Friday, August 28, 2009

Dithering, Dallying, and Demonizing

"I Don't FEEL good. Because you are MEAN TO ME!"

I'm mean.
The meanest Mommy around, if you take my 3 year-old's word for it.

Ah... our day was going so smoothly and nicely - I should have known better. The saying "If it seems too good to be true, it probably is" is incredibly relevant and very sage advice to the parent of any preschooler.

** If your child is playing quietly, don't rejoice. It is undoubtedly suspect.
** If they are behaving and subdued, they are probably sick and you will either get thrown up on or spend the evening at Urgent Care.
** If your children are playing quietly together, be afraid; one of them is likely now bald or otherwise disfigured.

The same rules apply to when your child(ren) are uncharacteristically lovely and accommodating while running errands. They are saving it up, trust me; before you can say "Linda Blair" you will be mopping up green snot and calling the Pope for a little intervention. Yes, I know this from experience... unfortunately so do many of my fellow neighbors/shoppers and the lovely ladies employed by Tuesday Morning.

Things were going along swimmingly today, and I was actually enjoying a quiet morning of errands, talking, and laughing with E. Oh, silly me! I am such a sucker, I fall for it every time. It was awesome. I was in such a good mood, and having such a grand time that I agreed to a toy purchase. ALL she had to do was pick it out.

Oh boy.
THREE trips down the toy aisle, a look at EVERYTHING, and 20 minutes later, she still hadn't made a decision and was dithering considerably. She WOULD. NOT. CHOOSE.

The time came to leave.
Cue green snotty/pukey stuff and Linda-Blair-esque scene.
Cue blood-curdling screams, hitting, and a range of rather startling preschooler invectives when The Ditherer was forced to vacate the premises sans toy.

I mean seriously... I love me some Tuesday Morning too, but we simply cannot stay there all day.

I have since been informed that:

"I don't FEEL good, because you are MEAN TO ME!"
"I don't WIKE YOU!"
"I NEEEEEEEED somefing, now!"
"I'M TELLING DAD!"


I swear to God, you'd think I was the devil, Hitler, and Saddam Hussein rolled into one because I *gasp* expected her to be semi-expedient while spending my money on crap to shove to the bottom of her toy box.

Nice guys finish last. And so do nice Mommies... remember that.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Sugar and spice and everything... nice? Surely there's some mistake.

"NO! You're a BUM!"

Ahhh, from the mouths of babes.
Pretty benign insult overall, no? You may even find yourself thinking "Ah, come on kid - you can do better than that!"

Just to clear something up, she wasn't referring to panhandlers when she tossed out the word bum, she was referring to the back end, the exit, the rectal area, or however you want to put it. Yeah. That bum. And that lovely little shouted insult was directed at her Daddy.

(Is it bad that just recounting this story makes me titter to myself?)

At any rate, obviously my three year-old has taken a liking to potty humor, potty mouth, and virtually all things that refer in some way to the posterior. *sigh*
I routinely hear:

"YOU POOPY!"
"You're a POOPY head!"
"You BUM!"
"Poopy, poopy, poopy, POOPY!"
(Said in a sing-song voice dancing around her sister)

Everyone told me I'd hear this stuff repeatedly... IF I HAD BOYS. Nobody mentioned that the sweet little pig-tailed cherubs that are little girls (hahahaha!) would be so fond of talking about such un-ladylike things. The psychologist in me is scared shitless (pun intended) to find out what Freud would think about this.

I keep hoping this phase will pass soon, but given our most recent conversation, I don't see that happening.

E: "Mommy, I WIKE Finding Nemo."
M: "Oh yeah? I do too, it's a good movie."
E: "Yeah, you know why I wike it?"
M: "Why's that?"
E: "There's a BUTT in it. He touched the BUTT. Tee hee hee!"


