Memories...Stinky Memories

I look so cute and sweet. You obviously have no idea of the horrors yet to come.

Childhood is rough, you know. I mean first there’s someone constantly nagging you to pick up your socks or brush your teeth. And once you’ve mastered addition they throw subtraction in the mix and write your name on a big board when you can’t stop retelling the plot of the most recent Phineas & Ferb episode.

It’s a minefield, I tell ya. There’s so much rough stuff hitting the under-junior-high set each day that it’s so important to hold on to those good childhood memories. I myself cherish the special memory of the time the doctor informed my mother that I am indeed a genius. She probably doesn’t remember this, but then she’s not the genius is she?

At this stage in her life, Chris probably isn’t old enough to pull up the highlight reel of her six years. That doesn’t stop her, though, from reminding me about once a week, “Remember that time I threw up on your back, Mommy?” And if you ask her what she remembers most about being a little kid, other than the fact that she reminds me that I gave her a BOY HAIRCUT (she means she was bald as a cueball) that’s the story she will tell.

Some of the offending gummy snacks. Pre-disaster.

OK, let’s get something straight. This cannot be a memory for her. I think she was barely a year old when the barfing-down-my-back incident occurred and I’m sure this is a result of the thousand times I told her how badly I wanted to give her away that day. For me it was a pretty traumatic morning in her babyhood and certainly one I will never forget. In fact, I still smell the faint odor of baby sick when I think about it.

Here’s how it all went down. I was rushing around the way mothers often do, because when there’s not enough time in the morning that is inevitably when crisis hits. And because babies take up so much time there is pretty much a crisis every day, which I’m sure didn’t paint a good impression of me at the new job I started a few months after Chris was born.

This particular morning, I was carrying Chris on my shoulder, trying to scrabble together a lunch while she gnawed on a healthy breakfast of gummy fruits. I know, I know, mother of the year. Those gummy fruits are vaguely fruit-shaped & flavored sugar, but trust me it hasn't hindered her health in any way. Actually because she has always been nearly a head taller than all her peers I'm thinking of pushing a black coffee & cigarette habit to stunt her growth before she bankrupts me by constantly buying new pants. Nevertheless, the gummy candies are what the kid was enjoying that early morning as I rushed to get out the door.

Where's breakfast? Check your shirt.

What happened next was perhaps nature's way of telling me I should be feeding my kid better - despite my lack of planning - because the second I picked her up, she threw up down my back. As anyone with a kid can tell you, if you're in a pinch you can certainly hide the look of spit up by damping off your shirt. However, nothing short of a 20 minute wash cycle with odor-blasting detergent will ever eradicate that particular smell. And if you spend any amount of time around others who may turn up their nose at you knowingly, you'd better just scratch that particular outfit and start all over.

So of course, since I have some compassion for the general public's nostrils, I ripped off my shirt and started over again. Now I'm at least 5 minutes later than I was in my original hurry. And of course, the second I pick up the kid, it's a repeat performance. Another shirt for the dirt pile.

And would you believe it, now that I’m a full 10 minutes late and sweaty from running up and down the stairs to dress, it happens again! I didn't know a child could contain so much spit up and frankly I was tired of picking her up thinking that I must be squeezing her in the wrong place.

What could I do but sigh and clomp up the stairs to change my shirt yet again. As I head to the closet I’m hit by a terror I’m sure at least one other mother has felt in her time: I have been yakked on so many times that I have no clean clothes to wear to work! In tears, I rip off my shirt once again and calculate how quickly I can wash it. By this point, I figured, I was already so late that I might as well just do a while wash cycle and call in late with an honest story. If they require proof I could even snap a photo of me in a dingy bra next to the laundry pile with those cartoon odor lines photo shopped in.

As I threw the offending ruined shirt on top of the washing machine while grabbing all the other vomity clothes to create a full wash load – no problem there – I caught a glimpse of something reddish-orange on my back in the mirror. Like a dog, I did the tail chasing thing in front of the mirror trying to wipe off whatever it could be. After finally contorting my arm into the correct unnatural position to be able to grab what was on my back, I was grossed out beyond comprehension. You would think by the third time of throwing up there would be nothing but milk-colored water in Chris’ stomach. No such luck. Nearly glued to my back was none other than a half-digested glob of gummy fruit. I almost expected it to start sliding down my shoulder like a sugary slug and when I slapped it off my back I watched it in horror as it lay motionless in the bathroom sink.

