Why We Can't Eat At McDonalds

Trust me. You don't want to find this in your cart.

            After 40-plus years, my mother recently revealed that my grandmother was a pioneer in the kid-harnessing industry. It seems inspiration hit during one trying shopping trip at the old Woolworth’s store where my mother “played tag” by circling a table just out of grandma’s reach. Once mom was caught, grandma marched back to the pet department and bought a dog harness and leash to keep mother from running off again. It got to be such a habit when they were going out that mom would always put the harness on, much like a dog will gladly go get its leash when it’s time to go for a walk.

            While I don’t necessarily agree with the idea of strapping a leash onto your kid, I can certainly understand the reason behind it. Here’s how our own shopping trips usually go:

            “Chris put that down. Chris hold my hand. Chris stay where I can see you. Chris we don’t need a chainsaw. Chris let’s go. Chris you can’t have a guinea pig. Chris use your inside voice. Chris don’t hit that little old lady with the cart. Chris if you want that you should put it on your list to Santa. Chris we don’t say grown up words like that! Chris stay with me.”

            You get the picture. Instead of perusing my coupons I spend the entire time trying not to pull out my hair.

I want this. And this. And this. And this.

            It was cute when she was really little. My aunt loves the story where Chris was riding in the cart and filled it up by grabbing things right and left off the shelves. When I asked what she was doing her reply was matter of fact: “It’s OK mommy. It’s on sale.”

            It was easy back then to put everything back and appease her with a baggie of Raisinettes (there are healthy raisins under that chocolate – see I AM a good parent!). Once she got so big I couldn’t carry her anymore and she started running away from me much like my mother did back in the 50s, I seriously considered a trip to the pet store.

            One memorable trip to Marshalls left me red-faced and apologizing to random strangers on the way out the door. Strolling through the after-Christmas aisle Chris spotted a lone package of Christmas cookies that she decided she must have. Yes, she was the demon screaming “I want the cookies” and hitting and kicking me as I bypassed a line of no less than 100 post-Christmas sale shoppers.

            When you see the Willy Wonka character Veruca Salt sing her little ditty, “If I don’t get the things I am after, I’m going to SCREAM!” you have the perfect vision of Chris’ Marshalls meltdown.

            I’m fairly certain that our photo is posted in that store with the words, “Do not admit. Ever. Even if her mother wins the lottery and can buy out the entire store.”

The same goes for one McDonald’s play area where I nearly became stuck like a sausage in the tunnel while trying to drag Chris out a full hour after I started the warnings that it was time to go home. But it’s probably a good excuse when I remind her we’re not allowed to eat that food because they told us never to come back. It’s not a huge stretch because I sprinted out the door with her thrown like a sack of potatoes over my shoulder before the manager could give us the sad news.

If I don't get the candy I will scream!

            One time at Kohl’s we narrowly missed a visit with Child Protective Services. See, as we were walking in the door I explained to Chris that she would be required to ride in the cart THE ENTIRE TIME. Immediately the screaming began, so I picked her up, turned around and headed back to the car. I put her back in her car seat while dodging fists and toddler sneakers and explaining in an increasingly louder voice that we would shop when she calmed down.

As I took a deep breath and walked around the car, I noticed a couple of women who had stopped to stare at me, obviously poised to dial 911. I glared back and said, “What? You want to shop in there with her screaming like that?”

They never did call the authorities. I think they realized it wasn’t an abduction or child beating they were witnessing, but that I was instead saving my fellow shoppers from pierced eardrums.

            I wish I could say that since Chris is now 6 ½ that she’s grown into an awesome shopper. But it’s simply not true. No, she doesn’t throw herself on the floor in a temper tantrum anymore, but she does do the whiny, “Please, please, please, please, please, (to infinity)” thing while following me around until I want to blow like Mt. Vesuvius.

            I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed. It happens to us all. But I do miss those chicken nugget Happy Meals.

Just add candy and a stuffed toy and we can shop. For now.

Ouch! Don't Worry, a Band-Aid Will Fix It!

Chris falls. We take pictures then help. Stellar parenting.

           I made a new friend the other day who told me that all within a span of a few weeks her 3-year-old son swallowed a quarter and required surgery, then broke his arm and needed cast. All I could think was how grateful I am that I don’t have to follow around a boisterous boy all the time, wincing constantly at his daredevil antics. My brothers were like that - the type that tried to see if they could fly by jumping off the garage roof.

