Everything in nature strives for balance. And apparently the natural balance of my household is five people who use the toilet. Because, of course, just after writing a celebratory post about Princess is the time I discover that Peanut has not been wearing und.erwear.
Why? Because she doesn't have any left.
Friday is usually Kiddo Laundry Day, so in many alternate universes running out of un.derwear would be excusable. It would be excusable in this universe as well, except that in this universe, Peanut has FOURTEEN PAIRS OF UND.ERWEAR.
So, the only conclusion to draw is that she is bringing nature back into balance.
Oddly, I have handled four years of Princess's anti-toilet behavior (mostly) in a stride. But Peanut performing the semi-typical behavior of wetting her pants because she doesn't want to be bothered to stop what she's doing to participate in basic hygiene is making me lose. my..... whatever.
The Und.erwear that Wasn't losing of the whatever happened last night at bedtime. Which, incidentally did not a peaceful bedtime make. This morning when Peanut wanted to get dressed, she asked me for un.derwear. I stared at her. "Peanut, we talked about this last night. You haven't been using the toilet as much as you should so you are OUT OF UND.ERWEAR!!!!"
"But it's morning now."
(Long pause for more staring) "Peanut, how do you think your und.erwear gets clean again? Do you think it dances out of your hamper at night, twirling and pirouetting to Tchaikovsky as it goes, washes and dries itself, and skips back humming a jaunty tune? I DO NOT DO LAUNDRY WHILE I AM SLEEPING!"
Probably a little too sarcastic, I am thinking.
I'll be patiently (cough) sitting two on a potty timer for a while, I guess. Although not at the same time. You can thank me for placing the universe back in harmony.
Showing posts with label keeping it real. Show all posts
Showing posts with label keeping it real. Show all posts
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
It Takes Two to Argue
I am not an argumentative person. I might give you a piece of my mind, but I rarely argue. Peanut happens to have a gift, though; the gift of Provocation. I am convinced that child could get Ghandi to bite.
I was tired after swim lessons yesterday, and Peanut was performing her weekly ritual of Dance Around the Locker Room Naked. I asked her twice to get dressed, then told her that if I saw her buck naked doing anything that did not involve to process of wearing clothing, I would dress her and then she would sit. In one place. I turn around a moment later, and her naked hiner is in the air while she folds her towel on the locker room floor. I dress her. She sits. Pretty soon she is so distraught by attention not being centered on her that she declares loudly and emphatically, "DINOSAURS ONCE LIVED RIGHT HERE IN THIS VERY SPOT UNDER THIS CEMENT BENCH!"
I don't know what possessed me. I really don't. I was tired. I was hungry. My defenses were down. And I said,
"you have no way of knowing that dinosaurs lived underneath the bench in the Covert Public High School Girls' Auxillary Locker Room."
Why? Why would I do such a thing?
Now, in my defense, this child is deeply in tune with people's "buttons." I am fairly sure that more than one sub has cried herself to sleep at night. There is a parapro in her classroom that looks at her sideways each day to assess her mood. One of the high school student volunteers is forbidden to speak to her, because every time he does she provokes him to the point of fury. She is good. But I should know better.
So we had a knock-down drag-out fight in the high school hallway about dinosaurs. I'm sure I showcased my parenting skills nicely. And I couldn't even stop myself there. In the car on the way home the other kids were talking about how much they like swim lesson, and when Peanut growled, "I hate swim lessons," I actually said, and I quote, "no, you just hate being wrong about dinosaurs." Can you believe it? I bow my head in parental shame.
The worst part? Josh claims that dinosaurs did likely live in this area, so as far as I know there actually are dinosaur remains under that bench. Josh thinks I should apologize. But if I did that, then I'd have to apologize for last year's fight about Whether One Can Play Soccer in the Snow. And that's not happening.
I was tired after swim lessons yesterday, and Peanut was performing her weekly ritual of Dance Around the Locker Room Naked. I asked her twice to get dressed, then told her that if I saw her buck naked doing anything that did not involve to process of wearing clothing, I would dress her and then she would sit. In one place. I turn around a moment later, and her naked hiner is in the air while she folds her towel on the locker room floor. I dress her. She sits. Pretty soon she is so distraught by attention not being centered on her that she declares loudly and emphatically, "DINOSAURS ONCE LIVED RIGHT HERE IN THIS VERY SPOT UNDER THIS CEMENT BENCH!"
I don't know what possessed me. I really don't. I was tired. I was hungry. My defenses were down. And I said,
"you have no way of knowing that dinosaurs lived underneath the bench in the Covert Public High School Girls' Auxillary Locker Room."
Why? Why would I do such a thing?
Now, in my defense, this child is deeply in tune with people's "buttons." I am fairly sure that more than one sub has cried herself to sleep at night. There is a parapro in her classroom that looks at her sideways each day to assess her mood. One of the high school student volunteers is forbidden to speak to her, because every time he does she provokes him to the point of fury. She is good. But I should know better.
