It's been quiet in these here parts

I cannot imagine that the few of you who read this are unaware of our impending move to Baltimore, but if you are, guess what? We're moving to Baltimore.

Which is why I've been scarce around here; too busy trying to maintain what's left of my sanity while we pack, move, and take care of a bazillion details that I'm quite likely to forget.

However, I just now read that the scary, android Duggar family is going to have their 19th child. Nineteen children. Jiminy fucking Cricket. I can barely manage the one. Nineteen? How do you remember their names, or their individual personality traits? How do you possibly spend any quality time with any one child? 

Look, normally I try not to judge other people. (Unless they play or coach for opposing football teams.) But in this case, I'm hard-pressed not to because these people are not having children because they love kids Just That Much. They're doing it because they belong to the Quiverfull Movement, the primary purpose of which is to have as many fucking children as you can and raise them all to be the kind of Christian that might intimidate even a fundamentalist. Their goal is to populate the world with people who think like they do. Overpopulation issues? Screw it. Diminishing resources? Up yours. Far too many children living in orphanages overseas? Eh, they're heathens anyway. We're going to have our own, and we're going to raise 'em up right. Which includes, sickeningly, raising the girls to take care of their younger siblings because By God, all they're good for are their reproductive organs, anyway. These girls won't go to college, they'll be living their lives in the kitchen and the maternity ward. (Or, thanks to the media, on television.) 

I think out of all of this inherent insanity, the treatment of the girls is the one that enrages me the most. Believe what you want, do what you want, but don't sentence your children to a fate that they'll accept blindly because they've never been exposed to anything else. You want to be a walking baby machine? By all means, it's your rabidly abused uterus. But think about your daughters instead of yourself, just for once.

And on that note, the oldest son is married and his wife is expecting (at 20!) their first next month. When I read that several months ago, my immediate reaction was, "And when's Ma Duggar going to remind her that she is the Queen in this litter?" I wish I'd been disappointed by the result. But I wasn't.

Last item: It looks (according to Wikipedia, at least) as though the movement is promulgated by women. Which is scary and absolutely incomprehensible, at least to me. But then I think about the Duggar girls, who have never known any option than this one, and it all makes sense. Well, as much sense as anything about this can.

It's not her hearing...

I know that it can't be; we just had her four-year checkup and she passed the hearing test with flying colors. So why. Can the child. NOT. LISTEN?!

The other day, just to test whether she could actually say the word "yes," I asked her if she wanted some chocolate chip cookies. T told me that wasn't fair. But I was genuinely concerned that her mouth couldn't form the word.

I've tried the 1-2-3 Magic shit, I've tried timeouts, I've tried taking things away. Doesn't matter... she does not want to do whatever it is you ask/tell (tried both) her to do. I seriously think that she could be on fire and I could tell her to douse herself with water to put out the flames and she'd say, "No, I don't want to."

I'm about at the end of my rope. Any suggestions, other than me being committed? (Which sounds entirely too appealing at this point.) Help meeeeeee....

So she's either going to be a con artist or a lawyer

Exhibit A: Last week, one of her former teachers told me that they'd been on the playground and that she had been sitting on a bench with one of A's classmates. A sidled up, took stock of the situation, and (according to the teacher), got a crafty look. She tapped the other little girl on the shoulder and said, "Hey, there's a swing open for you!" The other girl ran off and A sat down next to the teacher and confided, "There's not really a swing open. I just wanted to sit next to you."

Exhibit B: Also last week, A asked T if she could have some marshmallows. (We have a bag of mini ones leftover from the birthday cake. And no, don't ask.) He said, "Sure, you can have 10 a day." (This must be some arbitrary marshmallow-divvying rule of which I was previously unaware.) So she downed them, then asked for more, and T reiterated the 10-a-day rule. A short time later, A asked T if he could get out her Dora the Explorer play tent, and he said sure and set it up for her. Then she smiled and said, "Now that we're camping, we need marshmallows to roast."

Exhibit C: Last night, Cleo (nee, NoKitty) was sleeping on A's cardboard cutout of Yoda (also from the birthday; A likes to play with it and frequently lies him down for naps). When A noticed, she immediately got territorial and tried to shoo Cleo off of Yoda. (Things I never thought I'd type, part LCVIII.) We told her to leave Cleo alone. A wandered off and came back with a cat toy and waved it at Cleo. No dice; the cat held her post. So then A went and foraged in the kitchen for a minute and returned with the bag of cat treats. Cleo bit--she got up and ran toward the treats, and A threw them at her and gleefully absconded with Yoda to her playroom.

So, jury, what say you? I'm leaning toward con artist, myself. 

Happy fourth of July!

No, I'm not off on my dates--A turns four today! It's almost impossible to believe that my baby is so "old" already. I have a tendency to get a little melancholy on her birthday, wondering if she's the only child I'll ever have, wistfully remembering when she was younger (and obviously forgetting the nights of crying and no sleep--ah, reflux, I don't miss thee), wishing I could savor those moments again. 

