Ahhhh Young Love

It's cute now. Ten more years and he'd better run fast.

            When I was Chris’ age, my Grandpa Don would put his hand on my leg, just above my knee and squeeze. If I laughed or squealed, that meant I was boy crazy. I was so ticklish that he barely had to make the hand-squeezing motion and I would dissolve into a pile of giggles. Oh, and I was also majorly boy crazy.

            In Chris’ case no leg-squeezing test is necessary. I think she popped out of the womb primping for her first date.

            More than once I’ve eavesdropped on conversations between Chris and her much, much older friend Jasmine who is “like 8, Mom, and she still spends time with me!” The first time I heard it I had to choke back my guffaws because you’d think those two were a couple of stay-at-home housewives killing time over a cup of coffee until their soap operas started.

            “Sooooooo, tell me about the boy you like,” Jasmine asks as they ride their scooters past the bench where I’m not hovering. Just taking the dogs for a little walk. I swear.

            “Well,” Chris replies, waving her hands around excitedly. “He’s IN THE SECOND GRADE and his name is Jake.”

            “He sounds cute,” Jasmine says. Well duh, he is an older man.

            Not long ago Chris told me about three of the guys she currently likes – two she likes at the same time as her friend Mikayla because your friend's approval is necessary criteria. When I prod her to explain why exactly these boys have caught her eye she just gets embarrassed and says, “You know!”

            “Because he’s cute?” I ask.

            “Yes!” she yells. “Now leave me alone! You’re embarrassing me!”

            Well that is in my job description.

First love triangle. Don't worry it worked out well. She chose the cake.

            But she can’t help it. She’s so boy crazy that she must drone on about all the boys she likes, even at the risk of embarrassing herself. One boy, she tells me, is a mystery to her. She and Mikayla don’t even know his name but they see him all the time in the library (smart boy – Mommy approves) and they get so scared that they just go “tee hee, tee hee” because they don’t know what to say. Those are her words, not mine.

I feel kind of bad for the kid because she’s not used to having to work for what she wants. Like many girls with only-child syndrome, she can’t fathom a world in which men don’t swoon at her feet as if she were Cleopatra.

        That’s not to say the love-bug doesn’t bite the boys too. Not long ago Chris and I spent the day with Landon, who is two years younger than Chris. The next day Landon told his mother he wanted to see Chris again and when she told him it wasn’t possible he said very matter-of-factly, “But I love her.” I imagine it was much the same way he might say he loves waffles or the Power Rangers, but nevertheless it’s difficult to resist her gravitational pull. One day was all it took for him to fall under her spell.

Already feeling the heat. Feels like choking.

        The “more mature” boys that Chris does drag into her web seem somewhat dazed by her overwhelming personality. She’s already learned how to be bossy and nags them into submission. So it’s usually the ones who don’t have a shot that will put up with her tyranny. The ones Chris likes are fortunately out of reach. And fortunately they are also oblivious to her charms.

         A few months ago at a parent’s lunch at her school, Chris proudly pointed out her crushes on the playground. As they were firmly ensconced in a game of kickball they never looked her way, which is how I remember it going down all those years ago when I was so boy crazy.

        And that’s just fine with me. Right now it’s all so sweet and innocent too. It’s funny to watch, if not a little pathetic since I know a little bit about what her future might hold. I know there will be lots of heartbreak down the road. I know there most likely will be pimply boys ringing our doorbell and voices breaking up over the telephone. I know there will be a LOT more giggling and excited whispering with her friends.

        Right now, though, I’m happy that she loves from afar. Very afar.        

Still Daddy's Little Princess. Let's just leave it that way for now.

  

The Scent of Broken Promises

She smells like strawberries. I, however, do not.

           Did you ever wonder how broken promises smell? Wonder no more! I can tell you from personal experience that broken promises smell like a sweaty linebacker who has attempted unsuccessfully to cover the stench by bathing in cheap cologne.

            Allow me to explain.

            You see, my kid talks a lot. Yes, yes, soon we’ll make the leap together from motor mouth to migraine-inducing odor. As I was saying, my kid talks a lot. At home I can tune it out, but in class with 23 other kids also vying for attention, I’m sure her teacher is keenly aware that Chris is one of the loudest. So far every single correspondence we’ve had with a teacher since the beginning of her education has read, “Chris continues to excel academically. But she still needs to work at not talking during quiet times.” They might have just printed up a whole stack of these reports at her birth.

