Just call her Che

So the Hatchling staged a coup at preschool last week. I knew I was in trouble when her preschool teacher (whom we love) came out of the classroom to where all the parents wait in the hallway, and pointing her finger successively at four of us, said, "You, you, you and you - I need to talk to you." We winced and slunk into the classroom while the other parents looked on in sympathy mixed with relief. It TOTALLY felt like getting called into the principal's office, NOT THAT I WOULD KNOW, since I was one of those kids who never GOT called into the principal's office, because my whole aim in life was to please my teachers. Because I'm an oldest kid, and we like to get approval from authority figures. UNLESS YOU'RE MY DAUGHTER. Because apparently nobody told the Hatchling this, and she and three of her favorite little playmates went completely Mutiny on the Bounty on their preschool teachers. Collectively, they refused to help clean up at clean-up time, would not join the group at group time, trashed the reading nook during snack time, and (thus) did not get to go outside and play at the end of the day. As soon as we walked into the room, the Hatchling and the other little girl in the group both started crying; they knew they were in trouble. The little boys opted for the avoidance tactic, and just looked away like they didn't even know any of these people and where were they, anyway? We spent about 10 minutes sternly exhorting our wayward progeny to clean up the mess, pronto, no I mean do it right now, RIGHT NOW, miss, you are going to get in TROUBLE, and now go apologize to your teacher and we are going to have WORDS on the way home. Sigh. Of course, their teacher was horribly sick that morning, so my theory is that they sensed weakness and went in for the kill. Which maybe makes it even worse. Honestly, y'all, I have no template for this. I was a goody-two-shoes all through school. I mean, there were MAYBE two times when I got my name up on the board for talking too much, but lawsy, that alone was enough to just about bring me to tears. I didn't even start THINKING about sticking it to the man until grad school. I am trying to look on the bright side. Perhaps she'll be an inspirational activist type! Or ... a union organizer! Yeah, that's the ticket. Alternatively, she could end up stealing hubcaps after dropping out of school at thirteen. That's parenting! Always an exciting option somewhere down the road!

Parenting FAIL.

I have a terrible temper. No, really. I'm a pretty patient person, so it takes a lot for me to lose my temper, but when I do ... it's not pretty. I don't know if it's my Prussian forebears or just my own personal inadequacy, but it's a fault I've been working on for years and years. I'm a person of intense feelings, which can be wonderful when you're talking about joy or love or empathy, but when it comes to anger I have a difficult time regaining control once I've lost it.

I come from a family of yellers. Our anger doesn't usually last a long time (I have a hard time sustaining it longer than 30 minutes) and we're not passive-aggressive, thank Maude, but in my family, when you're mad, you yell. When I was a teenager, I had some doozies of yelling matches with my parents - fights that have gone down in family legend and probably caused all of my younger siblings to experience some level of PTSD. We all survived it, but looking back I wish we'd been able to find a way to manage those years with less screaming on everyone's part. However, we didn't, and so - like a lot of you, I'd imagine - my model of parenting consisted of spanking when young and yelling when older. I don't blame anyone for that, mind you - like most parents, my mother and father did the best they could with the tools they had available to them, and, hey, I turned out OK. I just wonder if there was another way, sometimes.

It's something I've really been trying to come to terms with as I parent my own kids. The spanking thing has been pretty easy to avoid. Not that I don't understand the impulse, but it's something we decided not to do a long time ago, and the social pressure against it (at least in our parenting and peer circles) reinforces that decision. The yelling/losing of temper issue has been much more difficult. It wasn't until sometime this last year that I even seriously considered that it might be possible to parent (mostly) without yelling. Not in a repress-your-emotions-and-go-insane kind of way, but in a head-it-off-at-the-pass kind of way. I do know that yelling is rarely effective for me. I do know that I hate to see the Hatchling mimicking my or Mr. Squab's angry behavior (with her dolls, for example). So I've been thinking about it, and trying some different techniques, and seeing what I can do about controlling my epic temper, particularly in the area of parenting.

