Is Jesus a Bad Word?

We are very much into bad words these days.  As far as Greg and I can tell, the only bad word she is currently sure of is stupid,which she refers to as the "PS Word."  We have no clue why. We have thought about it over and over and over, and...we've got nothing.  PS Word?  What the hell?

But, she loves asking me if words are bad.  Just this morning she asked me if totally and buttitude are bad words.  The second one baffles me as much as it baffles you, but she claimed that Martha from "Martha Speaks" says buttitude.  I told her that both of those words were in fact not bad and then made a mental note to pay more attention to "Martha Speaks."

My favorite memory on the subject of bad words goes back a couple of years when she asked me if Jesus is a bad word.  We are not a religious household and I was taken back by the question, but I answered honestly, figuring she had heard of a guy named Jesus and thought, hey, I wonder if that's okay to say.  So, I told her, "No, Jesus is not a bad word."

A few minutes later, Ruby walked by and rubbed up against Leah, and I heard,

"JESUS Ruby!  Don't do that!"

And I thought, Oh, that's what she meant.  Ah, well, oops.

Parenting is obviously not my day job.

Age of Non-Innocence

Dear Age Three,

You are cordially invited to kiss my ass.

I cannot believe how freaking crazy you are turning out to be; how I want to kiss you with tongue one minute and taser you the next. 

You now know my name is not just Mommy; you heard people calling me Dana, and you figured it out.  So now YOU call me Dana. 

You ask me if I'm kidding you (no), if I'm serious (yes), if I'm for real (yes), and if you can have candy (no).

You don't push my buttons, you rip each and every one out of my body with your cold sharp nails and then you stomp on them, beat them with a stick, set them on fire and then smoke the ashes.   My buttons are shot.

You know everything, and it bothers you that I don't always agree.  {Editor's note: This one might be my fault.  I have a psych degree with a self imposed focus on child psychology.  Back in the 90s we were taught to treat the child like a real person, rife with choices.  Allowing your child to decide which shirt she was going to wear to pre-school would help her to say no to drugs as a teenager. (?? whatevs) As a result, Leah's grown up thinking she's an equal part in this family--someone who has the same say in all family decisions.  Au contraire, Carol Ann, this is my mine and your father's house and we follow my our rules, and I am we are in charge and I we make the decisions.}

Oh, Age Three, you are a sexy beast.  With your funny little conversations and your cute little faces.  And your propensity to throw your backpack at me and hit me when the mood strikes.  You are wonderful with kids that are younger than you, acting like an old grandmother who plops you on her lap and pinches your cheeks.  And you love to hang with the older cool kids, leaning up against the garage smoking and cussing.

You are pushing your boundaries right off the map and I am constantly re-etching the line in the sand.  I fight back and I lose.  I let you walk over me and I lose.  I attempt to stand up to you and we are two chaps from the wild west at a showdown in the Alamo.  Oh, and I always lose. 

You are a steamroller in a tutu--a Zamboni in lip gloss.  I grow four grays each time your teachers tell me you're an angel.  Most days I can't wait to get home to see you and most Mondays I skip to work whistling a tune.  

Age Three, you drive me to drink.  And I am trying to drink you in.  I am told that you're the toughest, until she's a tween, which has been likened to age three with hormones. 

I was told that parenthood was hard, and it would be the toughest road I've ever traveled.  And I arrogantly nodded my head and rolled my eyes and thought there is no way that something that is a half my height and like a sixth of my weight will even be a blip on my life-radar, let alone uproot my life and leave me a confused, befuddled, frustrated shell of my former life.

And yet, here I am.  Eating some humble pie.  Baffled at just how difficult parenthood is.  How the one thing that drives me up the wall and out of my skull is the one thing I'd give my life for without a second thought in a hot flat second.


Up Yours,

Dana


.

On A Day, In May

It's her day, and it's my day, and we never got the chance to celebrate together.

And today I'm spending the day with Adriana.  As per the usual.  At the crappy nail salon that we are forced to go to because it's the only one that's open on Sundays.

