The Kitchen Sink, Vol. One

I am thinking that Sundays might be an excellent day to start "kitchen sink" posts, in which I just kinda throw everything in there.

For those of you who saw my post about my sister, and my sister's initial (and subsequent) response, here is an update: we talked. And I talked with her grandmother, who saw my blog and emailed me. And even though it was emotionally draining? I feel much better. And while, sadly, my self-imposed Coke ban did not stand up to all that emotional drainage, I hope it will be the start of much more closeness with my sister.

If you are not my Facebook friend? You missed my awesome status update yesterday. It said: "So I was just squeezing honey into my mouth straight from the squeeze bottle? (Yes, I'm a child, meh.) And an air pocket in the bottle? Made the honey sploosh all over my face. You know how Marge Simpson laughs? That's how I laughed." It was very amusing. But my face was sticky.

I was thinking about the word "fugly" and how awesome it is. It's economical and yet, highly descriptive. So I started wondering, what new words could I make from combining 'fuck' and an adjective? Fuppity? It made me see the word "fusty" with fresh eyes (fucking musty? Is pretty much the definition of "fusty." Really. Go ask Merriam-Webster.) Sadly, I didn't come up with much more. My swearing is not all that imaginative. Sigh.

I learned that this orchid attracts bees by looking like a bee. Yowza. I hate bees.

For those of you who saw yesterday's post, here's an update: I saw Miss Babysitter today after work, to give her the money she is owed before she leaves. She was very apologetic. She told me how much she loved watching "the girls" and how when she came back (when? I was not aware a four-letter word could carry so much surprise and promise) she would love to see them. Hunh. I guess the move is not as permanent as it first appeared. But I still have to find a replacement. Sigh.

While I don't really have a favorite children's author, I do have a favorite illustrator! Whenever I am drawn to the illustrations in a book because they are just so-darn-sweet? I find that they are by Caroline Jayne Church. One of the books she has illustrated, called I Love You Through and Through, is Scarlett's bedtime favorite.

To borrow a bit of hyperbole from Allie Brosh, I would shank an infant for a snack right now. I have to go. But next Sunday? There will be more "Kitchen Sink."

Missing Miss Babysitter

Y'all? I am so screwed.

Last week, we arrived at Miss Babysitter's house at the usual time. But there were no cars in the driveway. Uh-oh. I unloaded the girls and their stuff, all the while keeping an eye on the front door, hoping that Miss Babysitter will magically appear there to usher us inside. She does not.

We ring the doorbell. No answer. I call her cell. No answer, so I leave a message explaining that we are "here" and she is not.

We sit on the porch, and I feed Sosie a bottle while we wait.

I realize it is unlikely that Miss Babysitter will show up, at least not in time for me to get to work. I must call backup. I arrange for Scarlett's previous babysitter to take the girls, just this one time. It will only be for four hours. Sosie will likely spend the entire time sleeping.

Scarlett's previous sitter? Wonderful lady, but as an older, retired person, she felt that she could not handle Scarlett and a newborn. I understood, and we found Miss Babysitter, who lived much closer to us. But I digress.

I don't hear from Miss Babysitter, so I call Michael. I ask if he will be able to stay home long enough the following day to allow me to go to work. I have a computer skills test scheduled with one of the higher-ups, and it would not do for me to miss work. He agrees.

I discover an email from Miss Babysitter explaining that a family emergency called her out of town. She is very sorry she cannot watch the girls this week, and she will let me know if she is coming back. If? I had no idea a two-letter word could carry so much... ominousness.

Today? A voicemail message informs me that, sorry, but Miss Babysitter is moving several states away to be with her family. She would like the pay that she is owed, thankyouverymuch.

And I? Am screwed. Thank you very much.

The Awesome Pledge: Epic Fail

Remember the Awesome Pledge? Yeah, it didn't work out.

I thought it was going well until this morning... duhn-duhn-DUHNNNN. I wake Scarlett up so we could get ready to go to Miss Babysitter's, and she had peed in her bed. Nooooooo. And after I removed the strategically-placed towel from under her sheet because I was convinced she had the Nighttime Bladder of Steel!

Sigh. No time to get worked up over it. Pop the sheets in the washer, blah blah blah, leave for the day.

Fast-forward to this evening. Scarlett and Sosie are watching Max & Ruby. I am in the bedroom, folding the laundry, when I hear Scarlett start yelling something. I come into the hallway and see that she is standing in front of the couch, peeing on the floor. She is frozen in mid-pee. She cannot run to the bathroom, although that is probably for the best, or there would be a trail of pee for me to clean up instead of one spot. Sigh.