I've been having a particularly difficult time with it this autumn, as all of our tempers have been tried by the ridiculous cycle of illness we've been experiencing, in addition to which the Hatchling is clearly entering into a "disequilibrium" phase and is trying my patience to the utmost on her bad days. This afternoon was a real nadir. Both the Hatchling and the Sprout woke up from their naps in absolutely foul moods, which in the Sprout's case manifested itself in nonstop cranky fussing, and in the Hatchling's case manifested itself in vicious temper tantrums approximately every five minutes. EVERYTHING was wrong and EVERYTHING was my fault. Make her ask for things politely? TANTRUM. Give her the snack she just asked for? TANTRUM. Ask her to pick up the toy she just threw at your head? TANTRUM. Turn on her favorite movie in the hope that it will calm her down? TANTRUM. You get the idea. Lots of "NO!" and "IT'S NOT FAIR!" and general "AAAAAAAAHHHH!" And I just ... Could. Not. Take it. I tried patient reasoning. I tried calmly giving her options. I really, really tried. And then I started yelling. And then I found myself in the kitchen, slamming the stainless steel coffee pot on the counter to relieve my feelings. And finally, I put on a jacket and put the Sprout in her warm fleece and told the Hatchling that we were going outside to wait for Daddy and she could come if she wanted. And when she started pitching a fit about getting on her shoes and jacket, I just took the baby, and walked out to sit on the back steps.

We were out there for all of about five minutes, and I left the doors open so I could hear what was going on. But oh, it felt like failure. I was sick to my stomach afterward and I still feel totally deflated and defeated. Because, you know: SHE'S THREE. Of course she's going to have bad, tantrum-y afternoons. And I know it's just because she's going through some kind of mental growth spurt, and this is how it works, and in a few weeks or (ack) months I'll have my happy girl back on a more full-time basis. She's three: she gets to act that way. Not without consequences, sure, but three-year-olds get a pass on losing control of themselves occasionally. Thirty-eight-year-olds, not so much.

Why is it so hard? What can I do to get better? I know you'll tell me to cut myself some slack, and I do - I'm not interested in being anything like a perfect parent, even if that were possible. But I really don't want to lose it again like I did today, or, god forbid, even worse. (I mean, if a three-year-old can punch my buttons this hard, what the hell will I do with two teenagers?) There has to be a better way. Anyone have any tips?

Well, there goes my mother of the week award.

You know how, when you have a baby, there are all these WARNINGS about things? Most of which involve never leaving your child unattended? Especially when they're infants? Because they might fall? But of course when they're newborns they can't really move at all so you sort of can leave them unattended even though you shouldn't, and maybe you kind of push that luck a little too long and your 5 month old thrashes around until she sort of slides/falls out of the chair you had her propped up in? While you were (arrrgh) checking your email!?!?!!

Yeah. That might have happened to me today.

(Good thing babies have such hard heads.)

Recap of our trip to the grocery store with the baby, aka the first time the Hatchling has been out of the cart the whole time

Me: OK, now, remember, the Sprout has to ride in the cart so you get to walk and help Mama with the groceries. You have to stay with Mama, OK? NO running away, right?

Hatchling: OK, Mama. I helpa get gwocewies.

Me: Right. You help.

Sprout: A-bah.

Me: OK, let's see what we need for fruit ... do you want some bananas? (She's only been asking for them 10 times a day since we ran out.)

Hatchling: Ummmm ... no fanks. Oh, WOOK! Tomayoes!

Me: (grabbing bananas, distracted) Uh-huh, that's right - ok, put it back, Boo. Put it back on the pile.

The Hatchling puts the tomato back on the top of the heap, and it rolls down and falls on the floor.

Hatchling: Uh-oh.

Me: That's ok ... (surreptitiously places it back on the pile) ... Now don't touch anything, OK? Just look. No touch.

Hatchling: Wookit, Mama! Apple! (She holds out a pomegranate.)

Me: No, that's a ... never mind. Put it back. No touching, right? Just LOOK.