To combat that, I decided to write down my memories of the big day--the first birth day, if you will--so that I don't forget those. Including...

* Almost going into labor in WalMart. Long story short, I couldn't stand T for the last month of my pregnancy--nothing he did, just hormones. But even the sound of his breathing incited me to near-martial rage. The night I went into labor--which was, blessedly, five days earlier than my due date; thank you, full moon--I went on a loooong walk to get out of the house. But dang it, wouldn't you know it, T was still there when I got home. So I went to WalMart. (The fact that I only bought cleaning products should have been a tell-tale sign. Ah, hindsight.) I tarried there for as long as I could, then lumbered home. 10 p.m.: Yep: he was still there. Muttering to myself, I decided to empty the dishwasher. I bent over and then swore to myself, then snapped at T (because it was his fault, of course) that the baby had made me wet my pants (yeah, I know: hindsight.) and that I was going to take a shower. 10:35 p.m.: I get out of the shower, and whoops, realized that it wasn't A, but that my water had broken. So, by my estimate, I was about 45 minutes off of my water breaking in WalMart. Clean up on Aisle 5...

* My refusal to believe that I was, in fact, in labor. Although to be fair, I didn't have my first contraction until an hour after my water broke. I was standing next to the couch, arguing with T because he (being reasonable) wouldn't let me vacuum and I (being hormonally insane) wanted to. I remember that first contraction well; I bent double, clutched at the couch, and groaned, "Shit. This hurts." I also remember the second contraction well, primarily because it came less than three minutes after the first. T told me that wasn't possible; I told him to shut up, we needed to go to the hospital. But... I wouldn't let him bring our bags. Because I was hormonally insane.

* My expression when T looked at me--I was wearing yoga shorts and a t-shirt--and asked if that was what I was going to wear to the hospital.

* Having three contractions between our front doorstep and the sign-in desk for the maternity ward. Keep in mind that we live all of five minutes away from the hospital. During the one in the car, T helpfully (in his mind) told me to try the breathing exercises we'd learned during childbirth education classes. I told him (and I think this is pretty much word for word) that I'd been breathing for my entire fucking life and it hadn't helped so far.

* T taking a picture of me with his camera cell phone while I was in labor. The cell phone later broke. I still maintain my innocence.

* Unabashedly begging the L&D nurse to please, please, PLEASE START THE IV NOW! She did.

* T's helpful comments while watching the contractions on the monitor. These included, "Looks like you're having a contraction" and "That looks like a big one." I was too busy writhing in pain on the bed to provide any proper responses, sadly.

* T having to drive home and get our bags, with the nurse telling him he'd better hurry. Oops.

* Finally getting the blessed epidural. Things were pretty good for awhile after that.

* Pushing for 1 1/2 hours, and panting to the OB every time, "Are you sure we shouldn't do a C-section? I think we should do a C-section." This is only funny if you consider my nine-month-long (hormonally insane) fear that I was going to be tied down and forced to deliver via C-section. 

* T, once again being "helpful," deciding to up the three-reps-of-10 count to 13. I asked him what the hell he was doing and he said, "I thought that would make it go faster."

* The absolutely bizarre sensation of pushing a baby out of an area that you can't even feel. (Sorry, guys!) I'll never get over the weird feel of her shoulders sliding out. Again, enough cannot be said about the blessed epidural. 

* The absolute magic of holding her for the first time. I'll never, ever forget the way she grabbed the neckline of my gown and looking up at me with this bemused expression that very clearly said, "What the hell was that all about?" Best moment of my life, hands down.

And four years later, here we are.

Tricksy pixie

The damage (note the nice chunk missing over the left ear):

And the outcome:

AIIIEEE!!!

So, my deceptively angelic-looking child with the long blonde hair found a pair of scissors this morning. The end result being that she no longer looks angelic (which might be to the good, actually) or has long blonde hair. Half of it looks like it belongs to Moe from the Three Stooges. Needless, to say, we're taking a trip to the hairdresser's this afternoon, because this is beyond my ability to fix. (Although I'm forced to admit that she did a decent job with the bangs.)

When I first saw her, I just stared. Then I managed to stutter, through my absolute shock, "Why... for God's sake, why did you cut your hair?" She said, "Because it was getting in the way of eating ice cream." Keeping in mind that it was about 8 a.m. and she was having a pretend picnic and eating PRETEND ICE CREAM. So, just to keep this straight, she cut half of her formerly beautiful hair off for SOMETHING THAT DIDN'T ACTUALLY EXIST. My God.

T's reaction was much like mine: "Oh, my God." Which probably explains her later response, when I asked her for probably the tenth time why she'd done it. She said, sighing, "For God's sake, I don't know." Probably the most accurate answer I got from her, at least.