And, I've decided to turn over a new leaf and bring Leah with us.  Up until this year, I've felt like Mother's Day is my day to do whatever I want, however selfish, even if that means not spending the day with my daughter.  But this year I realized that wanting to spend the day without my daughter is exactly the opposite of how I want her to feel on this day.  When she's older, I hope that she wants to do special things with me on this day, and how horrible is it that I want to be alone?  Just because I no longer have a mom to spend the day with?  God, Dana, you're such a brat.  So, today, Leah gets her first pedicure, Dana will undoubtedly need an early glass of wine, and Adriana will most likely take extra birth control tonight...but, we'll spend it together like we would have done if my mom was still here. 

 I choose to have Leah with me today because I love her and I want to spend Mother's Day with her.

And because I totally don't have a babysitter. 

.

Taking Life For Granted

One of the things that I learned from my last job was to take advantage of the time that I was not at work.

I would stare at the clock on Friday afternoons, willing it to move quickly to 5 p.m., and then run out of there and haul my booty home, excited for the two full days in front of me where I didn't have to be at work. 

I would forget about my job the second I walked out the office door and not think about it again until Sunday night, when the pending week would loom on my mind. 

I would pack our weekends full of family activities and functions, taking advantage of every second that I was with people that I loved, doing things that I enjoyed.  I learned to not take happiness and good times for granted, because I knew what the opposite felt like.

I learned to love my commute, because it was valuable time that I got to spend with myself, reflecting on my life, relishing in the fact that I was NOT at work at that particular moment, and listening to inspirational music*.  (Ed. note: When I say "inspirational music" I mean music that inspires me, like a song about a girl who quits her job the day before a lice breakout.  Not, you know, Inspirational Music.)

Even though I like my job and generally enjoy life so much more now, I still get very excited for the weekends.  Friday nights are reserved for family time, where I get to spend time with Greg and Leah, not worrying about cleaning the house or laundry, just kinda hanging out happy that I get to spend the next two days doing family stuff.

So there.  I've found one good thing about that wretched place.  ONE.

*Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air

I know I can count on you

Sometimes I feel like saying "Lord I just don't care"

But you've got the love I need to see me through

Sometimes it seems that the going is just too rough

And things go wrong no matter what I do

Now and then it seems that life is just too much

But you've got the love I need to see me through

When food is gone you are my daily need

When friends are gone I know my savior's love is real

You know its real

You got the love

You got the love

You got the love
You got the love

You got the love

You got the love

Time after time I think "Oh Lord what's the use?"

Time after time I think it's just no good

Sooner or later in life, the things you love you loose

But you got the love I need to see me through

You got the love

 You got the love

You got the love

 You got the love

You got the love

 You got the love

Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air

I know I can count on you

Sometimes I feel like saying "Lord I just don't care"

But you've got the love I need to see me through

You got the love

You got the love

You got the love

You got the love

You got the love

You got the love

-Florence and The Machine

Take Two

You remember how dance class went, right?

Well, we are not quitters in this house.  We are the types of people who fall off their horse and get right back on.

So, tomorrow, we will begin gymnastics.

Stay tuned for Thursday's post about how gymnastics is not all that it's cracked up to be, I am NOT upset that we are Gymnastic Drop Outs, and it doesn't matter, chin up, blah blah alltherest.



.

We Are Going To Applebees

You know when you get the feeling that something isn't right, but you can't pinpoint what it is, and, in fact, every other sign is pointing to "completely and totally fine," and because you can't figure out why you feel that it's not right, you just go ahead and do it because if you keep harping on these "just not right" feelings you are going to drive yourself, your family, the lady in front of you in Pathmark, and the 7-11 guy who's ringing up the half and half crazy? 

You know that feeling?

Back in August I felt that way about my new job about 3 minutes after I decided to take it.  In fact, I felt that way before I even left my new boss' office after he had made the offer and I had accepted.  I sat there while he spoke about the position and my start date and my team members and my mind just wandered off into space and I thought, "This is a bad decision, Dana", but I had NO IDEA why I thought that.  So I took that thought and threw it in the back of my head, right next to "Join Weight Watchers" and "Stop spending your family's money at Kohls" and it stayed there for the next three weeks while I proceeded to resign from my old job and plan for my new job.

