it. I wanna go to bed." That's it, on repeat for three days. I offered her a chocolate milkshake. Wouldn't take a sip. Vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and Reese's Pieces. Spoon didn't touch it. I found myself attempting to bribe her with the new Princess Tianna doll complete with carriage or a new Barbie is she just took the medicine. Nope. She was standing her ground, her coughy, achey, fevery, sick ground.

Plan C, finally the pediatrician has given the okay to switch antibiotic, since to date she has consumed merely one full dose and a couple partials. A new prescription has been called in, more money added to the shudder inducing total. The new drug is a capsule that when opened the tasteless powder can be sprinkled on anything. Thrilled to find out how tonight goes! Thrilled I tell ya!

My Relationship with the Jehovah's Witnesses

I have trouble saying no. I'm sure my husband, if he read my blog, would laugh heartily at that statement, but it's true in some respects. When people ask me for a favor, it's like this impossible force within me, I must say yes. Need me to watch your kid? Sure, no problem. Going away and forgot about your dog? No worries, bring him over. I already have a dog and two cats, what's one more? The list goes on. Ordinarily, I don't think it's a big deal, except at 2 o'clock when I hear a knock on the door and I'm not expecting guests. Then my ability to say no is a gargantuan big deal.

What some of you 9-5ers may not know, while you're away at work, people are standing outside your door knocking. It's constant. Every week someone for some reason or another knocks on my door.

That fateful day, four years ago, someone knocked on my door. Itty bitty baby Alice in my arms, I opened it to find a young (17?) male African American...with a book in his hand. Not just a book, The book. In his other hand was The Watchtower. At the bottom of my front porch steps stood his grandmother with her summer hat on. He was nice to me, so I listened to him spread his belief. He gave me the required pamphlets and went about his day. That's where I went wrong. I should have nipped it in the bud that first meeting, but I didn't. I couldn't. He was so kind, I couldn't say no. So he came back. Again and again and, oh my God, again. He knew my name. He knew Alice's name. Always the same, he talked while I nodded and answered his questions, his grandmother always within ear shot. I started to like the kid. I even found myself reading some of the articles in Awake!. I remember the day I realized it had gone too far, I was in the middle of nursing Alice when he knocked. I should have opened the door and said, "Enough's enough already! I'm not buying into your belief! I celebrate Christmas and my birthday!" Not having the required amount of balls to do so, I unlatched a very furious Alice, put my boob away, opened the door and greeted my new friend. I listened, all the while bouncing Alice to keep her whines to a minimum. I didn't want to interrupt his preaching. Then, at the end of this particular visit, he said it.

"Next time, why don't my grandmother and I come inside for some bible study?"

Holy, oh my eff, what had I gotten myself into?! I had no intentions of allowing this kid in my house for bible study, no matter how nice he was. If I had just said no from the get-go, I wouldn't be freaking out about how I was going to politely sever my new friendship.

I consulted my friends. They all said the same, "What? You're meeting with the Jehovah Witnesses on a regular basis? Seriously?" Thanks, guys. Then, my sister in-law told me her mother has regular Bible study with the Jehovah's, even lunch. I knew then and there, I didn't want to be making egg salad and lemonade for this kid and his family. I needed to end it. Maybe I could just leave a note on the door.

Like ripping off a band-aid, I did it on our next meeting. As soon as I opened the door, I told him thank you for the kindness but I liked my faith the way it was. Just like that my many month long problem was gone. I was removed from the list and the Jehovah Witnesses haven't stopped by since.

I learned a very big lesson that day. If you can't say no when you open the door, don't open the door.

I spend quite a bit of time hiding behind my door, glancing through the peep hole to see if the most recent solicitor has vacated my porch yet.

Which brings me to yesterday. There was a knock at the door, and since just last week I had succumb to the temptation to be normal and opened the door to a 15 minute presentation where I wishy-washily told the guy to come back later when the man of the house would be home, I decided it best to go back to what works...don't open the door. Alice came from the kitchen, where we had been painting pre-knock, to find me cowering behind the door. Quickly, I tried to mime to her to get back in the kitchen. It wasn't working. I tried again in that voice that wants to be a whisper but just isn't.

"What Mama? Who's at the door?"

"Shh, Alice. Be quite. See, it's a stranger at the door and we don't open the door for strangers."

"Are we hiding from them so they don't come in our house?"

"They're not gonna come in our house. We just don't want them to know we are here."

I don't know if I'm scarring Alice for life by teaching her that sometimes Mama hides behind the door when people knock. I hope I'm not encouraging her to be a hermit or anything. However, until I grow a backbone and learn to say no to college kids selling magazines to fund their trip to NYC, it's not worth the risk in opening the door. I do love me some Joe Corbi's though, so if you know of anyone selling, send them my way!