And she has yet, of course, to realize the long-term ramifications. We're leaving this afternoon to go to my mother-in-law's for the weekend, and A cheerfully said, "It's okay, I'll just grow it back in the car."

Needless to say, all scissors will be banned from the house for all eternity. Or at least until she goes to college. Hm... how early do they extend early admission?

They were gentler, kinder times... or not.

Because I'm too friggin' busy to be original (although I will note that we placed the three kittens, hallelujah), there's this. You're welcome for the laughs and the nightmares.

Suck-up, er Pepe

You see what I mean? This one's crafty...

Once a mother, always a mother

So, we were adopted by a then-pregnant cat a little over two months ago. The result being that we are now the home to Mama (first named NoKitty, now Cleo) and her four kittlens. The resulting result being that we now live in chaos. (Four-year-old+kittens=much ado about much.) We've decided to keep Cleo (I figure she deserves it for sussing out the right suckers) and one of the kittens (the one nicknamed Pepe because of the little white skunk stripe on his forehead), who is the smartest of the bunch because he started sucking up to T at around, oh, week five.

ANYway. Now it's time to find homes for the other three. I thought I had sure things lined up with two co-workers, but they're starting to back away, so I followed someone's advice and posted the "free to good home" listing on Craigslist a few hours ago. I've already heard from two people. You'd think I would be relieved, yes? No; I'm freaking out, assuming that they only want the kitties for nefarious purposes. One of them is a vet med student who's specializing in infectious disease--surely, she wants to use one for research, yes? And another has a pit bull (yes, I'm Googling these people), which makes me nervous--I can't get rid of the mental image of one of the kittens being terrorized by it.

Le sigh. Giving a shit is such a pain in the ass. I will let you know when KittenGate 2009 is successfully (we pray) resolved.

The beginning of the era of potty humor?

Or at least gas-related comedy. This morning, I heard A laughing in the bathroom. I asked what was so funny and she giggled, "I farted and it scared the kitten so he ran away." 

Why did I assume that potty humor was the domain of the XYers? Whatever; I laughed, too.

Touche...

Scene: Last night, after dinner.

Me: A, which part of "you're not allowed to pick up the kittens" did you not understand?

A [without missing a beat]: The middle part.

T: She's got you there.

Which, yes. Boy, the teenage years are going to be hell, aren't they?

Anatomy 101

Tonight, in the bathtub, A was passing gas with gusto. I asked if we should call her Walter (a la the farting dog) and she said, "No, I just have gas." I said, "You sure have a lot of it." And she said, "That's because my butt door keeps opening."

I know. Totally bizarre and inappropriate. But damn it, did T and I laugh...

The truth, and nothing but the truth

Scene: Tonight, A's bedroom at bedtime, with me trying to tuck in A (or, as she is known in this parts, the Empress of Bedtime Stalling Tactics) :

A [smiles] I know who has a birthday this month.
Me [playing along]: Who?
A: You do, Mommy!
Me: That's right, I do! How old am I going to be? [now, I know you're going to say that I set myself up here, but she usually answers "five" or, if she's put some thought into it, "ten"]
A: I don't know.
Me: Why don't you guess?
A: Why don't you tell me?
Me: Okay. I'm going to be 37.
A [after a brief silence]: Wow. That's a lot.

That it is, kid. That it is.

The learning curve, she is slow

Two nights ago, during dinner, A was looking for something under the table, lifted her head, and banged it right into the side of the table. "Ow!" "Be careful, honey." A scant minute later, she does it again. This time, there was a morose sigh and then the sole utterance, "Again."

At least she's self-aware that she's not too quick, right?

Best. Customer. Reviews. EVER.

Three-Wolf Moon T-Shirt from Amazon.com. A must-buy, evidently. Seriously--totally worth your time to read the customer reviews.

Graduate school is overrated--until you get your grades

I would swear that I spent at least 36 hours on one of my two final papers. I had to take two days off of work to write it. I came to hate the English language. I swore relentlessly about APA style. And I was fairly convinced that I was never taking another grad school class again, screw the master's degree.

Then I found out that I earned an A in the course. So naturally, I'm all revved up about the fall semester.

I am a moron. But at least I am a self-aware and slightly more educated moron. 

Shades of Norma Rae

So, it's well known at daycare--and in all of A's universe--that my daughter doesn't like to nap. Since day one, she has not been a napper. As previously chronicled on these pages, that periodically has posed problems at daycare. (My stance, for the record, is that while I agree that she can't be running around waking up the other kids, she also cannot be forced to sleep. Without Benadryl, at least. But I digress.)

At any rate, today, her teacher informed me that during playground time, a group of kids--three-and-a-half-year-olds, mind you--was chanting in unison on the swings. The chant? "No more naps! No more naps!" The leader of the mini-union? Well, I think you can guess.

Maybe she'll be a lawyer for the ACLU.

Science versus evolution: Not a cage match?