The reasons for leaving my old job were all there.  I know that leaving my old job was a good choice.  My new job offered more money, more affordable benefits, and was closer to my home, and those were the reasons why I left.  Those three things still exist.  So, during my last two weeks at my old job--the strange period where you've given notice, yet you still work there, yet your loyalty is now to your new job, but you haven't started yet--when this strange feeling kept popping in my head that this was a bad decision, I would just mentally go over my list for leaving, and check off that each and every item was still being addressed.  And then I would tell that stupid thought to just STFU and let me be proud that I was able to leave my comfort zone of idling in a workplace that was never going to let me move up, and that I was taking a leap to a new place where I knew no one and was making better for me and my family. 

I started my new job at 8:00 a.m. on September 13, 2010, and at 10:26 a.m. I texted my husband and said, "I don't think this job is going to work out." 

Truer words have never been texted before.

I'm not going to go into details, and I don't want to bad-mouth a place in which some of you know the name of, but let me just say that the people who run the place were not keen on treating women equally, and, as if that's not enough, the morals and values and general attitude of those people towards all of their employees is an abomination to human kind.  The middle class is not meant to be treated as pawns in a chess game of life being pushed, prodded, manipulated and taken advantage of because we need to work in order to take care of our family.

Shortly after beginning employment there, Greg and I launched what can only be referred to as An Epic Job Search in which he would search for open positions all day long while he was home and then I would apply to them all night long while he was at work.  For MONTHS I heard nothing from these places as I dutifully trudged daily to my job, daydreaming about when I would be granted an interview.  I would sit at my desk thinking about how it would feel to quit and get the chance to work again at a place where the people were friendly.  I would write this blog post in my head, figuring how much information I would let out, and what I should keep private.  Day in and day out, as my depression grew, my hope weaned, because no one was calling me back.

And then, I got a phone call!  And another!  And soon the interviews followed.  And in four months I took part in THIRTEEN interviews.  I went on five interviews for one position.  I was speaking to H.R. Reps, and Hiring Managers, and CEOs, and COOs, and CWTFOs--whoever, as they moved me forward in the process.  It was brutal.  I was told that it would take a few weeks for a decision to be made, sometimes a few months, or, my favorite, "We've decided to hold off on filling the position indefinitely".  I thought it proposterous how a place that found it necessary for me to interview FIVE TIMES with FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE could not be sure that the position was necessary in the FIRST PLACE. 

A month after starting at my new job a man named Tom began who's desk was near mine.  I watched him during his first days when his enthusiasm was high, and how it chipped away as the onion peels of our workplace opened up.  By day four we were giving each other looks every time more was revealed about the place.  By the beginning of his second week, shared eye rolls were in full effect.  A day or two later he told me that he had given notice, being offered a position at another company.  I was happy (and jealous) that he was getting out, and longingly stared at my monitor thinking, "Your time will come, Dana".  Two days into his two week notice, he was asked to leave and had a few minutes to clear his desk and go.  I listened as he picked up the phone, dialed his wife and said, "We are going to Applebees!" 

On that last day his whole demeanor was changed.  His mood, his attitude, as well.  He was a different guy. 

He was a person who had a cruddy job at a cruddy place and had found a new job at a promising place and he was going to have some time off and take his spouse out to Applebees! 

So it's with great pride and happiness that I inform you that today my demeanor is different, as is my mood and my attitude.  Interview number 13 was very lucky indeed. 

Tonight, WE ARE GOING TO APPLEBEES.


.

Just Sit On The Toilet Already

Oh, has it been that long?  Sorry about that.  Let's just jump into some lamenting about my life, shall we?

We've been working on discipline with Leah.  I've mentioned before how I am trying to teach her cause and effect, especially with regards to her behavior at daily tasks.  I expect everyday common situations to go effortlessly--teeth brushing, bed time, meals--I mean, we've done these things hundreds if not thousands of times, and I shouldn't still have deal with whining and fooling around and general assy-ness when it comes to those tasks.  I expect a lot from her, but she's almost three, and she should be able to figure out that when I've said not less than forty nights in a row that failure to sit on the toilet before bed will result in no bedtime gels and ointments, that I really mean that. 