Bruises by Mommy.

            While Chris is pretty brave and would be happy riding the tallest, fastest roller coaster at the amusement park, she is definitely more girly when it comes to possible pain-inducing playtime. We’ve been very lucky that she’s never been seriously hurt, and the one time she did have to go to the emergency room it was totally my fault. See, I made the major rookie parenting mistake of setting the kid on the counter and letting go for a split second to throw away a diaper, resulting in a sickening thump on the tile floor and a mad dash to the hospital to examine what fortunately turned out to be a bruised cheek.

            Believe me when I say, though, that it’s really been sheer luck that we haven’t made more friends in the ER. Chris inherited my grace and had the misfortune of losing her front teeth pretty early compared to the other kids. Turns out she was tripping constantly and kissed the ground quite often. Her father actually had to give her “falling lessons” to teach her how to break the fall with her hands instead of her face.

            Until she picked up that little tidbit, Chris’ instability led to the first of many dental visits to examine dying teeth. One the dentist decided to pull when she was three years old, while commenting over and over that it was against his better judgment because she would probably just do the same thing again (she did soon fall and kill the other front tooth, but that’s another story). Frankly, I was thrilled for Chris to lose that tooth because it was so gray that I was afraid people would think we didn’t have the slightest regard for dental hygiene. Sue me, I sometimes care that people might think we’re white trash because we’re loud and use coupons. No need to add more fuel to that fire.

            In the end, the dentist said Chris was the best 3-year-old patient he’d ever had. No, I don’t think they say that to ALL the parents. But everyone did agree it was the just about the cutest thing in the world when the dentist numbed Chris’ tooth before pulling and she told him her mouth felt dizzy.

            I hope I’m not jinxing us by revealing this, but the lack of broken bones or other major medical issues is not from lack of trying. Not long after Chris had the training wheels taken off her bike she did a total Wayne’s World reenactment. Remember the part where the crazy chick is stalking Wayne while he and Garth are playing street hockey? And while staring at him longingly and saying, “Hi Wayne!” she rides ride into a parked car?

That could have been Chris, only there was no high school crush involved yet, and it was group of trash cans waiting for pickup that jumped in front of her moving bike. A group of teenage boys did give me  the slightest hope for future generations by asking if Chris was OK before they burst into a fit of giggles.

THIS one is not Mommy's fault. She's just allergic.

Like most kids, I’m sure Chris does exaggerate her boo boos some times just to get attention. The kid honestly believes a Band-Aid will cure just about anything and has even suggested I apply one to my head when I complain of a headache. I’m not sure why that headache keeps happening when she’s around, I say sarcastically.

Once she fell down and instead of saying “ouch” like a normal child, she told me she hurt her ulna. That was the result of a party game we had played where we tried to name parts of the body that contain four letters and out of the blue Chris blurted out “ULNA!” The room went dead quiet as we all stared at the kid in amazement. So for a long time, she tried to recreate the excitement by dropping the ulna bomb whenever anything was hurt. Until it just wasn’t funny anymore.

            I do have to say I believe it was my divine inspiration in signing Chris up for ballet lessons that has led her to stop falling down quite as often. Slowing down to concentrate on dance moves in time with music has given her, thank God, just a little bit more grace.

This may or may not help. But she looks pretty nonetheless.

            But we’re not out of the woods yet. I’m sure we will have our share of frantic doctor visits over the years. However, I believe those times will be from lack of coordination rather than Chris pushing the limits like a reckless boy-child.

            If and when those days ever come, I can bet that Chris will be the talk of the hospital because she certainly gets her point across no matter what the situation. The other day riding her scooter in the park she fell down and no fewer than three adults rushed over to ask if she was OK. While dusting sand off her knees she said to everyone in general and me in particular, “Does it look like I’m OK?”

            A woman watching her grandson play chucked and told me, “I just love her personality.”

            “Hmmm, yes, it’s a strong one,” I agreed. “Obviously she didn’t fall on her mouth again.”

Curly Tales

This is about as curly as curly can get.

           I remember it well. It was almost two years ago during the Christmas season. Chris and I were rushing into the grocery store for supper and for once I had change for her to give to the Salvation Army bell ringer.

