What the Fudge? When Your Kiddo Experiments With Language Boundaries

  What would you do if your normally G rated child suddenly let loose with the mother of all curse words? Yup. You guessed it. My sweet, darling princess just dropped the f-bomb on us. I hear when most kids first try out cursing they start with an occasional hell or shit. Not my princess. Nope. Too mundane and beneath her. She goes straight for the mother of all curse words.

As parents, we try not to let any expletives slip in front of the kids. Mostly because it's easier to ask them not to say them if they aren't hearing them all the time. So, although I am not perfect, in general, if my kids are hearing foul language, it's more likely that they heard it from another kid on the playground or from walking into the room during an inappropriate movie. Shrug. It happens. When I was a child of approximately 5, I watched and thoroughly enjoyed the very R rated “Terminator” and survived. Generally, I do try to protect their innocence if possible, but even network television has gotten pretty risque in this day and age. No matter how hard you try, kids are going to hear and see things that you'd rather they didn't. I try not to beat myself up about it.

So, what was my reaction when my 9 year old dashed in and told me that my 6 year old had dropped her little bomb? Well, of course, I was initially a little surprised. I mean... Where did she hear that word of all the words? I'm pretty confident it wasn't from my husband or I either one. On the other hand, we live in a military town, and most of the people I know here are not particularly careful with their language. It was bound to be added to her vocabulary eventually. So, after asking her to tell me what she said, then where she heard it, and not getting an answer, I decided to take the intellectual approach.

You know what kids love more than anything else? Doing the thing that is forbidden. True story. So, it follows that if I go off the deep end about foul language, which, let's face it, is kind of a right of passage at some point in the journey from child to adult, what do you think is going to seem all the more appealing? Instead, I asked my daughter why she thought I didn't want her to say those types of words. Her response was probably typical. She answered, “Because it's a bad word?” I had to smile as she'd walked neatly into my trap. “No,” I said, “There's no such thing a good words and bad words. Words are just words. The problem is that while there's no such thing as bad words, there are hurtful words, there are unkind words, and there are rude words.” I had her attention now, so I continued, “The word you said is considered really rude by most people. If you want people to think you're rude, than that word is one that is pretty sure to make them think that. The other issue is that words like that? Those words are words that people say when they are frustrated or trying to be mean , usually because they can't think of something more intelligent to say. When you use those words, what you're telling everyone around you is that you aren't smart enough to think of something clever to say instead. Do you want to present yourself as someone who isn't smart enough to say anything besides rude or unkind words?” Of course, her response was negative. No one wants to be perceived as less than intelligent. I went on to explain that I wasn't angry, but she has a choice about how she wants to present herself. I, of course, would prefer that she obey our house rules and use kind words. For now, she would, too. I'm sure this is the first of many discussions about language.

So, now I ask again, how would you have handled this situation? Do you censor your language in front of your kids? Do you think assigning the name “bad words” gives the behavior power? I'd love to hear your thoughts and experiences.  

Because Jesus

L (8): "If you're going to do it, just do it or move on."

M (5): "I'm looking for a pencil!"

L: "You have not been looking for a pencil for the last hour!"

M: "Don't make me mad!"

Me (Hoping she'd say, "You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."): "Why?"

M: "Because I don't like being mad!"

Me: "Then don't get mad. You choose how you respond to someone else."

M: "Nuh-uh. Because Jesus."

Me: "Jesus does NOT make you be angry."

M: "Yes He does, because He made me and my mad."

L: "Actually that was God."

M: Well, God made Jesus so I'm still right."

Me: "No, because you still have free will and thus are still responsible for how you choose to respond to things."

M: *hand up in the classic "talk to the hand" pose*: "Because Jesus."

I'm honestly not sure who won that discussion, but I'm cracking up. "Because Jesus" is her rationality for everything. She told me at Halloween that grown ups can't trick or treat. When I play argued with her that that wasn't fair, she informed me that I shouldn't shoot the messenger, she doesn't make the trick or treat rules, Jesus does. I was laughing too hard to correct her. LOL

True Confessions of an Unapologetically Mushy Wife

   I am a serial offender of the rule against PDAs. (Public Displays of Affection.) No, I'm not making out at the theater, groping in the aisles at the grocery store, or all but having sex in front of friends. I am just openly and often affectionate toward my husband. Always have been. Throughout the course of any day, I probably tell him that I love him somewhere between 10 and 25 times. I text him love notes. I post “I love you. XOXO” on his facebook page for him to find later. I hold his hand when we ride in the vehicle together or as we walk into a restaurant or store. I randomly offer a hug and a kiss several times each day. He does the same to me. When you commit all of this to paper, it sounds disgustingly mushy and over the top.  More than one friend has issued a virtual eyeroll in my direction.  Maybe it is over the top. I don't even notice I'm doing these things most of the time, though, because being affectionate is a long standing habit. We've been a couple for more than 19 years and married for over 14 of those years. We have nothing left to prove to one another at this point, so we are officially together for love and no other reason. So why the constant PDAs? Well, the answer to that is somewhat multifaceted.

I don't really like to be touched. I love an occasional warm hug from someone that I really love, I like holding hands with my husband, I like sex, but I don't enjoy cuddling or lots of physical contact otherwise. I'm not sure why. It makes me feel overly heated for one thing and I hate being hot. I also start to feel trapped when a hug lasts too long or if I try to cuddle for longer than around 4 minutes.  I used to put forth an effort to cuddle with my husband, but the older I get, the less willing I am to be held.  About the closest I will get to cuddling is sitting next to him on the couch and laying my head on his chest or shoulder for awhile. Most usually, though, I don't cuddle. Every night when we go to bed, my husband and I lay side by side and read. We've done this for our entire marriage. We're not speaking, unless one of us reads something really interesting or amusing that we want to share with the other, and we're definitely not cuddling, but this is probably my favorite and most intimate feeling part of the entire day. If I'm feeling affectionate, I will put one foot on his leg or I will lay one hand on his shoulder. Otherwise, we aren't touching or interacting, just sharing some quiet space and listening to one another breathe while we each read away, content in our own entertainment. That's it. I love it. So, how does someone who doesn't like being touched end up being a giant mushball of love? Well, somewhat ironically, because I dislike being cuddled and touched, I tend to try to openly show my affection in other ways, because otherwise our emotional relationship boils down to just sex. I do like sex, don't get me wrong, but I also feel a deep and abiding love for my husband. The problem comes in because I want him to know that I love him even though I don't want to cuddle unless it leads to sex. Ever. So, instead of lots of cuddling, he gets a lot of verbal affirmations that I love him, and lots of small touches like random hugs and kisses so that he knows I do, in fact, love him.  It makes sense to me, so I guess it doesn't really matter if anyone else gets it.  *shrug*