I have a feeling I know why Chris likes this story so much. Like any six-year-old lady, she finds great glee in any bodily functions - especially farting, throwing up and blowing snot. So classy. And it’s probably just hilarious to know that your bodily function caused someone else to jump around like a screaming orangutan.

All I can say is that I hope this “memory” is replaced by something more enjoyable as she ages. I shudder when I imagine her at her wedding, a grown woman yelling, “Mommy! Tell the story about how I barfed on your back!”

Ahhhhh, memories.

What? Have I made a mess?

Why Even Argue?

We don't always fight. And we always love each other.

           It’s useless to argue with a 6-year-old. But somehow, some way, I always get sucked into it. Maybe it’s the heat. Maybe I just feel the need for Chris to understand the true reasoning behind my decisions. Despite my knowledge, the other day I found myself once again position facing off against the staunch offense of a kid that was desperate for some ice cream.

            Imagine the scene – a large, sweaty woman and a small screaming child standing in the street in front of our house, both intent on becoming the victor of this particular fight. The child screaming for answers with fists clenched. The woman providing answers through clenched teeth and a screaming headache. They just weren’t the acceptable answers for a kid.

            I blame it all on the dude in the truck. I was slowly herding Chris home after playing in the 100-degree heat at the playground across the street. She was resisting every step of the way and her little friends with impossibly late bedtimes and lax parents weren’t helping. It was then all the little girls on bikes and scooters stopped in their tracks. Yes, we heard the unmistakable, peppy music box sounds of the dreaded ice cream truck.

I said I want ice cream!

            For a few months, I had been able to escape the ice cream truck with a trick I heard someone else tell. A woman I know said her parents used to tell her when they heard music it meant the truck was out of ice cream. Genius! It did fool Chris for a little while until she heard the music and then saw people buying actual ice cream. Excuse shattered.

            Now that I can no longer stretch the truth and Chris knows that there is indeed ice cream in said trucks, she begs for it whenever we see them. And I have to rack my brains for reasons we can’t buy it, when in a perfect world a simple negative should suffice.

            It’s not that I have anything against ice cream trucks per se. I do so love ice cream myself so in theory I think they’re a fantastic idea. But maybe I’ve seen too many “To Catch a Predator” episodes about child molesters and Dateline specials about tainted food to be comfortable with the trucks being steps away from my own child.

            So of course I have my answers ready when the inevitable jumping up and down and begging commences.

            “No, we have popsicles at home,” I begin.

            “But they’re not ICE CREAM. I want ICE CREAM. Not a POPSICLE,” Chris says I her “duh” voice.

            “No, I don’t have enough money,” I counter.
            She runs breathtakingly close to the creeper (yeah, I know I’m stereotyping – sue me) in the van and asks him how much the frozen heaven costs. She runs back to me screaming, “It’s only a dollar! I have a dollar from my allowance!”

            “No,” I say, my jaw starting to ache from the clenching. “We don’t buy ice cream from the trucks because we don’t know the people driving them and you don’t know if they’ll hurt you.”

            Once again, the duh voice comes out and this time is accompanied by a hand on the hip.

            “That’s why you’re here. To make sure no one snatches me.”

I know you're not telling the truth.

            Stupid logic.    

“OK,” I say with a huff. “We don’t buy ice cream from the trucks because we don’t know the people or if they’ve done anything bad to it. It could be poisoned.”

This argument doesn’t fly either, as she has seen people WITH HER OWN EYES eat the ice cream and they did not get sick.

So here we are. I am finally at the point where I scream shrilly “I said no! That’s it! I don’t need another reason! Get in the house!”

And this is also the point of utter meltdown for my usually sweet little girl. This is the point where she lashes out and tries to hurt me with whatever angry bombs she has in her arsenal. It doesn’t take her long to point the gun right at my heart and pull the trigger.

“I want to call daddy. I bet daddy will let me have ice cream because he is a kind and generous father.”