Up until recently, she wasn't getting it.  I was dealing with the nightly, "but I don't hafta go pee" lament, and I was following it up with, "if you don't at least try then you don't get teeth medicine" and this was happening every night.  But, last night was wine night, and I needed to get Leah into bed as fast as possible, so that I could get back to my ladies in the dining room (and my wine) as fast as possible, and, since I didn't want Joan and Gab to hear just how loud my voice could really get to, I vowed that I was going to keep it together.

She brushed her teeth.  Refused to sit on the toilet.  I didn't say a thing.  We walked to her room and she said, "So, uh, I can have teeth medicine?" and I said, "No, you can't and you know why." And she said, "Oh, yeah, I hafta go pee!" and she ran back to the bathroom.

I nearly fainted but kept my cool and the rest of bedtime went smoothly.

A similar thing happened on Wednesday night when she kicked me and was forced to go to bed early.  The next morning she apologized, without being prompted, for kicking me and making me sad.

We don't spank, so we are forced to come up with different ways of disciplining her, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit to sometimes wanting to kick in the face whoever invented the Time Out.  I spend an inordinate amount of time talking to Leah and explaining, and I have no qualms about painting the picture of life exactly how it is: sometimes unfair and not always roses.  So, when she picks up on a lesson like Post-Teeth Brushing Pee Effort=Hand Lotion In Bed, it makes me feel like I'm getting my point across.  That my parenting choices might just be pretty good ones.  That I'm not messing up this kid too much.




.

Huh.

A few months ago it dawned on me that while I spent a lot of time talking about potty training, I didn't spend a lot of time actually potty training.  In fact, I really wasn't sure what was involved in potty training, other than some time, some underpants, and me asking Leah every few minutes if she had to go. 

Problem was, I just never had the time that I thought was necessary for training. The weekends were always chock full of plans and outings and parties, and there was nothing more terrifying to me than the thought that I would have to put Leah on 6 different public toilets in the course of a day and pray for her to pee.

So, as in most things parent-related, I lamented and complained about the potty training, or lack thereof, and soaked in the comments that people gave me telling me that it would happen when it happened and I was doing everything right.  There is nothing like a lot of people telling me I'm doing everything right.  Even when I know that I am probably not really doing everything right.

The turning point was when I checked facebook, which I've replaced reading and/or watching any current events publications and/or media with (Egypt what?), and I saw that several people were talking about September pre-school registration.  NOW.  I, of course, am no where near registering Leah for school in September.  I haven't even researched, called, visited, learned the name of one single school for her.  SEPTEMBER?  Really?  NOW?  Gosh, you guys are so on the ball.  It's February!  School?  Hmph.

Anyway, what I did remember is that you can send your child to a cheaper more curriculum-based school if he/she is potty trained, and, I'm nothing if I'm not cheap an advocate for the enrichment of my child's academic opportunities, and this whole 40 paragraphs of intro is basically to say, fortheloveofgod, Dana, get to the point: Leah needed to potty train.  Now. 

Whew. 

So, this past weekend seemed like the best time to do it.  We didn't have to leave the house until late afternoon on Sunday, so, on Saturday morning, I put some underwear and a t shirt on Leah and proceeded to ask her every 5 minutes if she had to pee.

She had one accident on day one, early in the morning.  And that's it.  No accidents.  Dry diapers during nap and in the morning.  An incredibly LARGE number two at around 7 p.m. each night.  HUGE: like she's channeling the butt of a 300 lb. man.  

If I appear to be going fast at this part it's just because I don't want to talk too much about it, for fear that I'll jinx it. 

But, here we are at the end of day 4, and she's still doing really well.  I might even venture to say that she's totally trained.  Right? 

So, I guess that's...over?  Just like that?  I don't really know what I'm going to complain and beat myself up about now, but I am happy that it's not this.

Testing One, Two, Three

Leah is known for testing my patience to the point that I have to leave the room sometimes and scream it out at the dog.  She'll ask for something, let's say, for me to rub her back at night, and then I'll say, okay, lie down, and then she'll just sit there staring at me.  NOT lying down.  So, I'll say, you have until the count of three to lie down or no back rub, and then she'll just sit there staring at me.  Not slowly lying down.  Not waiting until I get to three and throwing herself down.  Just not doing it.  So, I'll go to walk away, and then she'll scream I NEED MY BACK RUBBED!  MOMMY COME BACK!  BACK!   NOW!!!   BWAAHHHH  BOOOO OOOOHHHH WWAAAHHHH!!!!