            I know she’s smart and it’s tempting to blame her big mouth on being bored in class. But what my father drilled into my own developing skull years ago is that there simply is no excuse for not following classroom rules. If he had raised her, it would be “respect your elders and speak only when spoken to.” I don’t go quite that far, but I have tried to impress upon her that it’s incredibly disrespectful to distract the teacher and the rest of the class that is trying to learn something you may already know.

            At heart Chris is a good kid. She knows there are certain times she is supposed to be quiet in class but for some reason she just can’t help herself. Must….talk…can’t….keep…mouth…closed.

            So we’ve tried grounding. We’ve tried withholding TV and toys. We’ve tried the disappointment speech and the angry speech and come pretty close to begging. I mean, I don’t want her to be branded the kid who won’t shut up, because you know those teachers warn one another about their little, uh, angels.

            Finally, we resorted to bribery. Yeah, I admit it, I bribe my kid.

            “If you can make it through one whole month with good behavior reports, we can do something special that you choose,” was my final resort.

            “Ooooh, maybe I can have Icees every day for a month!” was Chris’ first choice. Since I’m so smart I realized that daily frozen colored sugar water would only compound the problem and I nixed that idea. Instead, I urged her, she should choose an activity like a movie, or a zoo visit, or even a trip up north to go sledding.

            “OK, stop!” She said. “I know exactly what I want to do. I’ve wanted to do it my whole entire life. I want you to take me ice skating. Pinky promise.”

            Uh, what? Ice skating? Not something I imagined I’d ever do again in my life after the one feeble attempt in high school in which I couldn’t even stand on the skates and gave up after about three minutes. Plus, I suspect she really only wants to go ice skating because she thinks that means she will be wearing a sparkly outfit like those girls she saw in the Olympics.

I don't smell like this either.

“But what the hey,” I thought. “It’s not like I have to worry about it. I mean, it’s been a year and a half and we haven’t made it through three weeks without a negative behavior report because of talking.”

            I should have had more faith in my kid, because lo and behold, she did it. The month of December sealed the deal and filled me with terror. Can you imagine me on ice skates? You’ve seen my version of walking (tripping) and I can’t afford any more ER visits. Plus, I can just imagine the Richter scale baffling local scientists every time I hit the deck. Double plus, I really have no desire to look at the ceiling of the ice rink that many times.

            So I put it off. Then put it off some more. Then Christmas and New Year’s came and went. Suddenly I had no more excuses and felt like a pretty crummy parent when Chris wailed in the car, “When are you going to take me ice skating? You pinky promised!”

            Ugh.

            But then fate stepped in with the perfect excuse. Bronchitis! I honestly tried to get up the gumption to take her ice skating, I swear. But I couldn’t make it on a short walk with the dogs to the mailbox without a major coughing fit. So, reluctantly I told Chris we’d either have to put off her ice skating dreams another week or two, or she could choose something else.

            “Choose something else!” I silently willed her.

            After a lot of back and forth, she finally chose a girl’s day – lunch out with just the two of us and maybe a little shopping. This I could handle. Besides, the kid desperately needed new shoes of the unscented variety (she has chronically stinky feet).

            So today we waited impatiently for the mall to open and then hit the road. She counted out her savings of nickels and dimes for a pair of ice cream cone earrings. We agreed after much arguing on a pair of non-high-heel shoes (Seriously! She’s 6! Why on EARTH are all the kids sandals made with wedge heels?!)

            As we were making our way out of the department store, I told Chris to hang on while I made a quick glance around the purse clearance section. No problem, she said, as she wandered an aisle or two over and unbeknownst to me sampled not one, not two, but at least five different varieties of perfume.

            Let it be a lesson to you, if you remark, “Whew! Someone really went overboard with the cologne!” and your normally vocal child doesn’t comment, you are in for some trouble. It’s not your imagination; everyone in the checkout line really is staring at you and talking about you – or rather your kid’s aroma. It hit home for me when she touched me on the cheek to get my attention while we were waiting for the cashier and my eyes began to water.

            “It was you!” I spat out. “You’re the one who sprayed the perfume!”

            “Only a little bit,” she said. Yeah right.

Give it up. A bath won't turn back time.

            I got her out of there and into the car before a HazMat team was called. Big mistake. I rolled down the windows but Eau De Everything had already permeated the fabric seat cushions. I plugged my nose and pulled into the Target parking lot where I drug her into the bathroom and told her to wash her hands. Meanwhile, I soaked four paper towels with water and rubbed at her neck.

            “You know, it only takes one squirt of cologne,” I told her as I tried to hold her down. I guess it tickles when you rub a paper towel on your neck.

            “I did do one squirt. Just of a lot of different kinds. I couldn’t decide which one I liked the best so I tried them all,” she replied. No duh. I could smell “them all”.