Excellent article on reconciling belief in evolution AND creationism. Personally, I am by no means a devout church-goer--I have issues with organized religion. But I respect those who worship in whatever way best suits them, and many friends are devout Protestants, Catholics, and Jews. I do, however, end up with an eye twitch when I am told that the Earth is only 10,000 years old and that Jesus wrote a dinosaur, simply because that outright discards scientific proof in an effort to justify an individual's need to support his or her faith. If you have to ignore incontrovertible evidence to bolster your faith, I'm thinking you need to work more on having faith. Faith, after all, is a belief: unlike science, it doesn't require outright proof. If you have to prove it, it doesn't exist. Or so sayeth the Book of Sherry.

Anyhoo, if you're interested, here's what a devoutly religious scientist has to say on the matter. He's got some good stuff.

http://www.timesdispatch.com/rtd/news/opinion/op_ed/article/PARKER0510_20090511-182909/267117/

It's raining, it's pouring

There's the reason that the proverb "when it rains, it pours" exists. Because it is true. Very, very true.

Still plodding ahead on the papers--although I've gotten some helpful feedback from my very patient, very wise professor, who has talked me down from the ledge several times now--and now coping with cat and daycare crises. The former being that Mama Kitty seems to have some kind of infection (I know this because, to put it bluntly, her poo is green and foul-smelling), so I have to take her to the vet tomorrow; the latter being that I am being increasingly chided by daycare because A won't settle down at naptime. Sure thing. Get right on that.

Although short of duct-taping her to her cot, I'm at a loss for what else to do--I've come up with every form of prevention and punishment I can think of or have read about, all for naught. Today, I was told that if she continues, I'm going to have to take her home every day at naptime. There is something fundamentally wrong about that, I think.

Anyway. I continue to slog.

We have been fruitful and multiplied

No, don't get excited. It's just that the pregnant cat who adopted us has graced us with four kittens. All dreadfully cute, of course. Mama Nature knew what she was doing with young-uns--make them too cute to not be taken care of.

Keeping A away from them has been a bit of a chore. She, naturally, is dying to hold them. However, having seen how she "held" the Easter eggs, I am going to wait until they get a little, um, sturdier, let's say. Should be an interesting battle.

So, to recap: I am part-time single mom, full-time employee, finishing up grad class with two papers due in two weeks (that comprise 90 percent of my final grade, like WTF?), both magazines in production... and now adoptive mother to five cats who are living in our downstairs bathroom.

I simply cannot wait until I am committed.

Twitterific

Strictly for the purposes of an article I'm writing, I've signed up for Twitter. (And for once, I am not full of BS.) I haven't become addicted to it, although I am following a few unusual people (including the almighty Lane Kiffin, bless his heart). The biggest thing it's teaching me is how to write succinctly, since each entry can't surpass 140 words. It's a tad unnerving watching the numbers rapidly diminish (it gives you your running count right next to your message) as I tap tap away. E.B. White would have approved. Anyone else on Twitter?

I remember too much

I was originally going to write an essay on the things that I remember from April 16, 2007, for today's two-year anniversary of the tragedy. I wanted to do this because I fear that I will one day forget the details that need to be remembered--how it played out, how the world reacted, and most importantly, the 32 people we lost that day.

But before I started writing it, I re-read their bios. Or, to be blunt about it, their obituaries. Thirty-two obituaries for 32 incredible people. Read them for yourself: http://www.vtmagazine.vt.edu/memorial07/memorium.html. You'll see that every one of them was outstanding in some way or another. I remember, in the weeks that followed, having to edit these 32 obituaries. It was painful to have to cut any detail about them for the sake of space. I felt like I was inflicting additional pain, although I'm not sure on whom.

Today, re-reading them, I felt a different pain. The pain of a parent, trying not to imagine how unfathomably life-ending it would be to lose your only child. Of a spouse, shying away from how it would feel to get the phone call that you had been widowed of the person you chose to be with for the rest of your life. Of a child, not wanting to picture your parents as they bid you a final farewell.

My heart aches today--to much for me to attempt writing anything coherent or adequate. Instead of remembering, right now, all I want to do is forget. I am a coward.

That being said, as I was walking at lunch on what's turned out to be a sinfully, wrongfully beautiful day, I gazed out at the rec fields and had a vision. Of them: of the 32. I imagine their spirits gathered from whatever afterlife they are experiencing, their varying faith and their beliefs an immaterial issue now. I can feel them here in Blacksburg, if only just for this one day. Perhaps they are drawn by the sorrow and regret and pain that everyone on campus is feeling. It is a palpable thing. But at least they will know that they are remembered, always, even though sometimes we try to forget.

I guess she gets points for originality?

[scene: 6:30-ish in the a.m. on Monday morning]

A [from her bed]: Moooooommy!Come and geeeeet me!

Me [groggily trying to wake up]: Ugh.