Now, if you can understand what the hell she is trying to do other than bury me early then kudos to you.  Because I can't for the life of me figure out why she will ASK for something then purposely take the steps that keep her from getting it. 

And finally yesterday, it clicked.  Not what she's thinking, because honestly?  I think that at these times she was put on earth to get me back for every single thing I did to my parents growing up.  I will never fully understand my child.  She's incomprehensible and unbelievable.  Like the shelf life of a Twinkie.  And Sarah Palin. 

No, what clicked was how I was going to handle it.

Now, brace yourself, because I am about to let you in on some genius-speak.  From now on when Leah asks for something, like say a snack, and I ask her to sit down at the table to eat said snack, and then she gives me the Carol-Ann stare, I walk away.  That's it.  Snack's over.  So sorry.  Cab's are here.  Gotta go.

And that's it.  She hates it, blows a gasket, has a fit, but then eventually gets over it.  And me?  I don't hate it, blow gaskets, or have fits, and I'm over it before it's even begun.

Lately, we've been working on cause and effect.  You throw something, you get it taken away.  You want me to give you something, you ask in a big kid voice.  You want lotion, then you don't jump off your changing table.  You want to take a 30 minute shower, then you get your own apartment.  I'm tired of treating her like some special-rainbow-cuddle-bunny, when I suspect she's old enough to know that she's getting special treatment and taking advantage of me.  She's a human being and life isn't always barbies and ponies.  Believe me, for Leah, life is quite often barbies and ponies, but occasionally, it's not, and it's best she start realizing this early on.

Last night, there were some shenanigans when I announced bed time.  Honestly, I don't even remember exactly what it was.  But on the nights that Greg works late, there are usually shenanigans at bedtime.  I did that warn/threat thing, (If you don't stop jumping off your bed, you will not get your teeth medicine*) and I watched her proceed to jump off the bed.  Twice.  And I had it.  So, I took the teeth medicine, put it on a shelf where she could see it**, and her told that she wouldn't be getting any that night.  She should try harder and listen better and perhaps tomorrow would be a teeth medicine night. 

Which she did.  And it was.  However, tonight we had the back rubbing issue.  There's always an issue.  We'll try again tomorrow.

*It's Orajel.  And she's not teething.  But she got it into her head over a year ago that she needs teeth medicine nightly.  I don't fight it.  I choose my battles.

**I learned this from an old co-worker Jon, who told me that when his wife Janine needed to take something away from their daughter due to naughty behavior, she made sure that she put the toy in a spot where their daughter would be sure to see it and be reminded of naughty behavior/punishment.  I've never forgotten it.



.

Dirty Bit

Two nights ago, Leah colored* in the lines.**  It wasn't the first time she ever did that; she had colored in the lines a few months ago at Uncle Michael and Aunt Cheryl's house, but that appeared to be a fluke.  Two nights ago, she surely and truly colored in the lines.  I was so excited for her, as was she, that we took a picture of the coloring and sent it to very close family members.  People who would understand just how important and happy we were that she had colored in the lines.

My sister was not very happy with the picture she received of Leah's coloring in the lines...she thought it was inappropriate.  Perhaps that's because it took her a long time to learn to color in the lines and she's jealous of Leah.  Maybe she doesn't even color in the lines yet.  Who knows.

Last night, Leah decided she wanted to color again, and, sure enough, she did it in the lines!  This coloring was way more impressive than the first, and we were both surprised by how large a coloring she had been able to do in the lines.  I explained that when one colors, you never know what it's going to look like until it's complete.

Leah's grandmother wants to give her a dollar for every time she colors in the lines, but if Leah turns into someone who colors in the lines as often as her father, her grandmother is going to be a poor lady very soon.

As you know, we've been waiting for Leah to color in the lines for a while now and feel that these two occurrences are positive stepping stones to a life filled with in-line colorings.  We explained to Leah that Mommy colors in the lines; Daddy colors in the lines; many of her friends color in the lines.