            After all that, I assumed we had solved the problem. But we barely made a dent and I had to chew gum since the scents were making me sick. When we finally arrived home I quickly agreed that she could ride her bike, thinking the fresh air might blow off the stink. But it was apparent that wouldn’t work either as a kid on his skateboard constantly kept moving upwind from her.

            Soon, I could take it no longer and drug her inside to shower. I scrubbed her neck again with a rag that I constantly had to keep wringing out since it was drenched with toilet water. Eventually we got the job done. But after all her protestations that she didn’t need a bath that she already smelled good from all the perfumes, I had to come out and say it, “No you don’t. You really, really stink.”

            Chris looked me square in the eye. I thought she might cry or be offended. But she simply blamed it all on me.

            “It’s all your fault,” she said. “This never would have happened if you had taken me ice skating.”

A Foot, Some Firemen and a Frantic Family

All my babies. In happier, less-painful times.

First some background.

            This blog is usually devoted to the actions and words of my human child Chris, whose sassy mouth has yet to be matched. But I often leave out the just-as-interesting adventures of my two less vocal children: our dogs Millie and Viggo. Millie is our sweet little diva who loves to wear dresses – I  promise! I only had to force them on her the first time and after that she was excited to wear clothes. Ask anyone, I swear! She is a cuddly girl who preens when told how pretty she is and who stares adoringly into the eyes of whomever strokes her silky fur or lets her lick the ice cream bowl.

Viggo with the big button eyes

            Viggo is our skinny, adventurous boy who is full of character and whom we’re convinced is part deer. While he sometimes seems a little crazy, like when he barked uncontrollably at Chris’ Hello Kitty backpack as it hung on the doorknob, he is also in touch with his inner cat and lounges across the back of the couch or bats at toys while laying on his back. He will also fetch a ball, chew toy, sock or piece of trash no matter how many times you throw it across the room. It never gets old for him.

Just like a human child, it’s tough to see either one of my canine babies in pain. Viggo tested this last week.

            The following is a chronicle of events as they occurred on Sunday, Jan. 20, 2013. It is a true and accurate account of the medical emergency we faced with Viggo, although slightly exaggerated to illustrate the comedic atmosphere surrounding said events.

            4:16 p.m.- After dragging Chris inside the house because none of her friends were available to play, which is somehow my fault because I am indeed a horribly mean mother, I bribed Chris into submission with the promise of bathing her dogs in the kitchen sink. She’s only 6 so she still loves to do chores.

4:23- Millie was sufficiently washed and performing her drying off ritual of running circles while rubbing up against the couches. I told Chris to catch her to towel dry off while I started working on Viggo.

            4:25- I was immediately reminded of the difference between my two hairy kids. Millie loves to be bathed and will gladly stand still under the faucet of warm water. Viggo is a much different story. He clings all four paws to the sides of the sink with a look of sheer terror on his fuzzy face, as if I have every intention of drowning him.

            4:25.30- Viggo’s bath is abruptly interrupted by the most pitiful, high-pitched yelping imaginable. It soon became apparent that he was flailing with only three legs and I quickly realized his fourth foot was caught in the sink drain. I tugged gently. He yelped. I tugged a little harder. He yelped louder. I sucked in a deep breath and tugged once more. He YELPED! And snapped at me.

            4:27- While already sweating from anxiety, I yelled to Chris to call Grandma and Grandpa to come over and help. I’m sure they could hear Viggo in the background as I tried to calm him down and keep him from flailing. I whispered in his huge ears that Grandpa would be here soon and would surely be able to free him.

Millie: Please save my brother!

            4:38- We learned that I lied.

            4:39- Millie danced around our feet, knowing something was wrong and begging me to free her brother from his possible watery grave. It seems that in one horrible split second Viggo’s middle toe had become stuck in the hole of the sink drain. Grandpa began ripping apart the pipes under the sink thinking we could push Viggo’s toe back from the bottom up. Our hearts all sank when we realized that wouldn’t work either so we set about trying to unhook the entire drain.

            4:43- Grandpa realized he would need a pipe wrench and looked at me imploringly. My brain worked in slow motion as I thought, “Do I look like I sit around wrenching pipes on lonely Friday nights?”

            4:45- Chris was dispatched to the neighbors on the off chance that they would have a wrench. Alas, they did not so Grandpa made another trip back home to bring his back.

            4:52- While waiting for the wrenches, Grandma and I took turns whispering sweet nothings at Viggo, covering him with blankets to stave off shock, pouring cooking oil down the drain in the hopes of lubricating his toe, and pushing ice up through the bottom of the drain to try to numb it. Any time he moved slightly the yelping began anew, so he mostly still in the sink and shivered with big eyes.