Sprout: MAH!

Hatchling: OK, Mama. I get-a bwoccoli. I be riiiiight back.

Me: Honey, don't - you really want broccoli, huh? Well, I guess that's a good thing to want. OK. Look, don't touch all of the - just bring me that one. THAT ONE. (The Hatchling walks towards me with a clump of dripping wet broccoli.) Good, good job. Here, I'll take it.

Hatchling: NO! I PUTTA INDA CART!!

Me: Honey, we have to put a bag on it first.

Hatchling: INDA CART!!!!!!

Me: Yes, we'll PUT it in the cart, but FIRST we have to put a bag on it. See? It's all wet.

Hatchling: All wet!

Me: Thank you. OK, now we need to go down this way for some cereal ...

Hatchling: I WUV ceweal!

Me: I know you -

Hatchling: Oh, WOOK! BAWOONS!

Me: Boo, stay here! We'll look at the balloons later! Honey ... (grabs cereal, parks cart and Sprout in corner) Come on, Boo. You have to stay with me, remember? (Hatchling darts through flag display, I knock it over trying to reach her) Ack! (grabs Hatchling with one hand, picks up flags with the other) Now come on. We'll look at the balloons when we're all done. Let's find the milk, OK?

Hatchling: What's dat?

Me: That's crackers.

Hatchling: Get some?

Me: Uh, yeah, I guess we do need some crackers.

Hatchling: What's dat?

Me: That's gouda. It's a kind of cheese.

Hatchling: I WUV-A CHEESE! Get some?

Me: No, you don't like that kind. Come on, here's the milk. (grabs milk, tries to head back to registers)

Hatchling: What's dat?

Me: Those are lightbulbs, honey. Come on, it's time to go pay for our stuff.

Hatchling: What's dat? What's dat WIGHT DERE, Mama?

Me: (increasingly beleagured) I don't ... those are cookies, honey.

Hatchling: COOOOOKIES. (She says this exactly like Cookie Monster) Getta some coooooookies, Mama? Get some wight DERE? I WUV-A coooooookies.

Sprout: Ga gooo. Ggggoo.

Me: Fine. (grabs cookies, dumps in cart) Now let's GO. Come on! (enticingly) Let's go look at the balloons!!

Hatchling: (brightly) OK! (runs off in the direction of the balloons)

Bag Boy: Wow, she's a real cutie. How old?

Me: (smiling, fatally turning attention away from the Hatchling) She's three, and the little one is two months. (notices Hatchling completely entangled in various balloon strings) Honey ... argh ... (leaves cart and Sprout at register) come here, let's get you untangled ...

Hatchling: I stuck, Mama.

Me: No kidding. OK, now let's go get our groc-

Hatchling: I NEEDA BAWOON!! MY BAWOON, MAMA!! (Grabs four graduation themed balloons tightly in fist.)

Me: Christ. Look, how about we get this one? Just ONE, ok? And put the rest back.

Hatchling: (brightly) OK! (Marches back to cart with her rainbow happy birthday balloon in hand.)

Grocery Clerk: (smirking) One balloon, then?

Me: (sheepishly) Yeah. Thanks.

Hatchling: OK, Mama! Time to go to car. Say bye-bye!

Sprout: geh-GA.
**********************

Final Score: Hatchling = Eleventy Billion, Me = Zero. Once the Sprout can play I am truly doomed.

I write letters

Dear Teacher at the School Where Our Weekly Toddler Class Is Held,

If you see a harried-looking mother trying unsuccessfully to calm an infant who is screaming like her eyes are being stabbed out with red-hot pokers, it is perhaps not the ideal time to strike up a conversation with said mother about how cute the baby's outfit is and you assume it's a girl and what a lovely name! etc., because I DO NOT HAVE THE BRAIN SPACE to engage in social niceties while my baby girl is having a complete and total conniption fit. You absolute moron.