Ignore her Old Testament language –that’s probably the result of the children’s bible Grandma just bought her. The point is that she figured out early on as all kids magically do that if all else fails, pit the parents against one another.

Fortunately Daddy didn’t answer her call and she fell asleep in unfairness of it all. I was able to intercept Daddy first and was pleased that he backed up my position. I am confident that at times he must argue with Chris too, although she probably gives up sooner when going up against him. Sometimes he has to be the bad cop and not give in to her every whim, just like I have to stand firm. But from now on I will try to remember his words of wisdom whenever she is looking for a fight.

When I told him how he was sooooooo much nicer than me he laughed and said, “I will bask in her favor for as long as it lasts, because I know soon I will do something she doesn’t like and I’ll be the bad guy.”

Hopefully that comes soon.

My point...and I do have one.

Girls and Their Polishes

This cute tongue will soon taste the lure of the polish.

  I don’t have a boy child, but I can only imagine things are vastly different when raising a girl and a boy. This is especially true if your boy is very rough and tumble like most boys I know, and your girl is very prissy like a certain girl I know very well.

            I suppose Chris’ father and I are partly to blame for her extreme girliness. After all, we did force dresses and ruffles on her very early on. But once she had a chance to make up her own mind, and believe me that started very early, she went running down the female path as quickly as high heels would take her. She turns up her nose at any clothes that are remotely boyish. That could mean plain blue or lacking of glitter. If given the chance, she would wear a skirt each day, although she has finally agreed to wear more skorts now that she is enjoying life at the top of the monkey bars. Like her grandmother, she slows to a crawl when we pass a jewelry counter and she is often distracted by shiny baubles.

Don't you love my new necklace? Oooh, sparkly!

            But one of the most tell-tale signs of princessness is that Chris is addicted to nail polish. Often I’ve caught her staring at my meager supply of polishes with dreams in her eyes. She begs, I mean BEGS, at the store for press-on nails that already have designs. Sadly for her I always shoot down that idea when I remember horror stories of friends whose own nails were ripped off by evil press-ons.

            To appease her boring fingernails and toenails, I will sometimes let Chris choose her own bottle of polish at the store. I mean, they sell stuff that’s only 98 cents a bottle. One night after she was particularly good at the pharmacy (or possibly she begged particularly long and wore me down – I can’t always remember the circumstance) I let her choose two colors. That’s like Christmas to a little girl. Mother of the year, I was! Two colors meant one for each hand! Or alternating toes of colors! Or all one color on the hands and all one color on the feet! The possibilities were almost endless! And for less than $2 I might add, so pretty much a win-win.

            The glee was brief though. We hadn’t even made it to the car for a less than three-minute drive to our house – I’m not exaggerating, three minutes is all she had to endure - when the begging to open the bottles began. Her reasoning – she just wanted to smell it. I assume she was thinking of that nail polish as a treat for the senses to really prove to herself that she been granted this special, brand new present.

            However, being the sensible person I am, I tried to convince a three-year-old that it’s not the best idea to open a bottle of nail polish in a car. I told her that we would paint nails after supper when we got home and she nodded happily in agreement. Naively I drove along, thinking how nice it was that she seemed so thrilled to just hold the bright polishes in her little hands, turning the bottles over to watch the glitter catch the light. Oh so naïve.

            My bliss lasted only a brief minute or so and as we pulled into the driveway (seriously not three minutes down the road!) I smelled the unmistakable signs of an open bottle of nail polish. There really is no mistaking that smell, is there? And to a mother who has just detailed the light-gray interior of her car, it doesn’t smell like a special brand new hot pink goodness. It smells like doom.

            Instantly I began my lecturing, my voice getting higher and higher and louder and louder in my panic. I turned around to see not a mess of nail polish slathered on the seat cushions by a child with super human strength to rip through protective plastic and a new bottle seal. Instead, I saw a tiny girl with a scared look on her face and a tiny dot of pink paint in the middle of her upper lip.

            I continued my yell-fest, reminding her that I had told her over, and over, and over not to open the bottles until we got home and what the heck did she think she was doing? As a last dig I asked in my shrill voice, “Well? Does it smell good?”