            5:11- Grandpa returned with the pipe wrenches and set to work.

            5:16- The wrenches were no use so we broke down and called the fire department, hoping they had a tool to cut the drain off Viggo’s foot. While I dialed 911 I tried not to panic while equating the situation to fables of firemen rescuing cats from trees. But my heart sank as I relayed my crazy story of the dog stuck in the sink to the dispatcher and she sighed her answer, “We don’t really do that.”

How can you NOT save this face?

            “Well who do I call?” I begged. “I mean, a vet doesn’t have tools to cut people (or dogs) out of tight spaces.” She said she would call around to nearby halls to see if anyone was free and I said a quick thank you prayer when she replied, incredulously, that the hall around the corner was interested in checking it out.

            5:23- They didn’t sound the sirens or use the lights, but five muscle-bound firefighters did show up in their big red truck and curiously entered the house. Not embarrassing at all. They immediately set about assessing the situation and offering suggestions. One dropped to his back on the (probably) filthy floor to look under the dirty sink and popped up to ask, “Uh….how did this happen?” The show “Animal Planet” and the phrase “one in a million situation” were bantered about while I chewed my fingernails and finally noticed my other kid, Chris, was beginning to cry. I guess the sight of the firefighters brought about the seriousness of the situation and she exclaimed, “I’m just so worried! Is he going to die? Is he going to have to wear a cast? What’s going to happen?”

Sink Drain of Doom

            5:47- After discussing the possibility of finding an on-call vet to sedate poor Viggo, and after what seemed like hours of me trying to stay out of the way, Viggo was finally pulled out of the drain, slightly damp and wrapped in a towel. He mewled like the newborn baby he looked like as he was wrapped in a towel and handed over to Grandpa. It was then that I looked down and noticed the sink drain, which probably weighed half as much as him, was still attached to his foot.

            5:49- While most of the other firefighters high-tailed it back to their truck, undoubtedly discussing the filthiness of my floor and the idiocy of a lady who washes dogs in the wrong side of the sink, one pet lover hung back. Instead of leaving us to our own devices, because we obviously couldn’t be trusted alone with pets, he not only found an emergency veterinary hospital but apprised them of the situation and our impending arrival. I will always be grateful to the Avondale Fire Department for their assistance and we waved goodbye as we jumped in the car to drive our sink drain – oh! with a dog attached – down the street.

5:54- I drove while Grandpa cradled an exhausted Viggo in his lap. On the drive we discussed the possibility of amputating Viggo’s toe or even his whole foot. By that time the area was nearly black with non-circulation.

Groggy Doggy

6:01- We hopped out of the car at the animal hospital and the receptionist said, “Ohhhh, you’re the people with the dog stuck in the sink drain.” Already we were infamous. I asked if she had ever seen anything like this and she replied excitedly, “No! And after I talked to the fireman I got off the phone and said, ‘You guys! You’ll never guess what we have coming in!’” A nurse took Viggo from Grandpa’s arms and transported him to the back and we paced during what we assumed would be a long wait.

6:10- We were shocked to see the nurse return so soon and wiping off the sink drain in her hand. My first thought was, “Wow! They don’t take long to chop off toes around here!” Instead she said, “Viggo did excellent. We barely had to sedate him and then were able to slip the drain right off.”

7:20- The hospital ran my debit card for a $227. For a stupid bath. Gulp.

7:35- After monitoring him for a reaction to the medication, the nurse brought a groggy Viggo out to us with a bag of pain medication, an antibiotic to avoid tetanus, and instructions for rest and an Elizabethan collar.

7:49: We arrived home to a grateful Millie, Chris and Grandma, all who wanted to kiss Viggo at once.

Not a fan of the cone.

12:30 a.m. Monday, Jan. 21- Time for Viggo’s pain medication. It was wrapped in cheese and kisses. Millie had cheese too to avoid jealousy.

5 a.m.- Viggo wears the collar for the first time. Millie growls at the intruder who looks a little like her brother. Viggo bangs the collar on the ground and gets one foot stuck inside it in an effort to break free. He gives me dirty looks. I know what he’s thinking. “First the sink, then this collar? You’re the worst parent ever.”

           Footnote: After only two days Viggo was collar free and running and jumping as if the whole ordeal never happened. He is, however, keeping a wide berth of the kitchen sink.

Off to dreamland. Now how do we get back?

            See that picture up there above? That’s Chris on New Year’s Eve. The time stamp is 11:55 p.m. after an unsuccessful hour of trying to wake her up. She didn’t make it in time to see the ball drop. The sad news is the one person in the house who was most excited to ring in the New Year is the one person who couldn’t hang.

