Scarred for Life

I'm pretty worried about what I've done to Story. See, in the Tracee school of potty training, I try all the feel-good stuff (sticker charts, rewards, positive thinking). Then, I get impatient and I move to shame.

I guilted both of my kids into using the potty by complaining about cleaning up their messes, making them apologize to their panties and the potty, and mentioning all the people they know who do use the potty. This seems to work faster than the other way. Ivy turned out okay.

With Story, though, it seems to have added an unwanted reaction. This evening, she was trying to get her pants and tutu down for the potty....but her bladder wouldn't wait. From the kitchen I heard her shriek, "MOMMY! I SORRY! I SO SORRY!!!!" I rushed into the bathroom to find her standing in a puddle.

My poor baby. I comforted her, told her it was okay, and then ran bathwater for her. She was really upset that she missed the potty.

Did I do that? I mean, I thought it was okay...she is using the potty, you know. Could I have scarred her for life? And if I did, will that cause her to pee the bed later????

Paper towel meditation

I brought home the groceries Sunday after church. One of my purchases was a three-pack of paper towels. As I set it on the counter, I had one of those weirdo flashbacks you get when you look at the person you used to be and the person you've become and realize they aren't the same...that they aren't even close. That you are pretty sure you and that person wouldn't even be friends.

The paper towels symbolize what I've become. I still have a partial roll of paper towels on the holder. I bought the new pack just in case I ran out this week, so I wouldn't have to go without paper towels at all (the partial roll is still there).

Pre-kids Tracee wouldn't have bought those paper towels until she had been paper towel-less for at least a week, maybe two. Pre-kids Tracee never had tissues, and was lucky if she had a spare roll of toilet paper. She went to the grocery store or Wal-mart daily if she needed something to cook (and I use the word "cook" loosely- more like "heat-up"). Most of the time, she and her unfortunate husband didn't eat, and if they did it was because they took the long trip up to Pikeville and got something. I can't tell you what she bought, but she never had money, even for paper products.

Post-kids Tracee always has paper towels. She plans ahead. She is always never without tissues and has at least four back-up rolls of toilet paper at all times. She never runs out of soap, shampoo, medicine, and in normal circumstances, diaper wipes. She cooks (still "heats up") dinner every night and plans out every dinner at least two weeks in advance when she takes stock of the ingredients she needs and makes a detailed shopping list that is divided by aisles. She also picks out her children's and her own clothes for the entire week based on the weather forecast every Sunday. She is a creature of organization and habit.

How in the world can I reconcile these two Tracees? They are as different as night and day, and there's not much they have in common. Pre-kids Tracee talked about band, school, and more band. Post-kids Tracee talks about facebook, diapers, and childhood diseases. Would I be friends with me? How is it possible to change that much in just a couple of years? Oh, yeah, I know the answer:

Story and Ivy. They're good...they put me through trial and error all the time.

Poop in the tub

I was lucky with Ivy- she never pooped in the tub. Ever. The possibility of it never even crossed my mind.

I was not so lucky the second time around. Story is a serial tub pooper.

Story loves to take a bath. She pooped in the tub for the first time at 6 months and has managed a bowel movement during her bath about once a month since then until her recent potty training.

When she has pooped in the tub in the past, I have been left with a huge dilemma- what to do? Do I scoop it out and continue with the bath? Is the water actually tainted? How long would the poop have to be in there before it actually dispersed poop-germs throughout the water? Should I clean the tub afterwards?

Here's the major conflict- I am super cheap and running an entire bathtub of water for the second time in one evening would bother me immensely. BUT, I am also an anti-germ OCD kind of person. It also bothers me to think of microscopic poop all over the tub. And the toys. And the kids.

If I get the kids out of the tub, then they sit in the bathroom crying about how cold and wet they are while I empty the tub and scrub it down, pull out the toys to run over with antibacterial wipes, rinse, and refill the tub. by the time I am done, they are probably running around the house getting microscopic poop germs on everything. Plus, I am going to have to get them new towels because of the microscopic poop germs....and new towels mean the old ones need washed which is even more water...