A: MOOOOOMMMMYYYY!!!

Me: Oh, god. [sighs]

A: You have to come geeeeet me! The bees are attacking meeeee!

Me: ???

Long pause

A: THE BEES ARE GETTING ME! [seconds later, as I walk in] Hi.

Me: And the bees?

A: Oh, they're gone now.


She's going to either be a lawyer or a con artist.

Well, it was inevitable

Frankly, I would have thought that it would have happened sooner, so I guess I'm lucky that she made it this long. But it happened: A swore at daycare.

Teacher: A said a bad word today.
Me: Oh? [voice all innocence] Which one? [filled with trepidation]
Teacher: She said [whispers] "shit."
Me: [a little relieved; could have been worse] Oh, dear. What happened?
Teacher: She was playing in the mud with two other children, and I told them that they'd go into timeout if they didn't stop. She didn't stop, so I told her she had to go into timeout, and she threw her hands up and said, "Oh, shit."
Me: [now trying not to laugh, already having won Mother of the Year] Oh, dear.
Teacher: I asked her where she'd learned it.
Me: Um...
Teacher: She said her Mommy says it.

I did not say, "Oh, shit," but I was tempted. Instead, I feebly tried to defend myself. "I only say it on rare occasions, like if I drop something on my foot." Surprisingly, lightning did not strike me where I stood.

Anyway. We had a long chat on the way home (one that was interrupted by her asking if the Easter Bunny would come down the chimney; I was like, "Uh... I... um.... No. He, uh, leaves the basket on the doorstep. And Daddy brings it inside." "Why not?" "Because rabbits don't come in the house, do they?" "No." "Well, that's why."). And when I told T, he laughed, mostly because she didn't finger him, which she very well should have.

Ah, well. At least she used in the right context, I suppose.

Strange doings

You might notice a few odd things about my sites for the next few weeks. Such as that someone named "Chris" is entering the posts. Long story short (is there ever such a thing?), my blogger account is being used for my graduate class project on product placements in blogs. I've created six dummy blogs for testing purposes, and these will be live for the undergrads. Should be interesting. Also, I will be (even more) absent during this time, due to work and school commitments. Meanwhile, I'm about ready to be committed.

See you around...

Fun with words

There have been a few interesting exchanges around here lately...

Saturday, at the doctor's office (to be diagnosed with the second bout of strep throat in 1 1/2 months, yay):

Doctor, walking in: "Hello, how are you?"
A: "My name is A. Nice to meet you."
Doctor: "Nice to meet you, too."
A: "You need to wash your hands before you check me."
Doctor (laughing): "Aren't you precocious? Do you know what precocious means?"
A: "It's Spanish."


Sunday afternoon:

A (pretending to play her trumpet that actually makes music, alas): "Mommy, you need to beduct me!"
Me (knowing that she means "conduct"): "Are you playing the trumpet?"
A: "Yes, I'm a bagician, just like Daddy!"
Me (trying not to laugh): "Are you?"
A: "Yes. And I'm going to go play music in Baltimorrow, too."


Tonight, telling T about her day:

T: "What were you doing on the playground when I picked you up?"
A: "We were finding worms."
T: "Worms?"
A: "Yes. We're the worm patrol. We find worms for people."


Just a few minutes ago:

Me (having gone into her room to change a poo diaper): "Now, hold still. You don't want it getting all over the place."
A (evidently somewhat remembering last night's similar conversation): "That's right. Because when I'm on the yucky medicine [antibiotics], my poo gets fancy."
Me (after a beat): "You mean funky."
A: "Right, right, right."

So, that's the latest on my Spanish, fancy-pooing worm patroller. I look forward to whatever Baltimorrow brings.

Busy, busy

But always time for a laugh. Remember the Yip Yips from Sesame Street, back in the day? This was the best clip ever. I'll admit that its creators may have been on drugs, but I think that this stuff was so much better than some of the crap our kids are watching today:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4VNMERVsC4&feature=PlayList&p=4059F49127F5A91B&index=0&playnext=1

Let it snow...

Well, this is A's first big snow (that she can remember), and she's loving it. We've been out twice, I built a rather pathetic snowman, T scoured the area stores until he found a sled and they had a grand old time heading down a rather steep hill. She would still be out there, happily making snow angels and eating snow, but we were freezing and had to bribe her with hot chocolate to come in. Also, I got to engage in the opposite of target practice: She wanted me to throw snowballs at her. It's very hard to not hit a three-year-old who's standing still. She even NAPPED. I love snow days.

Harkening back to last weekend... We had mice in the house, so T set live traps to catch them, and soon enough, we had three cute little deer mice living in an old aquarium on our kitchen table until it got warm enough to let them out. Poor, pet-deprived A was absolutely enamored of them (she named all three "Tiny"), which she was happy to share when we went to Pet Smart to get some fish food. We were standing in front of the gerbil/mouse/general rodent display and A tugs the coat of a random woman, points at a gigantic white rat, and announces, "We have three of those living in our kitchen!" The woman looked suitably horrified. I hightailed it out of there before she could call Social Services. We then had a taxonomy lesson on the finer points of the rodent family.