Here's another NYE shot. Mean we are.

            The funniest part is that we tried everything on earth to wake her up for the big countdown. Three noisemakers – and those suckers are loud! – were going off in unison inches from her head. I propped her up and stuck a glass of sparkling cider in her hand. And just like Weekend at Bernie’s, she made like a sack of potatoes and fell limply back onto the couch. So we did like all giddy party revelers and covered her body in party hats, blankets and dogs, and then laughed and took pictures. We weren’t drinking, we were just being mean.

Friend's kids could hang. Not Chris.

            You might think Chris had simply worn herself out from trying out her Wii dance moves earlier in the evening, or took a nosedive from her candy sugar high. But the truth is it’s not all that uncommon for her to sleep so hard that a bomb could go off and she would wake up hours later asking why the world was littered with debris. Many a time I have been startled from my own sleep by a shaking thud that left Chris sprawled on the floor unaware that she’s fallen out of bed.

            Fortunately in the early days Chris was an excellent sleepy baby. Now that more than six years have passed it’s beginning to get a little fuzzy. But I distinctly remember calling someone – possibly my sister the nurse – asking if it was normal for a newborn to sleep through the night and being yelled at to never wake a sleeping baby. Once I got over my own claustrophobic fears and realized babies really do like to be swaddled, we rarely had a lick of trouble getting Chris to sleep.

            For years I felt pretty smug when I heard new mothers complain about colicky babies who didn’t allow them to sleep more than an hour or two at a time. Then my own reality sunk in and I had to figure out how to wake my daughter up for school. I fear that when the teenage years hit I will have to invest in a spray bottle of ice water since air horn alarm clocks apparently won’t work.

            It’s baffling to me that someone could sleep that hard and not be comatose or faking it. I’m exactly the opposite in dreamland and generally wake up at the slightest sound. I have been known to wake up in an almost instant upright position, often standing on the bed with my heart racing and wondering where the whisper of sound is coming from.

Even playtime can't be enjoyed when you're tired.

            With Chris, we must have taken the baby books a little too much to heart. You know, the ones that suggest you don’t tiptoe around your child but make everyday normal sounds and they will learn to sleep through most anything. I can attest it really does work. But the major problem with it is that when you need then to wake up because you’re running late for work, you have to move heaven and earth to do so.

            And when you don’t want them to wake up, say on a weekend that you could sleep in, that’s usually when it does happen.

            A couple of years ago our air conditioner was on the fritz and we had to spend a sweltering night until the repairmen could fit us in to their busy Arizona schedule. So as not to bake, Chris and I spent the night downstairs barely clothed on the couches.

            Halfway through the night, I woke up to the sound of the back door creak-creak-creaking open. Convinced someone was trying to steal my third-hand coffee tables, I immediately sprung into action. So there I was, standing on the couch with hands in karate-chop position, kicking wildly and using all the best moves I remembered from my cardio-kickboxing exercise videos. It was then that my big toe connected with a puffy blond curl and I realized Chris was the one opening the back door.

Sweet sleepy baby.

            “What are you doing! Are you crazy?” I screeched, making sure any robbers or rapists standing outside would be afraid of the banshee jumping on the couch.

            Contritely she closed the door, so mature as she turned the deadbolt, and returned to the couch. She laid back down and said, “I just wanted to see if it was still dark outside.”

            You can guess what happened next.

She promptly fell into a deep sleep from which I did everything possible to wake her up to leave for daycare the next morning. Finally I had to promise donuts, which is my go-to move that works the best.

So now, in preparation of the high school sleeping years, I’m buying stock in Krispy Kremes. My advice to you is that you do the same.

Two And A Half Women

It's a family picture. But the rest of us are nonexistent.

           Our house got decidedly more female a couple of weeks ago when my 18-year-old niece Riley came to stay with us for a while. Words can’t begin to express how excited Chris is to have her older cousin living with her. I’m pretty happy too since it relieves me of having to explain why she can’t have a sister or brother.

            One thing I have noticed is that I was quickly replaced as the cool older person in the house. Not that I ever dressed cool, but my clothes seem even more mom-like when Chris sees her teenage cousin’s wardrobe. Chris’ whole goal in life, right now, is finding the perfect game that Riley will want to spend hours playing with her.