I'm really proud of her for taking the initiative to attempt coloring in the lines and hope that this continues. 

Good job, Leah!




* poop
**potty

A Contribution From a Friend

A few month's ago my friend Rob sent me a poem.  I read it when I received it, and then it sat in my Inbox for a while.  Every so often, I'd open it up and read it.  It's a great poem and I thought I'd post it.

Now, this poem is quite well known, and so when I read the excerpt that Rob sent me, I knew that the last verse was left off.  The last verse is very religious, and while Rob is also very religious, I'm not.  And I'm not sure if Rob left off that last verse because he knows how I feel about religion or not, but I like to think that you get the jist of the poem just fine without that last verse.  And if you find yourself needing more god after you read this poem, then you should google it, and get your god fix.

If Tears Could Build a Stairway

If tears could build a stairway

and thoughts a memory lane

I’d walk right up to heaven

and bring you home again.

No Farewell words were spoken

No time to say good-bye

You were gone before I knew it

And only God knows why.

My heart’s still active in sadness

And secret tears still flow

What it meant to lose you

No one can ever know.

But now I know you want us

To mourn for you no more

To remember all the happy times

Life still has much in store.

Since you’ll never be forgotten

I pledge to you today

A hallowed place within my heart

Is where you’ll always stay.

.

.

.

Patricia Ellen Grieco 4/6/53-11/19/07

You took my hand

You showed me how

You promised me you'd be around

I took your words

And I believed

In everything

You said to me

 

Remember when we were such fools

And so convinced and just too cool

I wish I could touch you again

I wish I could still call you friend

I'd give anything

When someone said count your blessings now

'fore they're long gone

I guess I just didn't know how

I was all wrong

They knew better

Still you said forever

And ever

Who knew

I'll keep you locked in my head

Until we meet again

And I won't forget you my friend

What happened

If someone said three years from now

You'd be long gone

I'd stand up and punch them out

Cause they're all wrong and

That last kiss

I'll cherish

Until we meet again

And time makes

It harder

I wish I could remember

But I keep

Your memory

You visit me in my sleep

My darling

Who knew

I miss you

Who knew

A Metaphor

I spend a lot of time cleaning Leah's play room.  I organize all of her toys--and there are lots of them--making sure that her sushi set contains all of its parts, and her doctor kit is not missing a wayward bandaid.  I gather all of the baby bottles and collect them in one bin, and I make sure that her crayons are not broken and that their wrappers are not peeling.  I arrange all of the dolls so that each has a diaper and clothes on and is placed in a stroller, high chair, or bed.  I spray the white board and wipe it clean and I make sure I remove all of the chalk remnants from the chalk board.

I spend a lot of time cleaning up messes in Leah's play room, but not a lot of time making them.  I want to make messes with her; I need to make messes with her.  I just don't have the time.  Or sometimes, I'm just too tired to make messes.  I am letting those messes happen without me taking part in creating them and I am having a hard time dealing with it.

.
.
.

Thursdays With Michael

For the past two weeks, my brother in law Michael and his girlfriend Cheryl have hosted Leah and I for dinner on Thursday nights.  My sister in law Christie also comes.  And tonight, Cheryl's sister Allison and her friend Randy also attended.

It's been so much fun, and even though Thursday night is normally my ladies wine night, I am feeling torn, since I love going to Michael and Cheryl's too.

In addition to the good food, plentiful wine (I see a pattern too; I choose to ignore it) and the great conversation, Leah gets to hang with her Aunts and Uncle and various other people.  And that's what makes me want to keep up this tradition the most.

When I was little, my mom had five brothers, four of which were younger than her.  My mom was 23 when she had me, so my Uncles were all quite young when I was born.  I remember a lot of good times with them, a lot of fun parties and experiences, and they were a very big part of my life.  For reasons that I won't go into now, mostly because I'm not even sure what those reasons are, I no longer speak to some of my Uncles, and it pains me deeply to know that close, loving relationships can sometimes be severed.  For good.  Forever.

With the death of my mom, and the loss of relationships with family members, I no longer take for granted the power of family and friendships and everything in between.  I try to give Leah as many opportunities as I can to spend time with different types of people, of all different ages, of all walks of life. 