Get a towel, grumble grumble. Clean up the pee, grumble grumble. Give Scarlett a bath, grumble grumble. How could the Awesome Pledge have gone wrong? I was so sure that it would work - it was all positivity and self-esteem-affirmingness! Isn't that what parents are supposed to do these days?

On another note, I have noticed a way that Sosie declares her love for me. What is it, you ask? How does a two-month-old show you she loves you? She only poops when she's home with me.

That's right! Her little gummy smiles are great, but she gives them to everybody. Her dirty diapers? She saves those for me. **swells with pride**

Ice Cream Meltdown

When I arrive at Miss Babysitter's house today? Scarlett is screaming. She is screaming, "I neeeeeeed iiiice creeeeaam!"

Miss Babysitter says to me, "She took her nap today..." YESSS! "...but I had to wake her up just now."

Nooooo.

Scarlett is still screaming about the ice cream, which she cannot have because Mommy is here and it is time to go home. Miss Babysitter says, "You can have ice cream next time you come."

More screaming. I say, "If you stop screaming and ask nicely, Mommy will think about getting you ice cream."

It takes several minutes of "calm downs" and "stop screamings" before Scarlett actually listens. But she is still mad. She stomps out to the car. Then she refuses to get in unless she can sit in the front. I explain why she cannot do that. She glowers at me. I threaten her future ice cream privileges. She gets in the car.

I buckle her in, but I allow her to close the strap fastener herself. This is one of our daily compromises that allow her some independence. If I forget and do it myself? A fit will be thrown.

But today, Scarlett gets mad that I let her do it. "YOU want to do it!" she growls through clenched teeth, as though my letting her do it means I'm a terrible mother. Sigh.

She starts up the yelling about ice cream again. I try to be patient and calm about this. She was woken from her nap after an hour when she could have easily slept for another two. She is grumpy. Like a bear whose hibernation has been interrupted.

Finally I cannot take it. I scream, "If you don't stop screaming at me RIGHT NOW you will NEVER have ice cream again! BE QUIET or you get NOTHING!"

I don't hear a peep out of her again. Meanwhile, I have been starving since about eleven o'clock, and it is almost four. I drive to McDonald's. They are advertising new snack-sized McFlurrys. Perfect. I get her an M&Ms one.

As soon as we drive away, the thing starts to melt and puddle all over me. Even with the air conditioner on full-blast. I love the South in the summer.

We finally get home. I ask Scarlett to carry her McFlurry cup inside. She is all excited. "Does it have chocolate, Momma?" Chocolate is a super-bonus.

We get inside. I tell Scarlett I will put her ice cream in a bowl for her. I give her the part that has managed to stay frozen and stuck to the plastic spoon. I pour the melty part in the sink. Oh, crap. The M&Ms had all settled to the bottom, and now they are all in the sink.

I give Scarlett the ice cream and hope for the best. She doesn't notice that she has about 1/6th the number of M&Ms she started with. She eats her ice cream. She is happy. Meltdown over.

Body Curious

Scarlett is very body-curious right now, as most toddlers probably are. She likes to talk about pee-pee's and boobies and point them out on other people. Much to Michael's chagrin, she's the most curious about him. Mostly because he guards his goodies like Ciara. (I'll give you a hint:" They stay in the jar.") And he's the only boy around for miles.


"If you'd just let her see it, she'll leave you alone!" I'm always saying, through fits of giggles, while he keeps his hands firmly clasped over the, ahem, "convenience" opening in his pajama pants. If Scarlett spots a gap in the fabric the thickness of a credit card, she'll announce, "I see your pee-pee!" It's all very funny, especially when Michael starts blushing.

As for me, I'm old news. She's been in the bathroom with me practically since she was born. She used to shower with me. (In fact, it's kind of disappointing that she refuses to do it now. A dual shower is sooo much easier than having to give her a bath. Sigh.) Sometimes, though, she'll catch me by surprise.

Like this morning, when she was using the potty, and I was undressing to jump into the shower. Just as I pulled back the curtain to turn on the water, I hear, "Mommy? Can I touch your boobies?" Uhhhh... no.

When I get out of the shower, Michael tells me that she was jumping around in our room and saying, "You know my pee-pee? You can call it a pat-pat." A pat-pat? Yikes.

Then, as soon as we got home today, I heard, "Mommy? Can I take my clothes off?"

Me: "What?"