But, if I scoop it out quickly and flush it, and continue to bathe the kids, all I can think is that they are covered in poop. And the tub is covered in poop. I will hesitate to touch them, and then when I comb their hair, I am getting poop in the comb. And on everything they touch- their sheets, toys, clothes, dishes, sippy cups, the couch...the list goes on and on. If I don't clean the tub after, I will keep spreading feces for much longer than just one evening. But, I will have saved money.

So, what wins? Money or germs?

That being said, potty training Story was the best. idea. ever.

Hair bands

There was a small piece of a hair band floating in the tub as the water ran out.

"Mommy," Ivy said, "can that hair band go down the drain?"

I looked up. "Yes, it'll be fine." I said.

"But where will it go" she asked.

"Down the drain."

"But where?"

"The sewer."

"What's the sewer?"

I said I didn't know. She contered with, "What if another hair band goes down the drain?"

"We'll get more."

"What if they ALL went down the drain? I would be so sad. I like my hair bands."

"Ivy," I said, "There is no way ALL the hair bands will go down the drain." *Mentally knocking on wood.*

"What if you put them down the drain?"

"I wouldn't."

"You might," she said.

"I won't."

"But what if they accidentally go down the drain?" she asked. At this point, I was trying hard not to bang my head against the wall.

"Ivy, that's not going to happen."

"It might."

"It won't. We'll buy more."

"But they won't be the same."

"Yes they will."

"Mommy, what if all the hair bands in the world go down the drain?"

"They won't."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Because why? How do you know?"

I stared her down and refused to answer.

"Okay," she said. After a short pause, she asked meekly, "Are you sure?"

Questions from Ivy

Here's the latest compilation of difficult to anser Ivy questions:

Mommy, does God know everything, even that I like purple?

How did you learn to read, Mommy?

Was Story and I always in your belly before we were borned?

Why is Story so mean?

Why is cleaning so boring?

Who made pumpkins?  Why are they orange? Why are pumpkins for Halloween?

Why did the chicken cross the road? No, REALLY Mommy!

Did the boy who played Jesus in the play know Jesus? Did Jesus really look like that boy? Why not?

How does the car know where to drive us?

Why do you get fired if you don't go to work?

Why do boys stand up to pee?

When will I be grown up?

How long did it take you to be grown up, Mommy?

Why can't you and I share a room? Daddy can share a room with Story.

And this was just today......

Disclaimer

I started thinking about my blog today, and I just want you to know that regardless of what I write, I DO love my children. Yeah, they get lots of ketchup, I give them Kool-aid, I might drop them in the middle of the night and sometimes Ivy's mulit-decibel voice grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Really. Just saying. :)

Bedtime Antics

My kids hate to sleep. No, let me rephrase that...they hate to sleep before 11 PM.


Ivy and Story seem to have this internal clock that cause them to try and stay awake until 11 and sleep until 9. Unfortunately, they have to be up at 6:30, which means they really need to go to sleep at 8:30.


But that ain't happening.


Even with the best intentions, they will rarely get in bed before 9, and will probably lay there awake and crying for at least an hour.


Last night, I was determined that they'd be in bed asleep before nine! We ate dinner early, had baths early, and at 8:40 I yelled, "Bed time!!" Which instantly caused Ivy to burst into tears and Story to run around screaming "Catch me!" frantically.


I told Ivy to chin up and sent her to her bed while I concentrated on catching Story. After two revolutions around the furniture, I finally faked her out and had her writhing, thrashing, tutu-clad body in my arms. I met sobbing Ivy in the hallway and ushered her back to her bedroom.


I rocked Story for two minutes until the sound of Ivy's wails were so loud as to attract the neighborhood coyotes. I dropped Story in the crib, and she started to cry. I ran in Ivy's room and tried to console her. We read a book, but I couldn't hear what I was saying because Story's cries were even louder than Ivy's (who is the loudest child on the Earth- Story has accomplished a large feat!!!). I gave Ivy two more books to look at, and rushed back to Story's room.