If you know me, you may be thinking,  "Wait a minute ,I've seen you two cuddle, you lying liar!" Well, sort of. If we are in a group situation, I do tend to be more willing to allow physical contact. I'm sure both of our families have witnessed me sitting right next to him and snuggling on the couch at family gatherings. That isn't what you think it is. I don't like lots of people around me. I feel socially awkward and ill at ease, and I really want to go hide and read a book. In those situations, my husband becomes my touchstone. He becomes my center of calm for that situation. I need to touch him at that point because it shuts some of the stress and noise of a social situation out and I can sort of recharge my batteries by knowing that he's there. If you ever witness me give more than a hug and a light kiss in public, I'm probably feeling very ill at ease and looking for a bit of normal to keep me from freaking out. When I was a kid, I had a security blanket that I drug around everywhere with me for years. I was terrified of new people, situations, loud noises, and more. That blanket provided me with something physical that made me feel safe and okay in the face of a crazy world that I couldn't make sense of as a child. Sometimes I still can't make sense of it. Now, I cling to my husband as the port in a storm when I'm overwhelmed by social interaction. Is that cuddling? I guess it is, but it's more of a defense mechanism if you ask me. Still, how awesome a compliment is it to the spirit of quiet strength and calm that my husband exudes that it elevates him to bear that place in my life? I hope he knows how much I value him.

Because he is so important to me, I don't ever want him to question that fact. I tell him often, I try to show it in my actions and words, and I am never embarrassed to engage in some mild PDAs in the quest to let him know that I do love him. Is that mushy? Is it over the top and eyeroll worthy? Maybe. But, feel free to roll your eyes and look away, because I'm unlikely to stop any time soon.   

Now *That's* Romance

So.... Due to limited activity on my part lately  (I had a miscarriage and hemorrhaged, so I've been really restricted in what I'm allowed to do.  Mostly holding down the couch these days.), I've been watching more tv than I usually do. TV is full of couples that freak me out with their drama. So is real life. The following is a brief series of text message I just exchanged with my husband:

Me: “When I watch tv, which, yes, I know isn't real life, or when I talk to other people, I am incredibly thankful for an almost completely drama free relationship with my soulmate and BFF. Love you.”

Hubs: “Love you, too. *love smiley emoticon* You complain about my emotional constipation, but that's what gets you drama free. ;-)”

Me: I think that whole not sticking your penis in other people thing is helpful, I have to say. 17 years, gonorrhea free and still going. Win!”

Hubs: “True dat.”

We're such romantics.  

There Could Be Bears!

Me: I don't know if this is a good idea.
Hunny: You don't know if what's a good idea?
Me: You riding your bike to the office to pick up the Durango.
Hunny: Why?
Me: I don't know. I just have this vision of you dying on the way there.
Hunny: Stop being paranoid.
Me: It's not paranoid. What if your chain breaks on the way there and you die because you wrecked when your sugar was low, and were mauled by bears. You know, because the bears were attracted to your sweet, sugary, nectar blood.
Hunny: If my sugar is low when I wreck then it won't be sweet, sugary, nectar blood.
Me: No, it's high because some stranger gave you emergency peanut butter fudge to compensate, and THAT's what attracted the bears.

In the end, he DID ride off on his bike to go fetch the Durango. Mark my words, if he's mauled by bears and gets the kind, compassionate, peanut butter fudge Samaritan killed, I will NOT be blamed. (And no, there's really no reasoning with me. You'll notice he didn't try for long.)

Thank Goodness She has No Working Knowledge of Shivs - Also, Here's a Phonics Download (Free)

Today I was supposed to go to church with my family. (I know, I'm as surprised as you are that I don't actually burst into flames when I enter a place of worship, but there it is.) Instead, I woke up with the intestinal flu (So, maybe it is ill-advised for me to attempt to enter a religious building and this was me receiving that message loud and clear. Hm.). It was Scout Sunday, so Hunny took the boys and went to church without me. They all looked very cute in their scout uniforms, but since I was dashing for the bathroom as they were exiting the premises, I did not get a picture of the adorableness. That might make me a bad mom, but my laundry thanks me.

Since I was essentially chained to the toilet all day, I decided to try my hand at being a good mom, and do some phonics lessons with Ms. Thang. She just turned 4, but she's known most of the letter sounds since she was 2, and lately has taken to reading 3 letter words. (Yes, I said 3 letter, not 4 letter. See, I'm an excellent parent.) So, I figured it was time to start actually trying to teach her something since she seems to be ready for more formal instruction. With my other 2 children, I've taught them to read using the book Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons and while it's a bit boring, and dry, it's inexpensive and it has produced very effective readers. You can't argue a whole lot with results. I've used this a little bit with Ms. Thang, but she doesn't really like it. I've also downloaded some apps to my iPhone that she really likes, and she seems to respond to this better. She loves the starfall phonics app. (You can use the same program for free on the computer, but she can manipulate the touch screen on my phone better, so I decided it was worth the cost of the app.) She's also done really well with the Bob books reading apps. Seeing how well she responded to those, I was pretty excited when I discovered that Funnix is hosting a free giveaway of their award-winning reading program right now, through 2/16/12.