Off to watch the end of Wall-E. AGAIN.

Harrumph

Wall-E failed us today. T had to go in to have a "chat" with the little hellion. Wonder what/whom I should take hostage next...

Seriously, parenting puts me at my wits' end several times a week. Trying to figure out which tactics work for your child, second guessing, second guessing the second guessing... it's exhausting. 

Any ideas?

All ur naptimez are belong to us

I've done it. I've reached a new low in parenting. I have taken Wall-E hostage.

A little background, first, namely that A has never, ever been a napper. She is infamous at daycare for being a non-napper. It is her misfortune that one of her current teachers is what I consider a Nap Nazi--if A doesn't nap, NN considers herself a failure. 

Me, I'm happy if the child just lies there quietly for the requisite two hours. (Which is a hard thing to ask a non-napper to do, but rules is rules.) Lately, however, she's been acting up big-time. First, she looks to make sure someone's watching (and being told that made me feel like a stellar parent; sure, she's getting enough attention at home!), and then she proceeds to use the cot as a trampoline, play in the water fountain, hide in the cupboards, etc. They've actually assigned one teacher (keeping in mind that it's a class of 19 and there are 2-3 teachers in there at a given time) strictly to police her at naptime. They were somewhat tolerant of that until she started deliberately waking up the other kids at least an hour or more before they should have been.

She was not the most popular child at daycare that day, I will note.

Of course, my view is that they should have brought me in sooner than they did, which wasn't until the breaking point: that if she pulled the same antics the next day, I'd have to pick her up and take her home for the rest of the day. Yikes.

My mother is the one who actually came up with the (thus far) winning solution. (And I haven't yet pointed out to A that Nana is the meanie, not mommy. Yet.) Which is to take all of her beloved Wall-E merchandise (see post below)--the "computer," the books, and most importantly, the DVD--and put it all in a box in the morning. I do this very ceremoniously, by the way; I should don epaulettes or something for the routine. Anyway, I then announce that unless she has a good day at daycare, the toys/books/dvd stay in the box until she does have a good day; Wall-E is in jail until she can spring him for good behavior.

The first morning we did this, she looked very surprised. Then fairly pissed. Now, it's part of the getting-out-of-the-house drill. And proof that it works came yesterday, when she started to act up and her teacher (not NN), whom I've kept in the loop, simply said, "Wall-E," and A said, "Oh, yeah," and rolled over and went to sleep. 

Huh.

I don't expect it to last, mind you. I'll have to come up with some other hapless inhabitant of the B'burg version of Gitmo. But in the meantime... Wall-E's mine, baby.

Am I a Wall-e-holic?

I confess: I love "Wall-E." I do. I've seen the movie approximately 1,000 times at this point because A loves it, too, and it still doesn't get old. I think it's one of the best movies I've seen in ages. It actually turns me into a non-cynical being when I watch it, quite a feat unto itself.

And I'm shamelessly buying into the merchandising. A owns a Wall-E computer (well, "computer"), books, action figures, and coloring books. So yes, I'm only feeding into the machine.

I remember the first time I saw Wall-E. I'd gotten it for A for Christmas and put it on one holiday morning, planning to doze on the couch while she watched it. I got so interested that I sat up, made coffee, and watched until the end. At one point, I told her to "hush" because I couldn't hear what was going on.

As I said, we've seen it tons of times since--usually twice a weekend, at least. And I still find it just as charming. I just don't know why. Maybe I'm a sucker, maybe I'm just glad he's not Dora/Diego/typical cartoon character. And I know it's not the Pixar deal--for example, I'm the only person ever, evidently, who hated "Finding Nemo." (Well, maybe not hate, but I just couldn't get over the mother and rest of the brood being EATEN in the opening minutes. Er, spoiler alert.) So maybe I'm just relieved that no mothers were injured in the making of this film (unlike "Bambi," "Dumbo," and all of the princess movies that are haunted by evil stepmothers.)

So that's my deal. Any other parents unnaturally attached to kids' movies?

Checking in

Ridiculously busy, so just a few bullet points on things that I've observed and that amuse/annoy:

* A is proving to be very self-aware. Two nights ago, she didn't want to go to bed and was pulling her crocodile tears routine while Tom was trying to put her in her pjs. He told her to stop fake crying and she said, "I'm not fake crying, I'm whining." At least she's honest.

* About that, at least. When it comes to sweets, however, the kid would sell me down the river in a heartbeat. One time, Tom took her with him to get coffee, and they happened to sell cookies there. She gave the server a hangdog look and said--keeping in mind that it was about 4:30 pm--"I haven't had anyfing to eat all day." So they gave her a cookie for free.