Warmest regards,

The Squab

Mother's Day

Oof. It has been quite the week around here. Nothing terribly traumatic, but let's just say the Hatchling has begun to embrace her three-ness with a vengeance. Highlights have included a massive poop-on-the-sofa incident and the spilling of an entire glass of iced tea all over the keyboard of my laptop. (which, incidentally, appears to be relatively unharmed except for how I can't type a capital w. I love Macs!) Anyway, around about the time I was obsessively scouring the couch upholstery and wondering just which part of my graduate education prepared me for cleaning up shit, I thought maybe it would be appropriate to acknowledge some of the many, many incredible things my mothers have done for me. Here's an abbreviated list:

• read out loud to me incessantly
• enthusiastically responded to all my accomplishments, major and minor
• sewed everything from my Halloween costumes to curtains for my house to my wedding dress and all my bridesmaids dresses
• professionally edited my school papers whenever requested
• provided on-call medical advice and the occasional pharmaceuticals when needed
• sat with me and held me as I labored with my first child
• asked about my dissertation
• didn't ask about my dissertation
• taught me how to cook and bake
• faithfully attended all my performances, and sent me flowers for every opening night
• made a welcoming home-base to return to from my travels
• took me on amazing trips to Europe
• spoiled your grandbabies rotten
  
• and most of all, taught me the meaning of unconditional love

I can only hope to do so many things for my girls. Happy Mother's Day!

The image of grace and dignity

You know what makes an outing to the park on an absolutely lovely spring day somewhat LESS enjoyable? When your nearly-three-year-old makes one of her patented breaks for freedom combined with an attempt to steal another kid's ball, thereby making it necessary for you to leap up, nursing baby still attached to your left boob, yelling COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW and mouthing "I'm so sorry" to the other kid's mom, at which point the baby comes unattached, leaving your boob right out there for the whole park to see.

Not that I'm particularly modest or anything. But still. It's a little wearing.

Seriously?

The Sprout is (knock wood, throw salt over shoulder, sacrifice to the gods, etc.) an extremely mellow and easy going baby, which is a good thing considering the major conniption fits her older sister is giving me lately, but last night she got me but good in a manner that demanded to be blogged:

So all the houseguests have gone to bed, the Hatchling has finally quieted down and gone to sleep, and it's just me and Mr. Squab waiting for the Sprout to settle down so we can go to sleep. I figure I'll change her diaper so she'll feel all nice and clean, so I put her down on the sofa and get started. She's had a terrible diaper rash so once the, um, area is all prepared, I get some ointment out and lean in to make sure I apply it in all the correct places. I've applied maybe 1/2 of the salve when the Sprout ... well, I'm not sure what to call what she did. Projectile shitting? A shart? The unholy marriage of gas and excrement? You get the idea. Did I mention how I was leaning in at the time? Yeah. You don't know from bad parenting moments until your infant child has SHOT LIQUID POOP ALL OVER YOUR FACE. And yes, my mouth was open, since you ask. "Thank god you had your glasses on," was Mr. Squab's response (after running into the kitchen to get paper towels and water to help me clean up).

I tell you what, there is no way to prepare for something like that. But you can be damn sure I'm keeping my distance in all future ointment applying situations.

On the mend

Amoxycillin is a wonderful thing. Took the Hatchling to urgent care and only one ear was infected but it had also ruptured - OUCH - and she had a lot of lovely congestion to boot. She haaaaaaaates the medicine (can't blame her: it's "orange dreamsicle" flavored) but we've been getting it down her gullet twice a day and she's already feeling much, much better. Last night she only woke up once, a drastic improvement over the past three days. We're lying low today but I think we'll actually make it.