I figured that there wouldn't be a better price than free, and decided to download the program. The Funnix program is similar to Teach Your Child To Read in 100 Easy Lessons, but it's computer based, and I thought that my daughter might prefer it. It turns out I was correct. We've done 4 lessons with Funnix so far, and she really likes the computer based lessons. I'm still engaged with her for each lesson, as I listen to her side of the interaction and make sure that she's following through the way that she's supposed to and that she's enunciating the sounds as she's meant to. The program also comes with a teacher's guide which includes placement tests if your child is beyond the beginning lessons, and a set of worksheets to go along with each lesson. All in all, the free download includes 2 years worth of reading instruction. Now, that's a bargain!

Anyway, here's where the amusing story portion of the blog, where you're grateful that you're not me enters the picture.  Or maybe that was when I talked about the intestinal flu.  Whatever.  This morning, I thought I'd sit down with Ms. Thang and do some work with her with the Funnix program. All was going swimmingly. Ms. Thang was engaged, she was performing the exercises well for the lessons. I was impressed with how quickly she was breezing through. We made it to the worksheet portion of the lesson and that's when it happened. The phone rang. I answered it and had to pause the lesson. Ms. Thang poked me a couple of times. Then she said, “Mommy. I'm ready to do this part, now.” Then, she made loud noises. Then... Well, then she stabbed me with her pencil.

So, on the plus side, I'm glad that she likes her reading lessons that much. On the other hand, I am a little concerned that her response to me stopping is to stab me. Fortunately, she didn't have a good angle and it didn't actually hurt me, and I'm pretty sure the offense won't be repeated since she howled like she was the stabbing victim when I stopped the lesson completely and sent her to her room for a time-out. Thank goodness we didn't spend much time studying the shiv display when we toured the state penitentiary this past summer or I could be in real trouble, eh?

This is Why We Can't Have Other Friends

Friend: “I learn a lot from watching Anthony Bourdain. For instance, did you know there was a group called “The New York Dolls” who were a precursor to “The Ramones?””

Me: “I actually did know that. Not actively, but stored somewhere in the recesses of my mind, yes.”

Friend: “Well, I didn't. I learned that from Anthony Bourdain earlier.”

Me: “I think I learned it from VH1 back when VH1 didn't suck. I think I saw it on a “Behind the Music” or something.”

Friend: “I don't watch “Behind the Music.” My husband always did, but I never really watched it.”

Me: “I used to love VH1. “Pop-Up Video” was awesome. It was my fave.”

Friend: “I love you. You're such a dork.”

Me: Don't mock “Pop-Up Video!” It was awesome! That's where I learned that Mick Jagger's wife once caught him in bed with David Bowie! That show was a fount of knowledge!”

Friend: “That actually doesn't surprise me since the other day I googled “Iggy Stardust” and popped up a picture of him wearing a leotard that showed all of his ass cheeks.”

Me: “See! “Pop-Up Video.” You can't mock me for my love of “Pop-Up Video.” I've been watching a lot of “Criminal Minds” lately and this kind of psychological trauma could turn me into a terrible serial killer.”

Friend: “We don't have the follow through to become serial killers.”

Me: “Oh, nice. I like that, 'It's not that you aren't crazy and unfeeling enough to slaughter people, sweetie, it's just that you're a lazy ass.' Thanks.”

Friend: “No, you just don't have the commitment to be a dedicated serial killer.”

Me: “Okay, fine, so I could lose it and kill people in a violent rage, but I lack the necessary follow-through and planning to be a serial killer? So, again, 'You're psychotic and all, but you're a lazy ass.' Nice.”

Friend: “Exactly. YOU'RE WELCOME. Besides, I said 'we' not just 'you.'”

Me: “It's nice to have someone put these things in perspective. This is how you find out who your friends are.”

Friend: “It's true.”

Some Days Are Like that... Even in Australia.

Do you ever have a day that just refuses to be decent no matter what? Yeah. Me too. It reminds me of one of my kids' favorite childrens' books: Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. Today is one of those days. I can empathize with Alexander to the nth degree and it isn't even noon.

It started with a phone call that drug me from my bed, in all my fuzzy-headed glory, to answer a help call for my volunteer work. I don't mind doing this, but because I was going from dead sleep to wide awake and “on,” I felt like I was in a play where I didn't quite know my lines and was ad-libbing everything I said. My tongue felt thick, my throat felt dry, and my thoughts felt jumbled. The correct words were coming out, but it felt like they were in the wrong sequence. It's like showing up to math class only to find that you're taking an unexpected pop quiz for which you're unprepared. Not exactly the best wake up routine.

To make matters worse, the ringing phone woke up my 4 year old. That's also not a big deal in the normal course of things, but someone woke up on the melodramatic, attention-grubbing side of the bed apparently. So, while I'm trying to do phone counseling work, my daughter is climbing on me and demanding that I pay attention to only her, and when that doesn't work, she sits as close to me as humanly possible (read: one elbow in my ribcage, and one knee under my butt) and begins singing the alphabet at the top of her lungs. I assume that I must have sounded extremely professional at this point.

While all of this is going on, Mr. H, my lovable, but somewhat needy, puppy heard us and realized that we were up, and that means it was time for him to join his pack for the day. Thus he started whimpering and crying to be let out of his room. Again, I'm sure I was looking more and more professional by the minute. I somehow muddled my way through the phone call, and the poor woman on the other end didn't seem too traumatized, so possibly she got the answers she needed in spite of my chaos and confusion. I left her with a promise to email her some further information and hung up.

Keep in mind that, because the phone call was what woke me, I had yet to have coffee. Coffee is an essential ingredient in the recipe for making me human most days. If I do not have it, I do not promise to be even remotely patient. It's not simply the caffeine, either. The caffeine is essential in order for me to avoid a nasty headache. But, it's the ritual itself that I truly enjoy. I like to sit with a cup of hot coffee and just be by myself, at least mentally, for a little while before I have to start my day. I might scroll through my facebook feed or take a phone call, but overall, for at least the first cup, I want to be left alone.

Before I could even get up to brew my coffee, the girl started with her screaming. I wasn't paying attention to her. Well, yes. That's true. I was on the phone and then I had to email the nice lady who needed my help before I get sidetracked and forget. You have 943 million toys. Go play with one of them for 5 minutes and then maybe I can pay attention to you. Sigh.