            Now pretty much nothing I say means anything at all unless it’s given the Riley stamp of approval. I could beg Chris for days to clean her room but until Riley says in her party voice, “Let’s clean your room together!” does it ever get done. This phenomenon was proved recently at our Girl Scout Christmas party.          During the Secret Santa gift exchange Chris drew the last number and got to either open the last gift on the table or steal another girl’s gift. While she did love all the other gifts, I suspect she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings so she opted to open the last gift on the table which hadn’t been chosen yet because it was the smallest bag. In slow-motion, the mother next to me placed her hand on my arm and said, “I’m soooooo soooorrrrrryyyyy.”

            Before I had a chance to ask why, she was interrupted by dogs barking outside, car alarms pealing, glass shattering and girls covering their ears with cookie-stuffed hands. Turns out Chris really, really, REALLY liked what was inside – fake fingernails.

This is truly something Chris has begged for off an on for about four years. Yes, I know she’s only six herself but the obsession started early. We can’t walk through the pharmacy without the constant volleying of “Pleeeze? No! Whyyyyy? Because I said so!” I am so against these fake fingernails that this is one area where I have successfully been able to tune out the begging.

            When Chris called her father later to tell him excitedly about the gift, he got me on the phone and asked just “Why the heck would some genius braniac buy a six-year-old fake fingernails?” This is one area where we agree. But I did have to inform him I don’t blame the Girl Scout mother who purchased those fingernails. After all, she has two kids so I’m sure the constant barrage in stereo is even more difficult to resist. Besides, she probably figured it is better to give than to have her kid walking around looking like a chain-smoking cocktail waitress.

            So here we were, stuck with fake fingernails – albeit “child-friendly” ones with Minnie Mouse decorations – that Chris ripped out of the package on the drive home where they immediately stuck to the car floor mats. Correction, they stuck to the food particles and dirt ground into the car floor mats and guess who had to pick them out?

            Anyway, I staved her off for a few days, explaining that these were to be saved for a special occasion. I also reminded her that her teacher wouldn’t relish finding fingernails all over the classroom and she certainly didn’t want to find one in her lunch or lose one at the monkey bars. Each day, though, she asked me if it was a special occasion until I finally couldn’t put her off any longer and I had to allow her to wear them to a family get-together. What better special occasion could there be for a manicure than grandpa’s birthday?

            I figured at least we were among family and not out where the general public could judge me for hussying up my kid. Since there are no instructions for these dang nails, we applied what we could only assume were the correct nails to the correct corresponding fingers. Immediately Chris needed help pulling up her jeans and pushing the hair out of her face.

I told her right away I didn’t like them. They made her hands look like she was pushing 35 and I was having mini-nightmares about those long fingernails getting in the way of her holding onto a stripper pole.

            Soon my 19-year-old nephew and his girlfriend showed up and Chris greeted them with “the claws”, as she so aptly named her new fingertips. They screwed up their faces and Jacob told her he didn’t like those nails and they looked weird.

            She gave a humph and ran for the door where her precious Riley had just entered and showed her “the claws.” Riley gave a little laugh, looked at me strangely and said, “I thought you told her she couldn’t get fake nails until she was at least 18?” Yes, she had already told Riley about her obsession. I replied that they were a gift so I really didn’t have a say in it. But like a trouper Riley said loudly, “I don’t like those. She looks like she’s one of those…one of those….pageant kids. You know, the ones whose parents dress them up like creepy dolls?”

Creepy. Am I right?

            Yes. I am aware. And I agreed wholeheartedly. So here’s what happened next.

            Despite years of me telling Chris fake nails were creepy and that she couldn’t have them, despite her male cousin and her grandparents telling her they were weird, all it took was her cousin Riley to tell her they were strange. No less than five minutes later Chris asked to take the nails off because they were making her hands feel funny. She tried to play it off like some funky fungus was already taking root and making her fingertips itch, and to my credit I didn’t point out the obvious that she loved them until Riley said they were strange. I just thanked my lucky stars that Riley walked in the door at that point and saved the day.

Not sure who is giving makeup lessons.

            I guess one could look at the bad side of having a teenager around, but so far my liquor cabinet has remained untouched and I haven’t had to kick any boys out of her bedroom. So all is copasetic and frankly I’m thrilled that someone else will get off the couch to go outside and play so I can watch NCIS in peace. I’m going to ride that gravy train as long as I can.

Go Big or Go Home. No really. Go Home.

Can't tell what this is? This was my day.

            Is it just me, or does anyone else get a little bitter when your kid takes credit for something you’ve done?

            At a recent Christmas cookie exchange I placed my gorgeous confections on the table for viewing. When everyone ooohed and ahhed over the reindeer cookies I had slaved over, Chris blurted out, “Those are mine! I brought those!”