I have to say, I did not handle this sickness well. Usually I'm pretty good with the coddling and cuddling that goes with a sick kid, but for some reason - I'm guessing because I'm already low on energy reserves due to my fetal enhancement - I was going OUT OF MY MIND this weekend. I don't think the Hatchling picked up on it (though poor Mr. Squab did) but by last night I was just losing it left and right. Part of it was the lack of sleep, but even more than that was the feeling of no escape from the sick kiddo. She was literally attached to me for 85% of the weekend - couldn't sleep unless she was in bed with me, couldn't be awake unless she was right up next to me on the sofa, and if I had to get up to, you know, pee or get something to eat, she would start mournfully moaning "oh, no ... OH, no ... OH, NOOOO!" in escalating tones until I came back. I could not get anything done, and even if I could have gotten away for a moment I was too damn tired to accomplish anything. It was just making me totally nuts - and, like, how churlish is that? Christ, it's not her fault she's sick. And as Mr. Squab truthfully observed, in a few years I'll WISH she'd snuggle with me on the sofa for the whole day. But it wasn't helping this weekend. And then I started thinking, crap, she's basically just behaving like a little baby ... and we're having one of those soon ... and what if THAT makes me crazy like this is? ACKKKKK. Because, you know, that kind of worst-case-scenario thinking is so incredibly helpful at all times. Ahem.

Anyway, I got some sleep last night and Mr. Squab put up some Christmas decorations and cleaned up the kitchen and rubbed my back and tried not to laugh at me for bursting into tears whenever anyone looked at me crosseyed. So today things are better. Onwards and upwards, right?

June Cleaver and Donna Reed would be SHOCKED.

Tonight we were too tired to cook, so we went to a local diner for a quick meal as part of our comprehensive socialize-the-Hatchling-to-behave-in-public-spaces campaign. She did pretty well (for a 2.5 year old), but what was truly impressive was the dinner she ate, which was a nutritious combination of:

a) french fries
b) ketchup
c) apple juice
d) ginormous chocolate chip cookie

After which, she went home and was bouncing off the walls from her sugar + carb high. There was dancing, there was singing, there was a lot of random spastic movement. THAT, my friends = good damn parenting.

... really?!?!?

Did I mention that Mr. Squab has been out of town for business since the wee hours of Friday morning? Not getting back until late tonight?

And that the Hatchling came down with a really bad cold this morning, and just barfed all over my bed after an extremely abbreviated nap?

And that I've run out of my nausea medicine because my clinic didn't call in the renewal soon enough?

Yah. AWESOME weekend.

(I swear, I will try to post something positive tomorrow.)

This isn't exactly how I pictured motherhood

Today the Hatchling and I were driving home from a playdate. Just before getting into the car, the Hatchling had tripped and scraped her knees and hands a little, so she'd been crying. She quickly calmed down, though, and was sitting calmly in her seat when I heard her say "Thank you!" in the tone that means she's handing me something she no longer wants. I figured she was done with her water bottle, so I reached my hand back to grab it, and she placed something in the palm of my hand. I pulled my hand back to find ... a booger. From her nose. In the palm of my hand. "Thank you!" she said politely, and I found myself saying "You're welcome!" right back. As I was trying to dig in my purse for a tissue without running off the road, she handed me another one. "Thank you!"

At least she has manners. I guess.

We are not enjoying two and a half

I remember at the first ECFE class I took with the Hatchling, the parent coordinator talked to us about how babies and toddlers go through regular fluctuations between equilibrium (when their brains are relatively calm, their skills are somewhat in synch with their desires, etc.) and disequilibrium (when their brains are on fire with learning new things and their desires outpace their skills, etc.) Apparently for most kids, the equilibrium is strongest around birthdays, and the disequilibrium is strongest around half birthdays.

The Hatchling is two years and five months old.

Gone are the days when her brief forays into tantrum-land could be interrupted with the distraction of a toy, a treat, a silly dance, or, god help me, the TV. Now, the most we can hope for is prevention, because once she goes to that tantrumy place, there is nothing on this earth that can snap her out of it before it has run its course. Don't even bother talking to her: the only response you'll get is "NOOOOOOOOO!" whether or not that's an appropriate answer to whatever you've just said. This evening, which was a gorgeous preview of early autumn weather, we went to meet some friends at the Lake Harriet bandshell for a picnic dinner at the pops concert. It had all the makings of a perfect evening - and most of it was really, really nice - but then the Hatchling decided she was done with the picnic a little earlier than the rest of us, and that was it: we had to go. Well, that, or subject several hundred people to the ear-splitting cries of rage that only a 2.5 year old can produce. So Mr. Squab hauled her bodily off to the car, and I packed up our picnic stuff, apologizing to everyone all the while. Major drag, dude.