And because of that, I am sad to report that I may be sticking with Thursdays with Michael, over Ladies Wine Night, while the invitation is still extended.  I know that the Ladies might not be happy with this, but they will understand.  If I've learned anything from losing my mother three years ago, it's that personal relationships are important, not only for myself, but for my child.  And my Ladies know that we can always have Tuesdays.  Or Saturdays.  Or both.

.
.
.

The Big Fish Bowl in the Sky

I put Leah to bed 30 minutes ago.  We followed the same routine as we do every night:

1) She puts her finger out and I apply "teeth medicine" (Ambesol) for her to apply to her gums.

2) She puts her finger out and I allow her to dip her finger into the "lip gloss" (Vaseline) to which she applies to her lips.

3) She then looks at me and says, "Ooh, my beddy (belly) hurts.  I need some beddy medicine." And then I open the Vicks and let her take a dab to put on her belly. 

Editor's note: I would let her apply the Vicks without the pretend pain, but I love hearing her pretend, night after night, that her belly starts to hurt at the exact moment that we complete the lip gloss routine.  I play into too.  "Oh, your belly hurts?  Well, then we better get some medicine for that!" 

And then while she situates herself amongst her 40 blankets and NumNum (a stuffed Snoopy) I feed Fishy, her blue beta fish that I have hated taken care of since my wonderful sister gave Leah the fish back in June. 

Except tonight, Fishy was not swimming amongst his plastic cave and vegitation. 

Because Fishy is dead.

Just floating there on the top of the bowl, sideways.  I made a face when I noticed and flung my head back a bit, to which Eagle Eyes over there said, "What happened Mom?  What happened?" 

To which I replied, "Oh, Fishy is so hungry tonight!  He surprised me!" 

And, for once in her life she just accepted that and didn't ask to witness the event. 

So, I left dead Fishy in the bowl and continued with the bedtime routine and texted Greg the minute I got out of there that he had a funeral to hold tomorrow morning.

So, what exactly should we tell her?  This isn't our first pet that has died, but this is the first pet that has died in the house.  This will certainly be the first pet that is flushed down the toilet, and, considering that it's very difficult to do anything in this house behind a locked door, she might very well witness the event.  She is older now than she was when we lost Doozer.  She remembers things now.  She talks in full sentences now.  She tells me when I have boogers in my nose and when I dribble food down my shirt.  Things are different now and I'd rather not scar her this early in life.  There will be many times in the future for that.

Should we say that Fishy is in heaven?  That's what we say about Doozer.  Also, about Grandma Pat.  However, I don't think she really knows what heaven means, as a couple of weeks ago she screamed, "Grandma Pat!  Grandma Pat!" as a woman who lives around the block and has the same hair cut as my mother did, drove by.

I was like, "What?!  That's not Grandma Pat!  That's ____________ (I'm protecting the innocent.)!  Grandma Pat?  Wha?  She's in heaven.  Do you remember that?  That means that she's not driving down our street in her Camry.  Really?  Grandma Pat?  I uh, here, have a lollipop."

So, anyway, back to Fishy.  If there is anyone reading who has been in this situation, how do you suggest we do this?  Comments welcome!
.
.
.

First Day

If you're my friend on Facebook, you know that I've left my old job and found a new one.  This new job is closer to my home, as well as my hometown.  It's got some other perks, too.  Perks that I couldn't turn down.  So, I didn't.

I dislike change.  I'm a creature of habit.  I like things to stay the same, comfortable way, and, even if things are not ideal, or not even satisfactory, anymore, I tend to just leave it status quo rather than start fresh.  I hate not knowing what I'm doing:  starting at a new place, with new co-workers, with new policies, rules, and responsibilities.  For this reason, I've always dreaded the first day of school.  More so than is normal.

Senior year in high school my friend Maryann and I found out on the first day of class that we had lunch the second to last period of the day, which was also the latest lunch period.  After a particularly bad first day of classes, Maryann and I proceeded to the ketchup dispenser, pressed the lever, and were squirted with ketchup spooge out of an almost-empty dispenser all over our faces and shirts.  While we were lucky to have only one more class to get through with ketchup stained clothing, this is the type of stuff that happens to me on "first days." 