Oy vey.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Living In A Porta-Potty

It usually takes someone commenting on a blog entry of mine (or otherwise reminding me of its existence) to stir up some motivation to write. Then, and only then, do I start thinking "Hey... I should write about X and Y!" This also explains why my blog entries tend to be grouped together in clumps rather than spread out over the month... but, whatever, right?

At any rate, I was (obviously) reminded today, and a few things started swirling around in this mushy cavern I like to call my head.

For instance, anyone who is among the elite few I call my 'friends' on Facebook is probably well aware that I am absolutely sick to death of dealing with pee. Pee, wee-wee, tee-tee, urine... whatever you want to call it, I am SO freaking over it!

Pee problem #1:
Someone *cough*P*cough* bought a brand new state-of-the-art litter box that self scoops, self-disposes of the waste, and cleans the (plastic) litter all by itself. Great, huh?! Awesome. Except that our neurotic, mentally disabled cat Jupiter flatly refuses to use it. Instead, he has taken to peeing all over my kitchen floor and wall every single night.

Pee problem #2:
My 5 year-old has recently decided that whatever she is doing (whether it be watching Spongebob or pulling the legs off an unsuspecting bug) is far more important than any pesky urge to go to the potty. This, of course, leads to so-called 'accidents' that necessitate my attention.

Pee problem #3:
I have a recently potty-trained 3 year-old who thinks it is super cool to do whatever her big sister does.

So you see, I am sick of it. My house smells like pee, the laundry basket is always full, and it seems that lately we are keeping the good folks that make Nature's Miracle in business.

I am about to start issuing threats with regards to the pee-situation around here. In fact, truth be known, I already have. My kids LOVE going to school, so I thought that by telling one of them (whose identity shall remain a mystery to protect the innocent) that if she continued to pee-pee in her pants, she wouldn't be able to return to school.

Well, that backfired good and proper. Her answer to my threat?
"Tha's OK. I don't fink I wike Mrs. X (her teacher) anyway - she wooks wike a goat."

FABULOUS.



Help.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Looks like the Jr. PGA is a pipe dream...

Saturday was interesting.
Yes, interesting indeed....

Someone *cough*P*cough* decided that it might be fun to play mini-golf together as a family at one of those big Fun Centers. You know the place - they are all essentially the same.

Mini golf course peppered with algae infested 'rivers' and fountains? Check.
Money-sucking, ticket-stingy games? Check.
A few rides (aka: death traps) out back mostly hidden by weeds? Check.
Crappy pizza that costs nearly the same as a gourmet meal? Check.

The stuff dreams are made of, no?

Don't get me wrong... I actually enjoy a good game of mini-golf, it can be quite fun. But this was one situation that simply was NOT going to work out well, a point that I tried to stress as much as possible before capitulating and setting off for a 'fun' afternoon. You see, there were numerous factors working against us that prompted me to energetically campaign against this particular plan.

We had:
** A 3 year old and a 5 year old, both with NO concept of why one would want to hit a tiny ball into a hole for fun.

** A 3 year old who behaves like the spawn of Satan himself when she is hungry or it gets too close to her naptime. (She eats at 11, sleeps at 1pm. We left the house at 10:30 with no plans to eat until after a rousing game of putt-putt).

** A 5 year-old obsessed with putting tokens in money slots with little concept of the purpose of 95% of the games she is feeding.

** A barely toilet-trained 3 year-old who insists on wearing panties everywhere.

** 95 degree heat.

To say it went poorly would be an understatement. Lets just say that we left the 'Fun Center' after roughly 45 minutes in which time we had been relieved of at least $40, played exactly three holes of mini-golf, listened to relentless complaining about the heat, lost a three year-old, had a potty 'accident', and had a handful of tickets that purchased 4 complete pieces of junk (2 of which were broken by the end of the day). Then we had to listen to whining, fighting, and complaining all the way to the German restaurant where we lunched (that's not to say it stopped when we got there. Ohhhh no).

Sounds fun, no?

Moral of the story? Anyone?
LISTEN TO YOUR WIFE.

The End.