Then, I called for the oldest boy. Since my knee is all messed up, I've been having him take the dog out for me so that I don't overtax my knee or fall because the dog pulls me and I overbalance. He was still asleep because apparently he stayed up for who knows how long reading. Which means that, instead of getting up in a reasonable mood, he was a seething ball of rage and disrespect. I actually had to tell him to stop talking and go to his room before I throttled him and was arrested for child abuse. A friend called while all of this was going on and was witness to his fantastic display of hatefulness. She seemed somewhat appalled, whether by him or me, I'm not sure. And I still hadn't had my coffee. Sigh.

Then, while I tried to drink my coffee, the middle one wanted to know if he could do his online schoolwork. Sure. But, of course he had to pick language arts, which meant reading, which meant that I had to be involved to help him correct the words he was sounding out. Fantastic. And Ms. Thang was still whining that I wasn't paying attention to her. So, I figured that I would distract her by letting her play some of the educational apps I downloaded for her on my iPhone. That would have worked, too, if it hadn't been for the fact that I downloaded a new one and had to show her how to play it. Then, she wouldn't go away. I tried to tell her that her daddy was sick and really wanted her to go sit next to him and play, but she insisted that she loved me best. It's good to be loved. Sigh.

So, for 20 minutes, I had Punkinhead next to me, slowly and painfully doing his reading lesson because he has ADD and today was a bad focus day for him, and Ms. Thang on my lap, playing with the iPhone. I was trapped and I still wasn't through a cup of coffee. Then, the oldest one started asking me to play a geography board game with him. Really? REALLY? Because the other two suffocating me and insisting that I “help” them with what they were doing and keeping me from my coffee just wasn't enough, right? Double sigh.

Then, the youngest one refused to listen to me and I finally took the phone from her and told her to go play. She had a screaming fit in the floor, but I am pretty sure I won, because she did eventually go to her room and scream in there for awhile instead of right in my face. I downloaded a geography app on my phone and handed that to the oldest one. I was pretty sure that I had won that battle as well, but then he announced that the phone magically bought the full version of the app instead of the free one I originally downloaded. Um. No. But, he's doing geography and I'm not involved, so whatever, bye-bye $0.99. I consider you well spent. Punkinhead finished his reading lesson and moved on to something that did not require my attention, and I ran away to type this. I am getting ready to go guzzle down another cup of coffee. I intend to finish it while it's still hot this time, and I refuse to hear anything out of the kids until it's gone. There may not be enough coffee. Some days there aren't. Some days are like that... Even in Australia.

My Dog Eats Babies...

There's been a tragedy. It turns out that our very own Mr. Harrelson eats babies. Yes. You read that right. He's developed a taste for flesh. Well, plastic. Rubber? Whatever. Meet Baby Rapunzel.

Or, you know, what's left of Baby Rapunzel.  Oops.

This is the baby doll that Ms. Thang had to have for Christmas. After I had already completed all of my shopping, as we were strolling through our local Hell-mart Wal-mart, she saw Baby Rapunzel on display and informed me that she needed one for her very own. Thus implying that if she didn't have one, Christmas would forever be ruined. Of course, I'm not big into focusing on just presents, but at 3, and with the aura of adorableness about her, I figured that I should at least try to make her dreams come true.

As luck would have it, of course, the store was out of the all-important doll by the time I got a chance to shop without her. So, I called my mother and asked if she wanted to be the hero of the piece and purchase the doll for my daughter. She hadn't completed her shopping, so she agreed, and my sister ended up finding it at their local store. Ms. Thang was beyond thrilled with her gift, and Baby Rapunzel has been a prominent feature in her playtime activities ever since. She's even made a few trips with us out of state. Alas, it appears that Baby Rapunzel will no longer be accompanying us, as she has now been affectionately dubbed “Stumpy.”

I'd feel sorry for my daughter if it weren't for 2 factors. One, I hated that doll. Her hair was the bane of my existence. I have spent more time brushing Baby Rapunzel's hair than I have my own, or my daughter's. True story. And two, this:

Me: "Put your toys away if you don't want the dog to chew on them."
Ms. Thang: "ARGH!!!!"
Me: "Put your toys away if you don't want the dog to chew on them."
Ms. Thang: "ARGH!!!"
Me: "The dog does not yet understand the difference between something you left in the floor because it's his and something you've left in the floor because you were too lazy to put it up. If you don't want your things chewed on, you might want to put them away."
Ms. Thang: "Woody won't leave my things alone."
Me: "Put your toys away if you don't want the dog to chew on them."
etc. etc. etc.

Some variation of the same conversations every day. Fast forward to today.
Me: "Watch the dog while I go shower."
***elapsed time 15 minutes***
Ms. Thang:"Wah!!!!!!!!!"
Eggy: "Woody just ate Ms. Thang's Rapunzel doll."
Me: "Sigh."

Raise your hand if you saw this coming. Yeah. Me too. So, that's the sordid tale of Rapunzel's demise. Mr. H doesn't even have the good grace to feel bad about the whole incident. He might be the perfect hit man. I personally feel like giving him a treat and seeing if I can encourage him to decrease the stuffed animal population around here. (Was that out loud? Oops.)

Mr. H: I am not misbehaving!  My only desire is to please you.  No more pesky brushing of this messy hair.  See how much I love you?

Mr H: I can totally be bought.  Did someone say Milk-Bone?  

Anyway, I'm hopeful that this is a hard won lesson in putting away your things so that the puppy doesn't eat them. But not that hopeful, because she's 4 and I'm not an idiot. I'm sure this is only the first of many, many tragedies. I'm also sure that she's going to use her birthday money to buy another Baby Rapunzel. Sigh.  


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Barbie Revealed

Remember earlier when I promised to show you the results of my attempt to decorate my very first Barbie cake? Yeah, well, I mentioned then that you would either get to appreciate the fine craftsmanship or giggle at the goofiness. I'm pretty sure you're going to chuckle over this picture. I think she might be the ugliest cake I've ever decorated. Ms. Thang, of course, thinks she's fantastic. At any rate, as promised, here is that picture I promised:

The horror!  She is so ugly!  LOL!