            Predictably, the African American lady touched Chris’ plethora of curls and couldn’t help commenting on it.

            “I’m bi-racial too,” she told me, “but she looks like she could pass for white.”

            I hope my response sounded less offensive and more dumbfounded like I felt when I sputtered, “But she is white.”

            The woman wasn’t fazed and actually cackled when she replied, “Oh honey! You don’t get hair like that unless you have a little black in you!”

            It wasn’t the first or last time someone questioned my child’s racial background, and not the first or last time I questioned if we were the victims of a hospital baby switch. Unfortunately for her Chris is an exact mix of her dad and me, and there weren’t any other 10-pounders in the hospital when she was born, so I’m fairly confident we brought the right kid home.

            Still, I actually queried my cousins on Facebook as to whether Grandma had some explaining to do.

Hard to tell. But I was rocking a curly mohawk.

            In six years I still haven’t lost my surprise at the inevitable question we always hear, “Is Chris’ dad black?” Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but anybody who knows him would tell you my ex-husband is nearly as far from a person of color as I am. He has a slightly deeper tan than my marshmallow complexion, but that comes from the glow of the computer screen and not from his ethnic heritage.

            Frankly, though, I do have proof that Chris’ incredibly curly hair comes from my side of the family. I tried to dig up some pictures of myself as a child, but most of them show my hair as a halo of fuzz because Mom tried to brush the curls out, or in pig tails because Mom said that was the only way to tame it. My sister actually had curlier hair than me but it wasn’t that noticeable because she had the chubbiest cheeks you’ve ever seen. And I tried to find the picture of my brother with an actual ‘fro in high school but we believe he might have stolen the pic and burned it. He calls it the Cork County Curl and blames it on our Irish background (which is actually a couple of generations down the line) and conveniently forgets our non-Irish father had a bit of ‘fro going on himself.

            So you’ll have to take my word for it that Chris comes by her hair hereditarily. However, she has more of the curl than anyone else in my family – a fact of which she is not always pleased.

            I often find myself recreating my childhood as I try to “style” her hair in the morning, snapping “Stop moving! That doesn’t hurt you!” Alas, I swore I would never say that to my kid like my mean mother did, but I had no way of predicting just how curly her curly hair would be. Indeed, you can’t run a hand through Chris’ hair without having an extraction team on call.

            I never did perfect the “Don’t touch me stranger!” look because I was one of those pregnant ladies that gets fat all over and people didn’t know FOR SURE that I was with child and therefore didn’t rub my belly unsolicited. But Chris has the look down pat. She learned the evil eye at an early age because complete strangers find nothing wrong with approaching a child who moves away from them in fear while they reach out with God-knows-what on their hands and yank on her hair.

First ever haircut. Looks
like a different kid.

            Even I, myself, have a hard time not playing with her hair while watching TV. With those perfect spirals, it’s so darn tempting to pull on them and make the “sprooooinnnng” noise.

            One positive spin to the curl debacle is that it saves us money on haircuts. Because cutting it might just add to the light-socket effect, Chris didn’t have her first haircut until she was almost five years old. That was an hour long process to straighten it just to make sure it was cut evenly at the bottom, although it sprung back to life the second we applied water so I’m not sure why the stylist was concerned with evenness.

            But for one whole day, Chris could see how the other, straighter half lives. She spent the day running her fingers longingly through the silky smoothness and flipping it over her shoulders the way we women do when we’ve had our hair styled professionally. Now, she begs and begs to get her hair straightened but I can usually talk her out of it because that was an awfully long time for her to sit still in a chair.

            I think after all this time that Chris is starting to embrace her uniqueness and knows not everyone gets called Shirley Temple, Little Orphan Annie or Curly Sue.

In a kindergarten exercise the students were asked to write three things they like about themselves and Chris’ #1 was her hair. I don’t know if it was because that’s the one thing she identifies about herself after being constantly reminded of it, or if she thinks she should like it because people tell her so often how grateful she should be.

Either way, she’s stuck with it. I tell her when she’s 18 she can do whatever she wants with her hair and her life and as a typical girl she can’t wait for that day of freedom. I will always hope, though, that the first thing she does is NOT to make a hair-straightening appointment at the salon.

Started out bald. Then straight. Then the curls just wouldn't stop.

Driving Miss Chris

Look out world! Maniac driver!