Of course, once we'd gotten her home and bathed, she was at her most adorable for the rest of the evening, singing along with songs before bed and telling us all about everything in her largely incomprehensible babble. Almost like she KNEW she'd pushed us almost to our limits ...

This, they didn't cover in the parenting books.

So, today being Monday, my lovely friend J watches the Hatchling in the morning so I can get some writing done. Friends like these = awesome. I brought lunch back for us when I went to pick the Hatchling up, and we sat in the backyard while the kids ran around in their swim diapers and nothing else, making little stops at the wading pool, the slide, the sandbox, the water table - generally being the adorable wee kidlets that they are. We finished lunch and I took the Hatchling inside to get her dressed before going home. I went to peel off her swim diaper, not bothering to check it first because there were no external signs - smell, look, feel - that I needed to. WHY AM I SO STUPID, INTERNETS? We're standing on J's nice wool rug, I'm peeling down the diaper, and WHAMMO, my hand is suddenly full of poop. MY BARE HAND. FUUUUULLLLLL of it. OMG SO GROSS.

"Ack! Poop!" is all I can manage to sputter out, trying to hold the Hatchling still with my non poopful hand. J, valiantly trying to suppress her gag reflex, comes running with wipes and paper towels, and tries to get the Hatchling down onto a changing pad without spreading fecal matter over the entire living room. I am frantically wrapping my handful in 270 layers of paper towel and scrubbing my hands as if in preparation for surgery. I am suddenly struck by the thought that I should not throw my paper-wrapped poo in her kitchen garbage. I run around her kitchen like a headless chicken looking for somewhere more appropriate to stow it. "I don't know where to put the poop!" I yell. "Just stick it in the garbage - I'll take it out right away" J yells back. I pitch the poo and run back into the living room where J, helpless with laughter, is trying to wrestle the damn swim diaper off the Hatchling's legs, which are covered with poo. Finally, god knows how, we get the diaper off and I clean the Hatchling's poopy limbs with the aid of approximately twelvety billion wipes. Fortunately, she was not in one of her squirmy moods, or I'd still be at J's house hosing the area down with Lysol. This is, without a doubt, the grossest parenting moment I have had to date.

Moral of the story: ALWAYS CHECK FOR POOP. Christ.

Random Tidbits on a Tuesday

1. My hair is driving me crazy. It's at that in-between stage where it's not long enough to really do anything with but it's too long to leave alone. I have to decide if I want to leave it for another month, at which point it will be long enough to put up or back, or chop it all off. I'm leaning towards the CHOP.

2. The Hatchling has two new words that I find extremely cute. #1: for hummus (one of her all-time favorite foods) she says "hummy" which is an excellent combination of hummus and yummy, if you ask me. #2: All wheeled, pedaled, manually (pedually?) propelled vehicles are now known as "whysicles." This kills me every time she says it.

3. The other evening, during "nakey time," the Hatchling took a crap on the stairs, stood over it asking "whassat?" until I came in from the kitchen and called her father's attention to the fact, and then did a little poop-butted dance around the entryway while Mr. Squab and I scrambled for wipesfortheloveofgodWIPES. Her complete equanimity in the face of (butt of?) her own excrement makes me think that maybe she's not quite ready for the toilet training.

4. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I am now the sheepish owner of a Facebook account. I believe this officially makes me a tool. (But it's waaaaaaay better than MySpace and the scrabble application makes it all worth while! I tell myself.)

5. This weekend we had a two hour photo session with Katy to capture the Hatchling's two-ness. This pretty much sums up the Hatchling's attitude towards the proceedings. Fortunately, Katy is so good that I know we'll get amazing shots anyway.