            Instead of the defiant “Yes, it smells like rainbows and unicorns,” that I was expecting, I instead heard a small whimper.

            “No. And it doesn’t taste good either.”

            !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Cute doggie, seconds before a makeover was about to begin.
Fortunately no nail polish was involved.
And no doggies were harmed in the writing of this blog.

            Yes, that is me switching instantly from irritated mother mode to full-blown panic mode.

Of course it was already dusk out and the typeface on the bottle is too miniscule to read and if you could find a magnifying glass to read it I doubt there is much information about what to do if a toddler ingests heaven only knows how much nail polish while you’re driving along thinking all is right with the world because your kid actually listens to a word you say and doesn’t open bottles until you give the all clear.

In my panic, I drug her out of the car and directly into the kitchen where I began to shovel water by the handful into her little mouth, stopping just short of a water-boarding incident. Really by that point there was just a small dot on her tongue – probably just a dab was all she needed to realize it’s not such a good idea to taste nail polish and mommies do occasionally know what they’re yammering on about. I debated calling poison control, but finally decided the dot of paint she “drank” probably wasn’t any worse than the amount she would eventually eat off a polished thumb when she sucked it at night.

Then I had a stiff drink. Not of nail polish but probably something equally as strong.

Then I DIDN’T polish Chris’ nails that night.

Then I forbade her from ever, ever, ever holding nail polish until she could wait until I told her it was time to open it. We’ll see how long the memory lasts.

First Day of the Rest of Your Life

First Day of First Grade. Cover Thy Ears.

            Dear Parents Of Children At My Daughter’s School,

            I saw a few of you wince this morning on our first day of the school year. Unfortunately I know why you made the face that said there wasn’t enough coffee in the world to deal with a child such as mine. I sincerely apologize for the audial assault caused by my daughter who screeched like a teenage Valley girl every time she saw one of your children. She was wearing a neon green skirt, so maybe it has something to do with the 80s.

            And please forgive us for those times that Chris knocked down your dazed child by hugging her like a hyperactive grizzly bear slobbering over a picnic basket. Can you blame her? After a summer of being stuck with the over 40 crowd, she is probably dying for some peer interaction. I already observed her and the other girls showing off painted nails and Hello Kitty lunchboxes as they lined up by their teacher’s sign on the school playground.

I guess you didn’t hear Chris’ response after I pulled her aside and begged her to quit screaming - “I can’t help it! I’m! Just! So! Excited!” She even jumped up and down and clapped her hands as she yelled it.

            It wasn’t always this way. You weren’t there in the old days, back when she was in preschool and the only thing she knew about elementary school was that it made her older friends leave her. Not surprisingly she decided that after her illustrious career in pre-K that kindergarten just wasn’t in the cards for her.

Got my diploma. Don't need no more skoolin.

            The exact words, I believe, were “I already got teached a lot!”

            As she no doubt has told you, as she has told me countless times when she doesn’t get her way, I am not a nice mother. So of course I forced her to attend kindergarten despite her genius. Once she realized there would be other kids to play with there, let alone the world of learning there really was left to do, I have never seen a kid so thrilled to go to school.

            Yes, she still believes she knows it all. While enjoying a spongy blueberry pancake and powdery eggs during the free parent’s breakfast this morning, you may have overheard Chris lecture me in the proper way to open a carton of milk. There are no instructions on the carton, after all, and she is a pro now that she’s officially a first grader. I suppose those things might have changed in 30+ years too.

            I shake my head when thinking about the patience her teacher will have to employ over the next few months in getting Chris not to squirm in her assigned desk. I suppose she might lead your kids down the same delinquent path, but I do have to chastise you for looking so superior to me because I know your kids are excited to be there too. Maybe they’re not as loud. Maybe they knock other kids down with their dance moves and hair flipping. But they were smiling those toothless grins when they saw Chris too.

            I regret that I don’t expect much of my daughter’s attitude will change as the school year progresses. The excitement she had two weeks ago sharpening and lining up her pencils and finding just the right spot in the backpack for her hand sanitizer hasn’t waned in the slightest.