* She's also invented two new words. "Recycling" is now "precycling" and "conducting" (hey, she's the kid of musician, of course she knows it) is "beducting."(One also is a "beductor" who "beducts.") I'm sure that I should correct her on these things. I don't.

* And speaking of words, we've pulled our first four-letter bomb at daycare. (Not the f-bomb, luckily.) I picked her up last week and her teacher told me that A's barrette had been falling out all day, and finally, she sighed and said, "Shit." Her teacher said, "What did you say?" My precious angel replied, without skipping a beat, "I said my barrette fell out." So... lying is good, sometimes?

* I've found a new show to hate. And here I thought I'd become hardened to such things. But no, I saw my first episode of "Ni Hao, Kai-Lan" tonight. Ye gods, who is their target audience, the mentally challenged? I mean, they couldn't hammer home the moral of the episode any harder if they wrote it down, wrapped the note around a brick, and beat me in the head with it. Even the fish got it: share. It's nice to share. It's not nice when we don't share. We should encourage our friends to share. Sometimes it takes time to share. JEEBUS, I GET IT! (And yes, I know that I'm a bit older than their target audience, but still... would make a hell of a drinking game, though.) Naturally enough, A loved it. Ack.

Back to the grind...

Aiding and abetting Darwin

Let me start out by saying that I'm not trying to start a theological discussion. Simply put, I believe in Darwin's Theory of Evolution. Always have. But having a child is making me start to wonder about that.

Why? Because based on my admittedly amateur observations, the goal of all children, from birth until--well, I don't know when but I sure look forward to it--is to kill themselves. Or at least inflict serious self-harm.

I don't think it's intentional; at least, I'd prefer to believe that we don't have a little cult of suicidals running around. No, I think it's their innate need to figure things out. I just wish that the things they were figuring out weren't so bloody dangerous. Like stairs, and the need to see whether what goes up comes down, and just how quickly and painfully. Or what those little plastic things jammed into electrical sockets are. (A was less than a year old the first time she wandered over and handed me a plastic outlet protector. We quickly did away with them because she so enjoyed pulling them out that I felt like we were simply baiting her when we put them back in.) After myriad falls, scrapes, bruises, etc., I'm convinced that you could put nine innocuous things on a table alongside a grenade and the first thing a child would reach for would be, you guessed it, the grenade.

Which is why I'm pondering Darwin and his theory. If only the fittest of the species is supposed to survive, how does anyone make it out of childhood alive? This is, of course, rhetorical: because of his/her parents. So, then, are we interfering in the whole "survival of the fittest," thus changing it to "survival of the child with the quickest parents"? And yes, I know that he was referring to species... but so am I. As a race, humankind wouldn't have made it without hyper-vigilant parents. I fully believe this now.

Unless, of course, I'm wrong and it's only my little darling who is seemingly determined to off herself the second I turn my back. Weigh in, anyone? I figure I'd better know now whether to start saving for therapy or if I should just invest in a helmet and knee pads instead.

Paging Dr. Mom...

So, 3 1/2 years into this thing called parenthood, I'm thinking that I missed my calling in the medical profession. Of course, I owe it all to the little people. And by that, I mean all of the germy little buggers at daycare. (Mine own germ-laden tot included, of course.)

A has been in daycare since she was 10 weeks old (thanks, shitty state-sponsored non-maternity-leave program!), meaning that since she was 10 weeks old, her little system has been bombarded by the very best that germs have to offer. You name it, she's had it. Usually more than once. Ear infections? Out the wazoo. (And in the name of all deities, praise the ear tubes!) Rotavirus, the nastiest, vilest, most foul disease known to childkind? Three times, by my count. Strep, three times, including one grueling four-hour stint in the ER late on a Sunday afternoon. The raspy, frightening joy of croup? Golly, I don't even know if I've got a count on that one, I only know that my pores will be forever open thanks to hours spent in a steam-filled bathroom.

My point here is that through all of this, I've become an expert diagnostician. This is quite a recovery from the first year, where I blamed everything on teething only to find out that it wasn't, and didn't realize that she really had been teething until the little toothies actually poked through the gums. Since then, man, I'm like Hawkeye with the symptoms. Feels warm? I don't even check her temperature unless her palms are warm, because she's warm-blooded by nature. Temp of 100.7? It's an ear infection. Temp higher than 101? It's something worse. Temp hovering around 100-ish? Probably just a virus, unless an hour or two later, she projectile vomits. Then I know that I've got rotavirus (which I POTTY-TRAINED through, earning me Mother of The Damned Century, if you ask me). (And if you have no experience with rotavirus, I will simply say that it is an extended bout of diarrhea with the foulest smell ever to have smelled. It could be used in biological warfare. And I'm not even exaggerating--Google "rotavirus" and "smell" and you will find all sorts of wonderfully informative bits from beleaguered parents. Nurses and doctors alike can diagnose it by the smell alone. I shit, ha ha, you not.)