Story didn't stop crying, though, just because I came back. She wanted OUT. It's not FAIR. Where's my POLLY POCKET? I settled into the rocking chair and tried my best to convince her to stop treating the crib like a trampoline. (Remind me to buy a new crib if I ever have any more kids- this one is probably ready to fall apart) Finally, I had to use the counting method (1..2..3..all right, spanking time). She laid down with a shriek, which caused sympathetic shrieks from Ivy in the next room.  


I quickly lost most of what was left of my hearing. I blew Story a kiss, popped my head into Ivy's room to say goodnight, and plopped myself on the couch with my snuggie and my netbook. This is what occurred as I sat there for the next hour:
IVY: Mooooommmmy, Story's crying, I can't sleep.
STORY: NO I NOT!!!!!!!!!!!! WAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
IVY: Mooooommmy, can you come turn my light on?
STORY: Mommy! I need a drinkie!!!!
IVY: Story, stop!!!!!!!!
STORY: MOMMY, I need you!
IVY: Mommy, I'm scared.
STORY: Jingle bells, jingle bells.......


I yelled, "No!" a couple times, and threatened to close their doors, too....eventually, they fell asleep, exhausted. I can't promise it was before I did, though! An hour and a half is too much of that!

Nyquil

Nyquil is an awesome thing when you're really sick. It puts you in this coma-like sleep for the whole night.

The only problem is that when you wake up, especially when something wakes you up, unless you've had 14.7 hours of sleep, you get the "nyquil hangover." And really, the last time I slept for 14 hours was probably when I was a newborn.

When you wake up with the nyquil hangover, you can't walk straight. For instance, when you are trying to get to your daughter's room where she has been screaming for thirty minutes trying to wake you up to come and get her, you might trip over anything. Even a slight variation in your hardwood floor.

Nyquil also destroys the ability for your arms to be controlled by your brain. When you try to pick up said daughter, it might take you three tries to actually get your hands on her and lift her out of the crib. Once in your arms, her deathgrip on your neck is the only thing that is keeping her from tumbling onto the floor.

The nyquil hangover also impairs your judgement. While trying to make it back to your bedroom with whimpering toddler, you might decide to check on your other kid, who should be sleeping in her bed. When you find that that kid is not in her bed, you might panic unnecessarily and begin to search her room frantically even though you have lost the ability to walk straight and you have a 30 lb. weight holding onto your shoulder.

Further impairment of logical thought might result in your running through the house yelling, "Ivy!" When you make it to your bedroom and discover Ivy sleeping at the bottom of the bed with her Daddy's feet in her face, you might also decide that she has suffocated, which causes you to toss the toddler into the bed on Daddy, slap his feet away, and prepare yourself to administer CPR to your now awake older daughter who is looking at you like you are weird.

The nyquil hangover also causes you to ignore everything you have just done and collapse in sleep in whatever position you might be in. For instance, if the older daughter says, "Silly Mommy, I came in here 'cause I was scared," and your husband has yet to wake up even though you threw a toddler at him and tried to kill his feet, you might then align yourself on the small sliver of bed the toddler and husband have left for you and instantly fall back asleep without remembering any of this until 9 AM the following morning. Especially since the nyquil caused you not to notice the older daughter was in your bed in the first place.

Story's potty saga

Last night, Story pooped in the potty. Tonight before dinner she did it again, and came to get me both times. It was a good thing.

After her bath tonight, she apparently pooped again, but she didn't come and get me. Ivy did. She said, "Mommy, Story's poop looks weird." (This in the uber-loud sing-song voice).

I ran to the bathroom and saw Story standing in the hallway totally clothed (in the tutu, too). I gingerly looked in the tiny potty and saw......diarrhea. I am not prepared to deal with potty training diarrhea....

Then, I remembered what I just saw. "Story, did you wipe yourself?" I asked. She looked at me like I was stupid, and said , "No." Ivy added (in the very loud tattle tale voice), "Mooooommy, Story didn't wipe herself!"

So, I dragged her back in the bathroom, pulled the pants down hoping for the best, and got prepared for the worst with the wipes at my side. I neglected to notice the open jello cup in her hand.

When I yanked the panties down, the jello fell out of her hands, and in a slow motion tumble, fell on the bathroom floor where tiny pieces of red gelatin exploded from their plastic cup onto white tile, white sink cabinet, and Mommy.