So, today, as I walked into my new office building, I thought I might vomit right there on the receptionist's lap.  But, I held it together.  Barely.  I was really uncomfortable all day, but I tried to make the best of it.  I sweat more than I normally do, and on a trip to the bathroom I realized that my bangs were parted quite strangely and I'm not sure for how long, but I muddled through the day to drive home in a torrential hail storm.  In September. 

I know that time will make things better, despite how painful it is for time to pass.  I will soon figure out what my new job entails, and who my new co-workers are, and what this new place is all about.

But, until then, things are weird.  And strange.  I didn't really like talking about my old job on this blog, and I will most likely not talk about my new job on here as well, but I just wanted to let you know what's going on.
.
.
.
 

Going To The Carnival

I mentioned in a previous post that Leah was not fond of rides.  Especially the ones where you put the quarter in to get it to move back and forth for a minute or so that were very popular outside of grocery stores when I was young.

So, you can imagine my surprise when my mother in law told me that Leah had really enjoyed herself in one of those rides while I was paying for something in a nearby store.  (Oh, who am I kidding; it was Coach. I'm a slave for their handbags.)  In fact, I made her prove it to me.

It may not look like it, but she is really having fun here.

Leah wanted to go on several more rides while we were there, but we didn't have enough quarters.  Do you know that these rides cost 75 cents each?  Wow.  Times are different from when I was a kid...and I walked back and forth to school...uphill both ways...and paid 25 cents for a ride.

So, we told her that we'd have to come back so she could go on more rides.  And so I could buy more purses.

A few days later we returned with a metric ton of change in our pockets.  I told Leah we were at the Carnival and we let her ride all the rides.

Once again, I assure you she is having a good time.

Of course, after she rode a million rides while we stood in the heat sighing heavily praying for each ride to end already, she complained when we told her we were out of money.  This then lead to a tantrum, as most things do these days, and most likely ended with some really well thought out words on my part, such as,

"That's it! I am never doing anything nice for you.  You take advantage of situations and don't know that when mommy and daddy say no, we mean no, get in the stroller now.  No, you don't want to? Fine then you are NOT getting a souvenir and I am not rubbing your back at nap time.  And I am calling Santa because this is ridiculous!  Get in your car seat-stop squirming!  Leah what is wrong, that's it, no popcorn! No snacks! Start the car, Greg, we are going right home. No ice cream!  EVER!"

Not my proudest moment, I admit.

Hey, at least the Carnival was fun.

.

.

.

.

.

Life Lessons

Every once in a while, when Leah isn't redecorating, making bedtime a nightmare, or killing me with her entertainment selections, she is a pretty cool kid.

She is turning into a person who gets it, really understands life, and we've been working on the concept of cause and effect a lot lately.

At first I was really against giving her gifts or prizes during our potty training period, but, since we've started, it's been really rewarding to both her and us to give her a treat if she has a good day with it.  And I'm not talking about a pony or anything; sometimes the gift is a package of underpants.  But, it's a treat nonetheless.

There are days in which she'll go in the potty several times, and at the end of the day, she gets a pat on the back and "good job, kid."  And there are days where she goes once, and I'll come home with a little gift for her.  We are not consistent with it, and I'm beginning to think that this concept is the right concept to teach.

You can compare it to your job: there will be times that you spend a lot of time and energy on a particular project and you'll get nary an acknowledgement upon its completion, and there are times that you might get more recognition than you expected, for doing something that you didn't think was making much of a difference. 

Thus is life.  You aren't always going to get what you think you deserve and sometimes you get something that you weren't expecting. 

So, when Greg informed me earlier in the week that Leah was having some setbacks on the potty and there had been much effort but not a lot of achievement, I thought, maybe we could give her a little something to let her know we are recognizing her effort, and, although it's not reaching the ultimate goal, it's not going  unnoticed.  Maybe boost her esteem a bit.  I can only imagine that peeing oneself four times in a day can really wreak havoc on your self esteem.  Especially since she was making trips to the bathroom...they were just usually not at the right times. 

So, I brought home some nail polish.  She's never had nail polish on so it was kind of a big deal. 

I'll keep you posted!
.
.
.