Random Tidbits on a Tuesday

1. Is there anything more annoying when you're trying to write than having Microsoft Word repeatedly shut down on you FOR NO REASON? I hate you, Bill Gates.

2. I came *this* close to actually calling in and voting for an American Idol tonight. Does this mean I'm having a midlife crisis, or is it just continuing evidence that I'm a pop-culture slut? Discuss.

3. Yesterday, I was changing the Hatchling's diaper and when I opened it up, I said "Oh, poop!" because I enjoy stating the obvious like that, and then the Hatchling looked at me and said, very seriously, "Stinky." Her first time using the word. And yes. Yes, it was.

4. Speaking of which, you know how kids of a certain age get very interested in ... um ... exploring their nether regions? Like, especially when you're changing their diapers? The Hatchling is no exception, and I realized recently that whenever she reaches down there before I'm done, uh, sterilizing the area, I say something like "no, no, don't touch; dirty" which HELLO! What kind of message is that to send your daughter about her cooter? We're all about vulvular love in this household. (I soooo need a T-shirt with that on it.) So now I'm trying to say something like "Wait a minute, honey, mommy has to finish wiping first." You can add this to the ever-lengthening list of things I never thought I'd invest so much time thinking about, before I had a kid.

5. Raise your hand if you're suffering from election-fatigue. I thought so. Please can primary season be over now? And please can Hillary wake up and smell the delegate counts? I *voted* for the woman, and I'd still love it if she could get the nomination, BUT SHE CAN'T. I'm sad about this, but I'm even sadder to see the increasingly desperate tactics of her campaign. Although I must say, Chelsea still rocks.

6. This post is crazy-good.

How to drive your mamala over the edge in 10 simple steps

1. Wake up at 5:15 in the morning. Refuse to go back to bed.
2. Eat next to nothing for breakfast, so you're both tired AND hungry.
3. Ask to go down for a nap at 9:30, stay quiet in your room just long enough to convince the mamala that you're actually sleeping, then shatter those illusions after 25 minutes by shouting "MAAA! MAA! MAAAAA!" until she comes in and get you.
4. Refuse to get out of your crib so you can get dressed and changed like a normal person.
5. When the mamala decides it's not worth fighting over and begins changing you in your crib, pee all over the sheets in the 1.5 seconds your butt is bare between diapers.
6. When the mamala takes you out of your crib to change the sheets, run into the bathroom (foolishly left open) and throw a highlighter into the toilet.
7. While the mamala is taking the highlighter out of the toilet, run into the sunroom and start playing with the container of screws and other choking hazards daddy has left on the desk.
8. When the mamala takes the choking hazards away from you, run BACK into the bathroom (still open) and start dumping Q-tips into the toilet.
9. Once the mamala has finally gotten a grip and closed the damn doors and brought you into her room while she gets dressed, somehow find a random cough drop from god knows where (under the bed? behind the lamp?) and try to eat it, wrapper and all.
10. Insist on going downstairs all by yourself, giving your mamala several strokes as you teeter and totter all the way down.

And that was just up to 10:30 am. I'm pretty sure the mamala is going to need a beer before the day is done.

It's not that I want to stifle her artistic impulses

Far from it. It's just that I'd prefer she adopted a different medium:


Thank goodness for magic erasers and washable crayons, is what I say. Lawsy.

White Trash Parent Hacks

Here's a little tip for you moms and dads out there. If you've just gone through the McDonald's drive-through on your way back from running errands with a tired toddler who also has the runs, and the french fries are too hot to give them to said toddler, even though she's saying "fwies, pwease!" as hard as she can, simply grab 2-3 of the hot little suckers, roll down the window and let them bask in the 20-degree Minnesota breezes until they've cooled down to the proper temperature. Works like a charm! Things you can worry about later include: 1) the crazy looks you're getting from other drivers as you repeatedly thrust 2-3 fries out the top of your window, then pull them back inside the car; 2) the fact that your daughter knows the word "fwies" before she's even two years old; 3) what those fries are going to do to her already fragile intestinal system.

Definitely not my most Martha Stewart moment.