            I beg your forgiveness in advance, for I fear the squealing and bear-hugging won’t end after today. Steel your children for a full-on assault every morning because she is just so thrilled that she is there to share in the experience with her.

            Sincerely,

            A Mother Who Is Surrounded By Blissful Silence

Lunch. One of the best parts of school. Especially when you have a new lunchbox.

What In the World!

Nothing better on a hot day than a sweet treat with a good friend.

The other day I came down the stairs in time to catch my sweet daughter dive quickly under the coffee table. Obviously she was up to no good. As I bent down to see what manner of trouble she had found this time, I noticed her sticky brown hands and dirty brown beard. Fortunately the coffee table is brown and the throw rug is multi-colored, so the good news is whatever the brown stuff was that she inevitably had smeared everywhere had blended right in with the decor.

It didn’t take me long to figure out what she had been into by the hazelnut smell. Often we enjoy a spoon of Nutella (who doesn’t?) for dessert after an incredibly healthy supper filled with vegetables. Yep!

But I guess this particular time one spoon wasn’t enough for her and she couldn’t wait until after her next meal. She had been scooping nutty chocolate goodness out of the container with (I can reasonably assume based on previous information) not so clean fingers. While riding the waves of her sugar high she glared at me with crazy rabid animal eyes and growled – yes, I said growled – at me when I tried to take the container from her.

            Prying that nearly empty jar of Nutella out of her greedy little hands was like trying to steal Golum’s Precious.

Yummmmm. Caaaaaake.

            Of course, I understand where she’s coming from. I know she inherited her unrelenting sweet tooth from me. But we all know there are times in which dessert is just not appropriate, for instance at 3 a.m. And unlike a toddler I do have some self control. At least when I’m not all alone.

            I just recently learned the secret code phrase for when you’re downstairs trying to sneak candy while your mom thinks you're upstairs watching The Disney Channel: "I'm...uh...just....uh guarding the dishwasher!" Riiiiiiiiiiigggghhhhhhht.

            It’s taking a lot of trial and error on her part, but slowly she is trying to learn how to be sneakier about the sweets when she thinks I’m unaware. I almost long for the early days when she would tattle on herself whenever she got into something she knew she wasn’t supposed to be eating. Around our house that actually happens quite often.

Don't bother me. I'm sneaking a snack.

            It shouldn’t surprise you that we spend a lot of meals at our house at the drive-thru. Or if it’s a more fancy meal, we might order ahead and take it home rather than inflict my loud talking child on other diners. And after all, why not forego the labor intensive cooking part and head right into the enjoyable eating part?

            These dinner times can be a treasure trove of funny things kids say.

            The funniest mealtime quip I can remember happened one night after ordering takeout as Chris was in the mist of enjoying French fries drenched in ketchup. I’m not a ketchup fan and don’t understand the appeal. But with refined tastes of a grade-schooler, she believes no French fry is complete without it. To me, a little goes a long way. And for her, ketchup doesn’t stop at the fries. Chris would bathe in ketchup if you gave her the option and if any ends up on her fingers, it’s a wonder they aren’t gnarled off in the licking process.

            So that night we did indeed enjoy a lovely meal. We stuffed ourselves into oblivion and then I went into the kitchen to do the dishes (read ‘throw the leftover carryout trash away’). After I hadn’t heard from her in a while - never a good sign - I sighed and for the what might have been the thousandth time in our short lives together I uttered the words, “Chris, what are you doing?”

            No answer.

            “Chris!” I said louder. “What! Are! You! Doing?”

            Still no answer.

I sighed again knowing I would have to go investigate and having visions of ketchup smeared from one end of the light tan carpet to the other.

            But then a giggling Chris came running into the kitchen and escorted me back to a makeshift fort she had created between the ottoman and the wall. It was there that I found that instead of dragging the ketchup across the floor, she had instead been dragging her tongue through a contraband container of ketchup.

            I will never forget the look spark in her eyes as she excitedly told me, “Mommy, come see what in the world I think I’m doing!”

            Now the bad part is that because of my uncontrollable laughing, “What in the world!” has become a phrase of glee when you’re doing something naughty that someone else might find funny instead of the intended expression of surprised horror.

            Gotta find a new catch phrase.

My compliments to Chef Boyardee