            Oh really? You’re the one who was up to her elbows in flour at 11 p.m. as you peered through butter-smeared glasses at an egg-stained recipe card and said many, many bad words when you had to fly to the grocery store in your slippers because earlier you bought baking soda instead of baking powder? Cuz I could have sworn that was me.

Pre-Chaos.

            Like most of my stories, it started with good intentions. I had Norman Rockwellian visions of baking up some sugar cookie sweet memories with my daughter. She asked if she could invite her friends over for a cookie decorating party and in one insane moment I agreed. I mean, how hard could it be to invite over three or four little girls who will titter over gingerbread men and glittery sugar?

            Stupid. I am so, so stupid sometimes.

            Here’s how it went down.

            After spending the weekend lazing around at her father house while I slaved over the afore-mentioned cookies, cookies and more cookies, Chris came home refreshed and ready to party. She took one look at the kitchen table that was beginning to buckle with tasty goodness, rolled her eyes and had the audacity to say, “You went a little overboard on the cookies, don’t you think?”

            Where has she been the last six years? She should know I don’t do anything just a little bit. Besides, I usually don’t mind baking, mostly because I definitely don’t mind eating.

Don't be fooled. This is a staged photo. Chris didn't do anything close to this type of work. It was me. All me.

Anyway, only one out of eight kids RSVP’d that she would be attending. Her mother dropped her off precisely at 3 p.m. and exclaimed at the amount of baking I had done – she’s a mother, she knows who really does all the work. I assured her that we would have a lovely time and hopefully a couple of other kids would show up to join Chris and her daughter for the festivities.

Before she made it around the corner, the doorbell began to ring so often that we had our very own Carol of the Bells in the works. Soon there was something like 10 kids, even a couple who I had only briefly seen once or twice around the neighborhood, bellying up to my cookie table. Some were the male siblings of girls who had actually received invitations. Others I think blindly followed the line of kids hypnotized by the whiff of sugar in the air and were drawn to the frosting like moths to a flame.

Either way, I was a little overwhelmed as I turned around and handed out plates to swarming hands. My one intelligent move for the day was ordering Chris to usher her friends to the bathroom for hand washing. Judging from the brown sink I was left with, it was a necessity.

I wish the brown sink was the least of my worries. With so many kids it became a free-for-all with gel frosting dripping off tablecloths, red frosting knives shoved chaotically in white frosting containers, and glitter-sugar cookies being bumped to the floor. They elbowed each other and frantically grabbed at marshmallows, chocolate chips and snuck M&Ms.

And that still wasn’t the worst of it.

It didn’t take long before they tired of the tedium of decorating for 30 seconds or more. Then they didn’t even bother with the show of placing the candies on the cookies and instead placed them directly in their mouths and washed them down with squirts of frosting and giggles.

It all went downhill from there.

I made these adorable melted
snowman cookies and reindeer.
You think they appreciated them? No.
They just wanted the sugar.

The cookie table was abandoned. Kids ran upstairs and downstairs, slamming doors, tripping over dogs, screaming and chasing one another, throwing toys willy nilly into the air and jumping on beds. I had lost all control and I weakly repeated the only rule that seemed to be heard of the dull roar, “Stay out of my room.” I found a Rapunzel castle in the laundry room, a bowl of candy in the dog’s crate, a jewelry box under the kitchen sink, and I will probably find frosting in the tile grout for weeks.

            It seemed to me that hours passed in which I wrung my hands and wondered just how much the law would allow one to yell at another parent’s kid when the doorbell rang again and my fellow mother stepped into my house laughing. “Having fun?” she said with a snort, taking in my frizzy hair, smeared makeup, red and green floor, and cowering dogs. Plus, she could hear the screaming laughter coming from down the block so she knew the kind of hell of which I was currently in the midst

            Alas, it had only been about an hour since she had left me with only two sweet little angel girls.

            She drug her sugar-strung-out child out the door and I went about the task of trying to send the other demons back to their own parents. This turned out to be a Herculean task, as when kids learn that they have free reign of the upstairs along with all the candy they can jam into their chubby jowls, they aren’t too keen on giving it up. But I egged them out the door with the promise that they could take home all the cookies they decorated. One girl took home four plates and I was all too happy to ply her entire family with diabetes just to get her and a few other children of my hair. Other kids I had to literally sweep out the door with protestations that I needed my bed and they needed some non-glucose-based supper.

            As Chris cried in sadness that her friends were now gone, I looked around at the war-torn living room and reminded her that this was our very first and very last cookie decorating party and that she would not be playing with her friends until she cleaned up.

That kid, she’s no dummy. She gave me a big hug and called me the best mommy in the whole world. I smiled in relief while all the while her hand snaked around my backside to sneak a cookie.