Apparently, I Now Own a 4 year Old...

Today is Ms. Thang's 4^th birthday party. We rented out the local skating rink (along with our friends who have a little girl who also recently celebrated a birthday. Hello cheap!) and invited all of our friends and family to come skate with us. My 4 year old is over the moon. She has been counting down the days, and now the hours, until she gets her very own big birthday party.

It really is kind of a big deal for her. January birthdays are hard. Both of the boys were born during the warm weather months, so they're golden when it comes to parties. They can have the big cookout and invite everyone, or pretty much have their pick of venues and activities. January? Well... That's a bit dicey when it comes to weather, and it makes planning anything a little tricky, since it absolutely has to be indoors. In the past, since she was so little, and since she was somewhat shy of crowds anyway, we've always done either just cake and ice cream for her here at the house with just us, one or 2 friends, or last year we invited just a very few friends to an ill-advised party at the local McDonald's playland. It was kind of a test run for her since she tended to get really clingy and nervous in big crowds. She did fairly well, but we only had a few kids there. Over the last year, however, she's really come out of her shell. She's still very slow to warm up to new people and situations, but crowds of familiar people don't seem to bother her nearly as much. So, we took the plunge and decided to try for her first big birthday party. She's so excited.

We're sort of doing a Barbie theme, in that I have some barbie things, and this morning, as I type this, I'm baking what will hopefully be the dress for a barbie cake. I've never made one before, so I hope it turns out nice. It seemed pretty easy, but sometimes I get surprised. I'll post pictures later either way, so you can either see how goofy it looks, or appreciate the fine craftsmanship. I'm betting on the former. Either way, I'm sure Ms. Thang will enjoy it, particularly since I picked pink for the frosting color, and we've already discussed that the way to her heart is through pure unadulterated girliness. Meanwhile, here are some pics of birthdays past. How cute is my little Pwincess Beauty?

This was right after she ate pizza for the first time.  It was a hit.  :-)

Birthday #2.  I remember not being able to find half of the things I wanted for her cake when I went out, so I made due.  Still, she seems to have enjoyed it.  that sucker was filled with ice cream, too!  Yum!

And the McDonald's party from last year.  She *had* to have  Tinkerbelle cake.  She enjoyed this party even if it did violate my very basic hatred of all things McD's.

Creative Mom- Embrace the Girliness

My beautiful daughter, in all her girly glory.

Before I was a mother, I really wanted girl children. I remember distinctly that I wanted girls, and, although I would take whatever I got, not having much choice in the matter after all, I remember that I fervently hoped that I would win the chromosomal lottery and be blessed with a houseful of girls when it came time to breed. I have no idea what I was thinking. I'm really very bad at being a girl myself, and I've never gotten the finer points of girliness. I remember having girl toys when I was little, like My Little Pony, Barbie, Cabbage Patch Kids, and the rest. For awhile, I even remember that my favorite colors were pink and purple. But, despite all of these things, I never really learned the art of truly being a girl. I like dirt, I don't do artifice or subtlety well, and I abhor most typical “girl things” like chick flicks, romance, and fashion. My husband says that he's pretty sure I am allergic to dresses. (My 6 year old actually accused me of not owning any dresses, then when I denied it, asked if I only ever wore a dress to marry his daddy. I actually had to wear a dress a few times to prove that I did, in fact, own, and could wear a dress, if I wanted to. It was horrible.) Now, none of these things are inherently necessary to define me as womanly. I have breasts, a uterus, and 2 X chromosomes, and in many ways I actually enjoy being a woman. I just happen to have no tolerance for the trappings of “girliness” that most people associate with being female.

That being said, I do enjoy many domestic things that many would say are arguably “womanly” arts. I'm a great cook, I like to sew, and I enjoy a huge variety of crafts like crochet. I'm not sure that those things are girly or womanly, since it seems to me that they are mostly just useful and/or creative endeavors, and if you're going to bother doing them, you should try to do them well. Still, even despite my domestication, as it were, I remain somewhat at a loss when it comes to most things truly girl.

Fortunately, my first two children turned out to be boys in spite of my fervent hopes to the contrary, because, as it became all too obvious when my daughter arrived, I really have no clue what to do with a girl who is not only female, but revels in every bit of her girliness. Make it pink, make it frilly, make it sparkly, make it as girly as possible and then make it just a touch more girly and there you have exactly what will appeal to my diva-tastic little princess. Not only that, but... the drama. Oh, the drama.

Of course, fundamentally I realized that boys and girls were different creatures before we had our daughter, but, oh, was she an object lesson in just how different, from birth, they are! From the early days she was far more sensitive and emotional than the boys ever thought about being. She has a flare for the dramatic that boggles the mind. I cannot explain just how girly she is, nor how this happened, given the stock from whence she came. Nevertheless, she is, for all intents and purposes, a girly girl.

I've tried to resist it to no avail, so instead, I've given up and decided to embrace it. Maybe someday she won't be the total girl she is now, and it will be fun to look back on these days and remember how she went full tilt after all the frills, ruffles, pink, glitter, frou-frou girliness that one tiny child could grab. This is why I spent today perched at my sewing machine, churning out skirts for my little diva. Well, not the only reason. My jacked up knee played a huge part in the decision, considering I'm on somewhat limited activity. But, nevertheless, I had a grand time coming up with these girly creations for my girly girl. Even more fun than that, however, was watching her dance, prance, and twirl about in them, thrilled beyond imagining at such glorious new girly duds.  (Forgive the picture quality.  Mr H was either just extremely jealous of the girl, wanted a new skirt as well, or was flying a flag really high in appreciation of special needs animals everywhere.  Sigh.)

Love this double layer pink and brown skirt.  

How adorable is this upcycled skirt, made from an old pair of jeans that were too short in the legs for Ms. Thang?