Driving home from a birthday party tonight (shout out to Iris Jakubowski who is now 3!), I was reminded that many of the most bizarre conversations I have had with Chris have taken place inside the Prius we’ve owned most of her life.

Today Chris had spent a couple of hours in the swimming pool and was still a little soggy, so despite the 102-degree Phoenix weather she was complaining that it was cold. When I told her that I had nothing but a damp towel with which to cover herself, she suggested I give her the shirt off my back. Literally.

I explained that I couldn’t drive naked and her retort was, “You won’t be naked. You’ll be half naked. So it’s OK.”

I guess I should have seen this coming since one of the strangest incidents I can recall from our long drives was when she was about 2 ½ and we were headed to the dentist to have a tooth pulled. I was singing along with the radio, almost forgetting she was in the back seat as I cruised down the freeway. When I glanced in the rearview mirror I did a doubletake because she was completely in the buff. That’s right. Stark Nekkid!

I’m not sure how she did it all so quickly and quietly, and I have to admit I was pretty pleased that she took the initiative to buckle herself back up in her carseat, but mostly I was baffled as to why she felt the need to rid herself of every stitch of clothing. When I asked her why she was in her birthday suit she could only blink and finally told me, “I just wanted to be naked.”

First, I was thankful that we had tinted windows. Second, I decided maybe she was nervous about the dental visit. And although I can’t recall the specific time of year, chances are it was hot since we do live in the upper level of hell. So even though it was an odd thing to do, I simply put her clothes back on in the parking lot of the dentist’s office and chalked it up to being a weird kid.

Anyway, although that might have been the most baffling time in the car, it certainly wasn’t the only interesting conversation we’ve had. We used to drive 20 minutes each way to daycare so we had a lot of quality car time playing endless games of “Where’s Chris?” in which I had to pretend I didn’t know she was two feet away in the backseat and wasn’t the one saying “no” when I asked if Chris was on top of the hotel, or in a tree or in the back of that pickup truck.

Chicks dig DRIVING daddy's car.

Oh, and during the past six years I have also been forced to listen to about one bazillion Hannah Montana songs. Unfortunately that is only a slight exaggeration. By the way, she once informed me that when she got her own car it would be pink and probably cost $6, or maybe even $4, and she would listen to every Hannah Montana song twice when she felt like it since my ‘Once is enough’ rule was obviously unfair. You can probably imagine her ideal ride would look more like Barbie’s dream car (or the sports car Daddy drives that comes with a rad stereo) instead of the environmentally and economically responsible car a boring 40-year-old mom uses to tool around town.

One drive home I remember asking Chris what she learned at preschool that day and she explained that water helps plants and flowers grow. Then I nearly choked on my water bottle and probably swerved when she added that her boobies must be growing too because they get water on them in the bathtub.

Another day I relayed the same cautionary tales my parents had used, telling her not to stick her hands or head out of the car window because they could be chopped off.

You may have a cool car. But I'm still in charge.

She must have been scared straight because in an awed voice she said, “Man! That’s harsh!”

Yes, we have had many lively conversations (arguments) in the car but going full circle back to the bizarre, my favorite car incident happened one night when we were almost home from work. A few blocks away from our house she asked me why I was pulling over to the side of the road and I was pleased for the chance to remind her about the everyday heroes she learned about in preschool. I explained that an ambulance and fire truck needed to pass us to go help people, and that when you hear the sirens or see the flashing lights you should always get out of their way so they can get by you quickly.

Of course she was curious about where they were going and the true little rubbernecker wanted me to follow. I nixed that idea but told her it could be anything: there might be a house fire they needed to fight, or somebody that needed a ride to the hospital, or maybe even a car accident where people could be hurt.

She was quiet for a few seconds and I could smell the smoke from her brain as she imagined all the tragic possibilities that might require emergency personnel.

Then, in a small voice she said, “You know, if it’s a car accident those people might die. But we could all die from cars. And ninjas.”

Yes. She said NINJAS.

I don’t know where that came from. Or why. Bizarre I tell you!

At least we can all rest-assured that Chris has at least 12 years before she’s the one doing the driving. And hopefully she’ll be dropping a few more of the car gems along the way.
...uh just realized my math is off. Only 10 more years until Chris reaches driving age. Time to panic!

My driving days have begun.

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.