Yuck. Poop and jello.

I cleaned everything, and in a moment of absence of the mind, I threw the wipes into the toilet where Ivy had just dumped the diarrhea.....and in case, you don't know, wipes cannot be flushed. So, in a move I am embarrassed to be recounting on the internet, I reached in and pulled the wipes out of the toilet, and tossed them into the trash can. As I was scalding my hands (which is becoming a daily occurrence), Ivy started yelling, "Mommy!!! WHY is there jello in the toilet?!?!?!?!" You know, a question that cannot possibly be answered in my state of mind.

WHAT????

Ivy TALKS LIKE THIS ALL THE TIME.

She can't seem to be quiet. Ever.

I thought she might have a hearing problem, but she seems to hear everything I whisper to anyone but her just fine. Of course, she's got this memory thing where she doesn't remember hearing me whisper uuntil the exact moment which for her to repeat it would be extremely embarrassing.

She talks in a shout. She shouts in a scream. And when she screams....I am deafened.

Why? Why is it that she can't seem to speak in a normal voice? Or at least stop talking for a few seconds to breathe. Now that I think about it, she is so loud and she never stops to take in air. It must be some kind of supernatural power.

Just this evening she was shouting at me as I ate my dinner and attempted to watch The Office (a favorite time for her to shout). I left the room and went into the bedroom to change clothes, and she never ceased. She did, however, get louder. I tried to shout over her, "I am in the bedroom! Stop talking to me! I will be back in a minute!" But there was no way I was getting heard over her.

I am starting to see why Story pinches her all the time.

Dreaming and Fear

This morning at 5 AM I was in the kitchen drinking coffee and preparing to do Yoga when all of a sudden I heard Ivy sing a verse of a song. I hesitated before I rushed in there.

I am a chicken.

It all started before I can remember. When I was little, we lived in a 5 room house. You could almost see every part of the house from any other part of the house. However, I could not walk from the living room through the lit house to go to the bathroom by myself. I trembled in fear of being alone in the bedroom connecting the two even though my mom could see me all the way.

I have been known to scream when I get scared, even if there is nothing to scare me. One time, I screamed in the shower and my husband came rushing in. "What??" he said, out of breath.

"Um, I thought I saw a shadow outside of the curtain?"

He shook his head. There's a heavy fabric curtain on the shower- there was no way I would see a shadow unless it was mine in the shower.

When I lived by myself, I used to shower with the curtain open so I could see the monster that was coming to kill me. I also used to sleep on the couch with every light on in the apartment and a knife on the coffee table. That is until I realized that if I was asleep, my unknown assailant could use the knife on me.

What does this have to do with Ivy singing in her sleep? Well, everything!

What if I walked in there and she was in some kind of possessed trance? If she was floating over the bed? If there was an evil ghost sitting on the bed making her sing in her sleep? If she opened her eyes and they were red?

See why I don't watch scary movies?

I summoned up my courage to walk in there finally (no knife in hand, aren't you proud of me?) and checked on her. She was still sleeping. No ghosts. No levitation. No red eyes. Just a dream.

A time of peace

The house is quiet. Ivy is upstairs playing. Story is coloring on the coffee table. Well, she's coloring a coloring book on the coffee table, not on the actual table. Which has happened before, mind.

What's wrong with this picture? My kids who have been at each other's throats for two weeks are peacefully coexisting in the same house. How is this possible?

Then, I realize, they are in separate rooms. On separate floors. Maybe I should run with this.

Technically, my husband and I could split them up Parent Trap style but still live in the house. He and Ivy could have the half with two bedrooms, playroom, and bathroom. Story and I could live in the master suite, and occassionally we could meet in the living room/kitchen....

Of course, I'd have to go over to their side to do laundry....or maybe I can just throw my clothes on that side and wait for them to appear back in my room magically clean? We could totally time share the kitchen and the big TV.

When things get better, we can resort to normal living arrangements. When they get bad again, we'll reinforce the holy split. The girls might miss each other! And be happy to see their sister!