So we had a knock-down drag-out fight in the high school hallway about dinosaurs. I'm sure I showcased my parenting skills nicely. And I couldn't even stop myself there. In the car on the way home the other kids were talking about how much they like swim lesson, and when Peanut growled, "I hate swim lessons," I actually said, and I quote, "no, you just hate being wrong about dinosaurs." Can you believe it? I bow my head in parental shame.
The worst part? Josh claims that dinosaurs did likely live in this area, so as far as I know there actually are dinosaur remains under that bench. Josh thinks I should apologize. But if I did that, then I'd have to apologize for last year's fight about Whether One Can Play Soccer in the Snow. And that's not happening.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
When Poison Control Has Your Number
Today is Keeping it Real day, a day to make everyone else feel good about their parenting.
It started with a daffodil. Not that I had never called poison control before, mind you. I had done the typical "help my child is covered in expired Nyquil and I don't know how much he drank because he only just learned how to drink from a cup" (syrup of ipecac) and the "I know the packet of silicone that came in his box of new shoes says it's non-toxic, but is he really going to be ok after eating it all?" (yep). And I joked that they probably had my file tagged. This was different. Because this was the Cuddle Bear.
It started with a daffodil. I was driving Peanut to preschool, and she had picked flowers for her teachers. Hearing Peanut wail hysterically was nothing new, and we were about to pull into the parking lot, so I didn't think much of it. When I got out to let out the girls, Peanut is in hysterics screaming a mostly unintelligible "she ATE it! Cuddle Bear ATE Mrs. Teacher's flower!" I look down at the Cuddle Bear, and she is suspiciously silent. I say, open your mouth. She complies. Her mouth is full of mostly masticated yellow. We enter preschool, where all the good parents say, "aren't daffodils toxic?" I have no idea. Hello, Poison Control. And yes, they are. But she hadn't finished her snack, so they said to give her a juice box and send her on her merry flower-eating way.
Two days later, I blearily open my old person pill box container (which I bought because I am so tired all the time that I have no idea whether or not I took it's contents without proof), and it is empty. Enter another call to Poison Control to find out what Synthroid and Yaz do to a puny skinny-heinered 2-year-old.
Less than a week after THAT, a friend was watching the Cuddle Bear for me, and while they were playing outside the Cuddle Bear ate some type of ornamental fruit she found on the ground (WHY?!?! WHY!?!?!). Knowing my daughter's consumption history and being a good parent herself (one of children who would never eat ornamental fruit), she called, you guessed it, Poison Control.
A week later I get a phone call. From Poison Control. Wondering if my child is ok. Is there anything they can do to help me?
Oh, and those pills? Never ate them. I had forgotten to fill the box that week. I had been taking imaginary pills for two mornings in a row.
It started with a daffodil. Not that I had never called poison control before, mind you. I had done the typical "help my child is covered in expired Nyquil and I don't know how much he drank because he only just learned how to drink from a cup" (syrup of ipecac) and the "I know the packet of silicone that came in his box of new shoes says it's non-toxic, but is he really going to be ok after eating it all?" (yep). And I joked that they probably had my file tagged. This was different. Because this was the Cuddle Bear.
It started with a daffodil. I was driving Peanut to preschool, and she had picked flowers for her teachers. Hearing Peanut wail hysterically was nothing new, and we were about to pull into the parking lot, so I didn't think much of it. When I got out to let out the girls, Peanut is in hysterics screaming a mostly unintelligible "she ATE it! Cuddle Bear ATE Mrs. Teacher's flower!" I look down at the Cuddle Bear, and she is suspiciously silent. I say, open your mouth. She complies. Her mouth is full of mostly masticated yellow. We enter preschool, where all the good parents say, "aren't daffodils toxic?" I have no idea. Hello, Poison Control. And yes, they are. But she hadn't finished her snack, so they said to give her a juice box and send her on her merry flower-eating way.
Two days later, I blearily open my old person pill box container (which I bought because I am so tired all the time that I have no idea whether or not I took it's contents without proof), and it is empty. Enter another call to Poison Control to find out what Synthroid and Yaz do to a puny skinny-heinered 2-year-old.
Less than a week after THAT, a friend was watching the Cuddle Bear for me, and while they were playing outside the Cuddle Bear ate some type of ornamental fruit she found on the ground (WHY?!?! WHY!?!?!). Knowing my daughter's consumption history and being a good parent herself (one of children who would never eat ornamental fruit), she called, you guessed it, Poison Control.
A week later I get a phone call. From Poison Control. Wondering if my child is ok. Is there anything they can do to help me?
Oh, and those pills? Never ate them. I had forgotten to fill the box that week. I had been taking imaginary pills for two mornings in a row.
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