So, when the opportunity comes, as it did today, for me to receive that fateful call from daycare ("We've got A in the office with a fever of 101.4," delivered in an accusatory tone that implies that I'm happily foisting my ill child off in the hopes that she serves as a plague agent), the second I hang up the phone, I call the pediatrician to get an immediate appointment. (Do not wait for the weekend. Never wait for the weekend. The symptoms will only worsen. Trust me on this.) Then I picked up the child.

Like an expert, I took her measure. Slightly perky, slightly glazed-over look. Par for the course for just about anything. Took her home to wait out the hour before the appointment, she turned into a limp, whiny rag. Must be serious. I was told (by the child) to carry her to the potty, carry her to the car, carry her inside the doctor's office. (My back? Great, thanks.) Once inside, however, she perked up enough to play with some toys. Once in the exam room? She started running around like a lunatic, happily playing Simon Says. And her temp was about 100 degrees. T looked at me like, Yeah, you've overreacted again. And I'm thinking, oh, well, at least she's not sick... but damn it, I've lost my edge.

Doctor comes in, does a few peeks and prods, and ten minutes later confirms that her strep test came out with a faint positive, meaning we'd just caught the beginning of it. (And this is also a point of concern; once, I got her in there too fast and the rapid test came back negative, which was why we ended up in the ER on a Sunday afternoon.)

So, it's terrible to say that I was relieved about the diagnosis, but that's mostly because we caught it just in time, but not before just in time, and that by tomorrow afternoon, the lovely, lovely Ceflex will have knocked this thing out of her system and she'll be back to her vivacious (insane) self.

But a small part of me will admit that after we got the results and the doctor left, I looked at T, smiled, and said, "I told you so." Dr. Mom? I still got it.

Drinking games to make cartoons more tolerable

While I was getting ready for work this morning, A (while not getting the carton of milk out of the fridge, filling several assorted tea cups and bowls with it, and setting them on the coffee table for her "friends") was watching Little Einsteins. Based on this experience (the show, not the hissy fit I had about the milk), I've decided that an excellent drinking game for LE would be to take a shot every time any character says "Look!" You'd be shitfaced within the first five minutes. Of course, you get bonus points with Annie, who is evidently incapable of saying it once. ("Look look look!" Shaddup kid, I get it.)

And here's the best part: I sure won't be taking shots of milk. (Although they were already graciously laid out for me.) Bottom's up!

Chicken or the egg?

Actually, I think it depends on the species of the bird. Oh, what's that, you have no idea what I'm talking about? Parental paranoia. I was just wondering if you become more worried as a parent if you're already a worrying type, if it comes part and parcel with onset of owning a small being whose life hangs in the balance of your judgment, or if it's some combination thereof.

I'm Type A, always have been. I'm not a hypochondriac, never was--for myself or for loved ones; I always assumed that things would work out for the best. The downside is that I'm terribly surprised/unprepared when it doesn't.

But that all changed with the advent of baby A. I don't think I've ever worried more about anyone or anything. I only mention this because I've realized that of late, she's always wanting something to drink, even if it's just water, and that this is one of the first signs of diabetes. GREAT. So, until I can get her in to see the doctor, I'm going to be lying awake wondering if I'm just being paranoid or if it's a good catch. Chances are the former; I have never, ever been right about a diagnosis (other than ear infections--I'm an ace at those), including teething. (I blamed everything on teething when it wasn't and totally missed the ball when it was.)

So, just throwing this out there. Chicken, egg, or ostrich? Hm...

Edited today to add: Okay, so if the kids aren't enough to scare the hell out of you, the doctor fills in the gap. I called this morning and he freaked out and demanded that I bring her in RIGHT NOW. Long story short, she's fine, thank anyone and everyone. I told him he'd damn near given me a heart attack and he said that I'd almost given him one, so we were even. Evidently, he had a patient a few years ago with the same symptoms and they barely got him in before he lapsed into a diabetic coma. YIKES. So ever since, he's been a little gun-shy with the diabetes symptoms. So now I'm wondering if pediatricians don't actually have it worse than anyone...

Sign of the times?

I'm not terribly handy with math, but let's try a little here:

No. of trips to WalMart today: 1

No. of minutes spent at said WalMart: 30 (approx.)

No. of children I saw hitting a parent: 3

So, that's about one every 10 minutes, right? Meaning that this is, somehow, acceptable now? Somehow, I missed this memo, because I stared at all three of them in utter disbelief. The parents? They took it in stride, laughing or saying, "Does that make you feel better?" (And let me note for the record, these were not light smacks, although I don't believe in that, either--these were full-out wallops.)

I dunno. My parents rarely spanked/hit me, but the mere thought of hitting one of them when I was a child would have sent me screaming from the room at the inevitable repercussions. Jury, what say you?