“No! More! Cookies!” I screamed while she ran to the corner to shove in as many crumbs in as she could before I smacked it out of her hand.

I needn’t have bothered. By then she was beginning to crash from the sugar high and passed out on   the couch with half a cookie in one hand and a face covered in blue sprinkles.

I wasn’t far behind. Next time I have one of those Norman Rockwell moments will someone please knock some sense into me?

Dreaming of her next Party Of Terror.

The Best-Laid Photo Plans Gone Awry

If it's not the hair, it's the facial expression. 

            This time, it was the dog that ended up with crazy hair.

            You see, when you say the word “short” at the doggie hair salon, they assume you mean “shaved within an inch of his life.” So our cute, floppy haired Viggo ended up looking like an overgrown Chihuahua.

            All in time for our Christmas photo.

I am saving your eyes from pee stains.
You're welcome.

            It’s a nice change of pace because usually it’s Chris who ruins my best-laid photo plans. It all started with one of her first baby portraits. I had seen gorgeous photos of serene looking babies wearing angel wings with light glowing all around that brought to mind a Hallelujah chorus announcing a gift from heaven. I took a couple of photography classes in college and was confident I could recreate the scene.

            Little did I know, babies take the first naked opportunity to pee everywhere as if they have horse-sized bladders that have stored up a week’s worth of urine. As I laid Chris down on a sweet blanket and arranged her glittery wings in the lazy afternoon light, she mewled like a kitten, turned her head and let it all go. So I got one – ONE – photo of her in the angel wings before I disgustedly threw the blanket in the washing machine and gave up.

Whew! It's tiring being a kid!

            Then she grew hair. Oh, does this kid have some hair! And when it’s styled the correct way, I am not bragging when I say perfect strangers gush about the state of her curls. It’s just a fact. When it hasn’t been styled (or messed with by a little kid who should know better than to touch her own hair without professional tutoring) it brings to mind more of a “finger in a light socket” scenario.

            I have learned through countless mornings of knots and tears that the best course of action is to brush said hair when it’s wet, throw in a dab of gel and DO NOT TOUCH. So, of course, when I send Chris to school on her very first kindergarten school portrait day it just makes sense that she would spend half the morning at school preparing by running a brush through the individual spiral curls until she made fuzz. There’s no other word for it – just fuzz. I wish I could show you an example but I’m sure the photographers posted it up in their hall of fame while laughing hysterically and sent us a note suggesting retakes.

            For the professional photos we took when Chris was 3, she didn’t mess with her hair. She posed perfectly like a practiced supermodel. Everything fell into place. Until she opened her mouth in a grin and the world was exposed to a graying tooth she had fallen on and killed a couple of weeks before. We were so close to the ideal photo situation, but were derailed by that one little dental hitch.

            When I flip through photo albums, I can find plenty of just-woken drugged-up looking pics. Others were snapped with Chris in the crib wearing a surprised expression that made it appear we shackled her in jail. And then there are the impromptu snaps I snuck while she chewed on her toes like a wild animal. None of those are wall-worthy, but they all serve their future blackmail purpose.

            But when I actually spend money to take a special photo, I want it to be one that people ooh and ahh over; one that makes us look like the type of family that actually has it all together, even if that’s usually pretty far from the truth.

            What I usually end up with is a new psychiatrist’s referral, a hoarse voice from yelling and pit stains from stress.

What a beautiful picture!
Just ignore the tooth area.

When I see those beautiful, plaid Christmas dresses I always buy them thinking, “This is the year we’re are going to get one of those pictures that look like they came right out of a portrait studio catalogue.” But my best plans are always dashed by something. It makes me want to yell out to everyone I see, “I promise! She looked fantastic before we left the house! I swear! You should have seen it!”

            So I give up. From now on I plan to play to our strengths – constant chaos. This year I’m just going to go with the flow and I figure if I set out to take an intentionally crazy Christmas photo I will either get one hilarious card, or the law of opposites will work in my favor and I’ll finally achieve the holy grail of beautiful Christmas pictures.

            It’s all set to go down this afternoon. This weekend I dug out the fancy camera bought to creating lasting memories but instead ended up gathering dust in a corner of the closet, and practiced up on lighting techniques. I’ve purchased cute outfits and accessories and have actually cleaned up around here in an effort to create a backdrop not filled with junk.

            All I can say is wish us luck.

Yum, toes! I think this may be the high school graduation picture.

Would have been a great summer picture except for the "duh" face and the upside down glasses.

See what I mean. We jailed her as we do with all our 4-month-olds.