Another double-layered skirt.  I'm a sucker for paisley anything.  <3

Last, but not least, another upcycled pair of old jeans.  I love the switch from *pink pink pink* everything, but it's just frou-frou enough to keep Ms. Thang happy.  

I didn't really have a pattern for the things I made, because I just sort of made them up as I went, but they were very simple projects, and even for a beginner, a simple skirt like this is a fun and easy project. If you're a newbie to the sewing world and would like to try your hand at making some girly creations of your own, I've trolled the internet to bring you a couple of links to simple tutorials to similar projects to get you started. Have fun, and be sure to post back here with pictures of your girly creations!


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Injured Mom, Angry Mom - Just Call Me "Hopalong"

Just call me “Hopalong” for awhile. Remember when I mentioned the“something” I did to my knee in the brief novel I wrote the other day? Well, I finally went to the doctor on Monday and it turns out that it's highly probable that I've torn a ligament in my knee. By walking. Three steps. Indoors. I'm fairly confident that this gives new meaning to the term accident prone. I haven't gone for an MRI yet because my doctor said there's a chance the ligament isn't totally detached, and if it isn't, it may heal on its own. But, if I go for an MRI and there's a tear, then an orthopedic surgeon is probably going to want to do surgery. Since I would rather avoid all of that if there's a chance it might heal on its own, and since the doctor said it won't make any difference in outcome if I go now or if I go in 2 weeks, I'm waiting 2 weeks to see if it shows any improvement. Thus far that would be a big fat no, incidentally. Anyway, I'm extremely disgruntled by this whole thing. I do not have time to be seriously injured. Let alone stupidly seriously injured. If I'm going to be, for all intents and purposes, down one leg, I'd like to have a better story, at least. Maybe I got stabbed in the knee while breaking up a knife fight in a bar. Maybe I broke my knee, but it's really a blessing because I'm the sole survivor in a freak antelope stampede that wiped out everyone else in the vicinity. (It could happen. You don't know.) Maybe I wiped out while snowboarding and was pinned beneath a rock, living off of melted snow and rock moss for 3 days. You get my drift. But, no. I took three steps to talk to my dog and snapped a ligament. Fail.

That's my knee back in the summer.  This was the last time I did something really, really stupid and hurt myself.  

Worse than having a lame story to go with my injury is the fact that I really despise how everyone behaves. Before 11m today my leg was already killing me. Why? Because my child is a pain in the butt. Hunny took Mr. H out to potty before he left for work, then came in and gave the kids strict instructions to be well-behaved and helpful today since Mom has a gimpy leg and all. Not 10 minutes after he left, Mr. H started whining that he needed to go out again. I called for Eggy to take him out, but instead of just putting on his shoes and taking the dog out, he argues with me that the dog can't possibly need to go out since he just went out. Sigh. Um. I don't care? The dog indicates that he hasn't been watching the clock, and he needs to go out, so just take him. (I should point out that I actually like taking the dog out, and since I hurt my knee, I find it extremely annoying that I can't take Mr. H out for his walks myself.) But, he keeps arguing, then when I've finally just said to suck it up and take him anyway, he decides he needs different pants. He was already wearing pants, but apparently he needs different pants. To take the dog out. So, he starts wandering around the house aimlessly, on a quest for pants. Because, you know, there certainly aren't pants in any logical places, like... I don't know... His closet? Or maybe those wern't special “taking the dog out to poop” pants. Meanwhile, Mr. H is still making the whining, I've-got-to-go noise, and I'm getting more and more irritated. Finally, I just wrench myself up, hobble over and start putting my shoes on. The kids immediately start freaking out. “You can't take the dog out! Your knee is hurt!” But I'm too cheesed off to care. So, I mouth off about the fact that if E can't be bothered to take the dog out, and it's too much trouble, I'll just take my broken knee, and take my whiny dog, and go out myself, and if I fall and get hurt, I guess he knows the correct numbers to call.

Mr. H: For the love of all that is holy and good, a puppy gotta poop, here, people.  Someone just suck it up and take me out, already!!!

Mr. H and I hobble outside, down the steps, and around back, where he proceeds to deposit possibly the largest pile of doggy excrement I've ever seen, proving that he did, in fact, need to go out. Then, I hobble back into the house with the dog, load the dishwasher, and put in a load of laundry. By the time I was done, my knee was throbbing, of course. All of these are things that Hunny specifically told me not to do before he left, but, I was just so mad. I mean... I wait on everyone around here all the time and it's asking too much for someone to take the dog out when my knee is all jacked up? Really? Logically, I realize that my kids are not horrible, self-centered brats, just typical kids. But, man is it frustrating to be in the situation where you can't do for yourself like you want to, and everything that someone does for you is done with resentment. Now, things could be much worse, and I'm not about to whine about how rough I've got it when I'm fully aware that I could have it ten times worse, but I'm betting that every mom out there totally gets the feelings that I'm talking about. I love being a mom. I truly adore my kids, but man is it a sometimes truly thankless job, with little in the way of appreciation or payback. And at no time is the depth of their ability to take you for granted as apparent as when you have an injury. Sigh. Okay. I'm done complaining. Probably. Okay, I'm probably not. But, I don't want to write another huge novel, so I'm ending it here.  Sigh.

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Unexpectedly Expecting - And It Isn't Me For Once!

After the short novel I shared with you yesterday, you'd think I'd be all out of things to say, but since I'm trying to be a more faithful blogger, and since I recently received some major news that I am now allowed to share with all of you, it's not. No, I'm not pregnant. Remember, I told you that one of the things that happened while I was in the wilderness listening for banjo music was that I started my cycle. My womb is a barren wasteland. But, someone else has a womb that is not.

Several days ago I got the phone call. Not THE phone call. Not, like, “Go! Now. Your special ninja skills are necessary and the president needs you to fall down on some terrorists and stop their evil plot!” (Falling down is about the only ninja skill I have, so I imagine that's the only one I'd get a call about.) No, I got the call that I am going to be an aunt again. Not great aunt, which is plausible since I already have one adorable great niece and several nieces and nephews who are now of breeding age, no, just aunt of the garden variety. But, this seems somewhat bizarre since I am the only one of my parents' 4 daughters who hasn't had her tubes tied, and although my brother did recently remarry, I'm pretty certain she had her tubes tied as well. Hm.