Scarlett: "Can I take my clothes off and pretend to go to the beach?"

Oh, right. Her new favorite game is to strip down to her undies and be "at the beach." She once set up a piece of cardboard on the couch and laid on it, semi-upright, as though she were suntanning on a poolside lounger. She didn't learn that from me - my alabaster Irish-influenced skin does nothing but burn, blister, and peel.

Me: Sigh. "Okay."

A few minutes later, Scarlett: "Mommy? Can you take your clothes off?"
Me: "Uhhh... no."

Scarlett: "Can you take your clothes off and dip your feet in the water?"

Me: "No."

Scarlett: "Do you want to take your clothes off?"
Me: "No. I do not want to take my clothes off, and I am not going to take my clothes off."

Scarlett, with her lip pushing out sadly: "Okay, Mommy."

It suddenly occurred to me that she might be asking to play this game at Miss Babysitter's house. Jeez.

Enabling: Enabled

This morning was the first time my girls were being left with their new babysitter. It was also only my second day back to work since the birth of my second daughter, Sosie. So it was my first morning of getting both girls ready to leave the house in the time crunch that is getting to work. To top it all, I had to be there 4 hours earlier than I normally would because we had a staff meeting.


Now, I am not organized at the best of times. But this morning was made exponentially worse by the fact that I hadn't packed the diaper bag the night before. Why not? Because before I could get to it, I got sucked in to watching LOST. And during LOST, Sosie fell asleep on my chest. And then I got sucked in to watching Parenthood. And then about halfway through our DVRed recording, my husband, Michael, tosses me the remote and tells me he's going to bed.

WTF? I say that out loud. "WTF?"

He's all, "What?"

I say, "Why did you even start Parenthood if you knew you were going to bed?" You see, Michael loves TV. I like TV, but I can take it or leave it. Especially since we have a DVR, and I can watch our shows whenever I want. Especially when I have THINGS TO DO that should not be put off until tomorrow. Because I am a Major Procrastinator. And I had argued against even sitting down to watch LOST because I had THINGS TO DO. Like packing the diaper bag. But I digress.

So he says, "I told you I have to be up early tomorrow."

I fume, "I told you that I had things to do!"

Him: "But you still sat down to watch LOST."

Me: "Because you badgered me! And the baby had to eat!"

Him: "And then you laid the recliner back and didn't get up again."

Me, defensively: "I got tired!"

Him, innocently: "Just do your stuff tomorrow."

Sigh. It is now 12:30 am. I am very tired. Tomorrow morning is not going to go well. And it is clearly his fault. Michael is frequently guilty of what I like to think of as "Procrastination Enabling." This is not his first offense.

Fast forward to this morning. I do not get up as early as I should. I try desperately to hurry my toddler, Scarlett, along as she gets dressed and eats some cereal. If you have experience with toddlers, you know how that worked out. Baby Sosie must be dressed, then fed. I need to leave the house, but Sosie hasn't finished her bottle. I cut her off and strap her into her carseat anyway, and she promptly spits up all over herself. Perfect.

It is ten minutes after we should have left. I have to shove the kids in the car and follow Mapquest directions to our new babysitter's house. I am not direction-savvy at the best of times. It is a certainty that I will make wrong turns. And I do. Three times. Even with MapQuest. And calling said babysitter to clarify MapQuest.

Even Scarlett notices something is up, after I have made my second wrong turn and turned around to go back the way we came. She asks me, "Where is Miss Babysitter?" I have coached her to call the babysitter "Miss FirstName." I think it's respectful without being schoolmarmy. Relaxed respect, if you will.

Me: "Mommy's trying her best to find her, sweetie." Notice the liberties I take with the word "best." Settin' the bar high, people!

We finally arrive at the babysitter's house at the exact time that the staff meeting should be starting. Which is exactly 30 minutes after the time at which I told Miss Babysitter to expect us. So instead of looking like the reliable, capable, good mother that I want to be, I look like a frazzled, unprepared, not-punctual mom with a spit-uppy baby. How to salvage this? My mind cranks like a P.O.S. car. I am not good "on-the-spot" at the best of times.

Miss Babysitter: "It wasn't that hard to find, was it?"

Me, blurtily: "Uh, no, I'm just a spaz." D'oh!

This is all. Michael's. Fault.

Or is it? Whhyyy do I let him talk me into procrastinating when I know how it will turn out? I'm enabling his enabling! Do they have support groups for that? Procastinators' Enablers' Enablers. Like AA, only... yeah.