It turns out that, 9 years after she had her surgery to prevent this sort of thing happening, the sister who is closest to me in age is, well... pregnant. After what she assumed was a waste of $10 of home pregnancy test turned out to be positive, she had lab work done to confirm it. Also positive, and dating the pregnancy at around 7 weeks, it turns out she was expecting. She then had an ultrasound to make sure that the baby was growing where it was supposed to be, rather than in a tube, and lo and behold, there in her uterus was a 7 week (give or take a day) baby with a strong heartbeat. So, although to say that we were somewhat surprised is a bit of an understatement (Especially my sister, who took the test at my parents' house because she was so sure it was a waste of time and money.), we are all now very excited about the prospect of a new little baby to love. (Also, pretty much everyone who hears this story ends up looking around all shifty and hoping that their tubal doesn't fail. The squirming is pretty fun.)

Upon hearing the news, once I could speak again, I said two things. 1) “This baby must have been meant to be,” and 2) “Better you than me, sister!” I stand by those statements, however, the fact that my baby girl turned the ripe old age of 4 yesterday does make me slightly green with envy at the idea of a new little baby to love. But, as an aunt, I still get to do all kinds of loving and spoiling... and then give it back. Heh heh heh....

How Family Travel Nearly Did Me In - A Short Saga (With Pictures)

I know, I was doing so well, and then I fell off of the face of the Earth for a few days. That totally wasn't my fault. Hunny had a job out of town, and made it seem like a good idea if I went with him. Normally I really enjoy the fact that we homeschool and I can do this, so I agreed. We even rented a little cabin in the country so that we could take our new (6 year-old-child-sized) puppy Mr. Harrelson with us. Although we've never done so with a dog in tow before, we've stayed in cabins before. It's a nice change of pace from hotels, where the small terrorists kids get super bored and seem to have no comprehension of the concept that there are people, above, below, and on either side of us, and that acting like wild monkeys is a really bad idea. By comparison, an isolated cabin in the wilderness is like a balm to the soul. The only reason I find to tell them they need to be quiet is if my ears start bleeding, because there's no one else around to hear them. Of course, there's also no internet connection. But, even that is a delightful break sometimes.

I have such fond memories of our last stay at a cabin that we rented. Again, there was no internet access, but it was such an adorable log cabin, butted up against a hill, and it wasn't “camping” by any stretch of the imagination. The cabin had well water, but hot showers, air conditioning, heck, it even had a dishwasher, and a hot tub. There was a fishing lake on the property that, although it rained, the boys and I walked to and fished in. A tiny stream ran right next to the cabin, and made the perfect place for Eggy to attempt to catch frogs, salamanders, and crawdads (you might call them crayfish, but I grew up in rural WV and we called them crawdads.) I had coffee on the front porch every morning while I chatted with my mom on my cell phone. I brought copies of the kids' schoolwork with us, and the kids sat at the little kitchen table each morning and completed their assignments for the day. It was actually a really fun and memorable trip, so it's little wonder that I so quickly agreed to the idea of going again.

See how awesome the last cabin trip was?  There they are doing some math at the table.  Homeschooling rocks for this reason.  Just saying.

Except, this time, we decided to go to a different cabin rental place. It wasn't that we weren't happy before, it was that the other place only had one cabin that allowed pets as an option, and while we could have made due, we were a little worried the sleeping accommodations would be somewhat lacking. So, I called around to a couple of other cabin rental places in the same area and found one that didn't mind if we had pets. I was really excited since I had such fond memories from our last trip. I assumed that I was looking at the same situation, just in a slightly different location. I was wrong.

Oh, the cabin, such as it was, was fine. But, we lost cell signal and started hearing banjos way before we got there, which was an adventure unto itself, entailing a misguided trip into the heart of meth-trailer land (which, by the way was about a half mile from picturesque countryside with rental cabins land). Oh, and the cabin, while “fine” might ultimately be the most apt description, was a far cry from what I had pictured in my head. It was more like a slapped together pre-fab mini-house, that wasn't quite finished, and had been a rush job to begin with. A far cry from the log cabins we stayed in previously, this one had a drywall interior and just didn't have the same charm, even if there was a fishing pond out front, which it was too cold to fish in, so frankly didn't factor into my equation. But, to be fair, the cabin could have been perfectly lovely, and I think I would still be complaining. Why? Because this trip was just a series of calamitous events, occurring one right after another.

Mr. Harrelson's previous people assured us that he was an excellent traveler, and while their claims of “leash trained” were definitely a bit of a stretch (He's leash trained if by that you mean he will allow you to attach a leash to him without chomping your arm off. Otherwise? He's a mess. A lovable, goofy, pull-your-arm-out-of-socket, still-learning-he-can't-take-off-at-a-dead-run mess), we figured since they claimed to have taken a few extended car trips with him and had no troubles that, hopefully, at least in this, their predictions would ring true. Alas, no. Mr. Harrelson is a horrendous traveler. He won't listen, he won't stay in one spot, and he's basically a furry toddler that needs to potty in every new spot. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, if ever I wanted to punch a dog in the snout, it was during this car trip. I refrained, but, man was he paddling a canoe of the feminine hygiene product variety. Just saying. Sigh.

This is Mr. Harrelson.  aka. Mr. Puppikins von Douche Canoe.  

So, we haven't even gotten to our first full day at the cabin yet. We're still on the traveling, and so far, we have, lost in meth trailer land, pain in the butt dog, and arriving way too late to be in a good mood. Let's see what the rest of the trip brings.

The cabin was pretty basic. There was one large room, combining the kitchen, dining, and living room areas, and then off from this was 2 bedrooms and a small bathroom. The kids slept in one bedroom, which had a set of twin bunk beds, and set of twin over full bunk beds, as well as a small dresser. We took the other bedroom, which, sadly only had a queen size bed, a great letdown from the king that we usually share, but all in all, that's a pretty first world problem, so I'll let that go.

The main issue I had the first night was the fact that, while Mr. Harrelson does not sleep in our room with us at home, he was greatly disconcerted to be without us in this new place. As soon as the doors were shut and we were settled in bed, the whining began. I'm a very light sleeper, so this made rest extremely difficult. I'm also immensely stubborn, and I did not want to give the message that whining would result in getting what he wanted. (I co-sleep with babies. Puppies are a whole different ballgame.) So, While I would speak to him to let him know we were there, I would not give in to his demands to come in and share the already crowded bed.

Mr. H: Why would you say such horrible things about me?  I just want love.  See my cuteness?  Let me sleep wif you.  Pweeeeeeease?  Me: No.  (I'm kind of a jerk.)

On top of the puppy whining was another sleep-interference issue. With Hunny's new dead pancreas comes a set of issues I really hadn't imagined. He's alarmed heavier than Fort Knox. Seriously. At any given time during the day, his pump might alarm that it's down to the last 40 units of insulin, or that it's finished giving his bolus dose, or occasionally, it might alarm that he's had an occlusion and needs to remove the pod and apply a new one. His pump controller (He's wireless, so he has a pump or pod that is attached to him, delivering the insulin, and a controller, or remote that he uses to check his glucose and program his doses.) might alarm that it's time to check his glucose because he ate 2 hours ago. He also wears a continuous glucose monitor that sends a wireless signal to a receiver showing a graph of where his levels are throughout the day. It alarms if his sugar goes out of range, either too high or too low, if it's rising or falling rapidly, and if the receiver loses contact with the transmitter for more than an hour. It's a lot of bells, buzzes, squeals, whines, and beeps to get used to. It's especially alarming to me to hear his continuous glucose monitor alarm in the middle of the night because it wakes me up, and worries me that he may have gotten too low and be difficult to wake. It's even possible for diabetics to slip into a coma and die if this happens and they aren't roused and given something to eat or drink to raise their glucose levels. It's one of the major reasons he wears the monitor in the first place. Anyway, the first night we were there, I swear that stupid glucose alarm must have gone off a half a dozen times. Between that and the dog I wanted to cut someone. I kept hearing the alarm, waking up, picking it up, looking at it, shaking my husband, he'd not really listen to me, but was clearly not comatose, and then roll over and go back to sleep. Eventually, I was just done. I figured if he was going to be oblivious to the stupid alarm and the dog then I would lay there and seethe sleep and ignore them both, too. This resulted in about 30 minutes of sleep for me, which in turn, resulted in me waking up with a killer headache the next morning and a death wish for both Hunny and the dog.

See me smiling?  That's because 12.5 years ago, I was strangling him, and that idea still holds merit.

Hunny trotted off to work and left me with the 3 kids and the dog. Between a pot of coffee, dimmed lights, and a lot of pain killers, I was able to do a full day of school with the kids, but as soon as they finished it, I was on the couch, hiding from noise and lights, counting down the minutes until Hunny would arrive and I could take migraine medicine and go to bed, and they were released into barely supervised video game freedom. Mr. Harrelson made an excellent foot warmer while I tried not to die, however. I take back the death wish.

Okay, I like you again, but you still can't sleep with me tonight.

The next day was much better considering my headache was so reduced in vigor as to be barely noticeable, but that evening, I did something to my knee. “Something” being the best way I can define it since I haven't gone anywhere to have it looked at yet. I think I might have to, though. I Have no clue what happened. I was sitting on the couch watching tv with Hunny, I stood up because the dog neeeded correcting and I needed to catch his eye, I took three quick steps, something snapped or popped in my left knee, and then there was a lot of pain. It really didn't swell much or anything, but the joint is all wobbly, and aches and it feels like it won't support me. Also, I noticed that there is a piece of something that moves around in there now on the outside of my knee. There is not a matching movable piece in the other knee, so I assume this is not supposed to be there.

That's me.  I fall down a lot and find new and inventive ways to injure myself all the time.  You don't need a picture to know that.   I just like adding pictures at this point.

The next day was Friday, and thankfully, the day we were heading home. But, just as icing on the cake, I had to get my monthly visit from dear aunt flow that day, and on the way home, with Mr. Harrelson doing his best impression of a kidnap victim who has special mental challenges in the back seat, we picked up a nail in one of our back tires and had to deal with that.

Oh, and Ms. Thang had to pee, so we stopped at a Sheetz station. Let me tell you about my love/hate relationship with Sheetz. I love them. They have awesome stores and their bathrooms are clean. However, they use the most disgusting smelling air freshener on the face of the planet in there. I hate them for it. It smells like patchouli/incense/sandalwood and is instant migraine for me. It's a total deal-breaker for me with that whole love thing. But, Ms. Thang is a 3 year old and she had to go... So, in we went, and as I'm waiting for her to go, I nearly vomit twice because of the air freshener, and then, because I'm hiding my face in my coat to try to avoid breathing in the toxic fumes, I don't notice the little hanger for purses on the stall door and ram my arm into it. Ouch. This is actually the second time the same stupid injury has occurred to my person from the horrid, foul, disgusting air freshener in the Sheetz bathrooms. It's so overpowering that I can't stomach it. I would literally rather smell urine and feces than that smell. That's how much I hate it. I realize that the potheads of the world would probably disagree, but man is that the worst smell, ever.

Look!  Another gratuitous picture!  That's also me, holding Ms. Thang. I  did not look this happy when I came out of Sheetz.  I just thought there should be another picture because I have a thing going here.  

Anyway, by the time we made it back to the car from that potty break, I was pretty sure if I made it home without being killed in some horrible, violent manner or at least being assaulted at gunpoint, I should probably thank my lucky stars. So that's what I did. I hobbled into the house and into a hot tub and I soaked for a couple of hours and ruminated on just how much I wished I’d just stayed home. Then, I decided to tell you about it so that you would know where I was and understand that I fervently wish I'd stayed here with you guys... and that's why this blog is really long and the only one I've posted in several days. The end.

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