Of course, if I have any more kids, that would probably be a custody issue.....that's okay. I'd let my husband take the baby to his side, hee hee.

Slick tick

My husband thought this was a good story, but I just think it's his attempt for the world to find out how deranged I actually am.

Sunday morning, I went to the grocery store at 6 AM, which is a usual thing for me to do (I go alone, there's no one in walmart, etc. I am sure it will be the topic of a later post). When I got home, my husband was getting ready for his Sunday morning golf shootout. Ivy came in and started talking as loud as she could, and I was walking around the bed in my tennis shoes trying to pull the covers up.

I stepped on something, and it popped under my foot. I was fairly certain that I had just broken a toy or something, so I lifted my foot to examine it, prepared to make a hasty departure for the trash can, hiding the toy from Ivy. Instead, I saw a stream of something dark across the floor.

Suddenly I became concerned that I had stepped on an ink pen or marker and had just shot ink across my hardwood floor. I knelt down and stuck my fingers in the dark streaks, looking at it carefully. It didn't feel like ink....I brought the finger up for a sniff....it didn't smell like ink either. I thought abstractedly that it kind of looked like blood, but it was too gloppy.

As I lifted my shoe, I noticed this greyish thing flat on the floor. It kind of looked like a deflated pea pod. I picked it up and realized that whatever it was, the ink had come out of it....what would a pod of ink be doing on the floor next to the bed? I wondered.

I turned the pod over and pver in my fingers.....and then I saw LEGS. I immediately knew what it was- a really full TICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I sat down hard on the floor, dropping the offensive deflated bug-shell-thingy. Normally, I have a stomach of steel. I can clean up anything: puke, pee, poop, hairballs, etc. And I have definitely overcome my aversion to insects. After growing up in the bug-free city, and then moving to the spider house of death, I thought I was a goner, but now I can kill anything!

So, why I almost passed out and puked at the same time with three fingers covered in tick-guts I have no idea.

Ivy rushed to get Daddy, and my husband came in to find me slouched on the floor, pale, gagging with three bloody fingers held out in front of me. He immediately thought the worst and went looking for the finger I was obviously missing. (He actually told me that he thought the tick body might have been my finger- yuck!)

He helped me up, and I immediately sprang into action mode. I ran to the bathroom, scalded my fingers and washed them three times. Then, I sprinted to the kitchen where I grabbed the hardwood floor cleaner, and gave the floor several good sprays before I felt good enought to mop it up, along with the squishy tick. Rob found an intact full tick on the other side of the bed, but I refused to deal with that one.

Later, I found a tick on my hip. I almost passed out again.

Abby the dog is staying outside all day every day till I can get something to take those nasty things off of her...ew.

Kool-Aid vs. Juice

So, here's my latest entry for Mom of the Year- I give my kids Kool-Aid.

My kids don't like juice really. And juice is expensive. I'd probably spend $10 a week in juice, but it takes me 3 months to spend $10 on kool-aid.

Plus, juice has all sorts of sugar in it. I control how much sugar I put in Kool-Aid. And I usually put less than what the package says. In fact, my husband hates my kool-aid because it tastes like water. So, that's good, right? My kids are practically drinking water!


If I run out of kool-aid, I always have more to make right then. If I run out of juice, well, that's a trip to the store! Time wasted that I could be spending with my kids! (Okay, that's a lie, it's time wasted that I could be spending on facebook.)

And I feed the kids fruit. I think I read somewhere that it was actually better to feed them the fruit than for them to drink it. So, technically, I'm an awesome mom for giving them *almost* water to drink AND feeding them fruit, right? (Let's not think about how wild they are, okay? Just focus on the theory.)

In this train of thought, I should also be applauded for my constant use of ketchup (lycopene, people!) and the way I push cereal (vitamins!). Yeah, they eat fries, but I bake them, which everyone knows is waaaay better than putting them in oil! And the only candy they consume is what they get when Mommy's not paying attention and they drag the stool over to the countertop and rummage the top cabinets where I keep my stash. Okay, it's technically their holiday candy that I hide from them for my own use, but that's just one more awesome mom quality! I hide candy from my kids!

Now that I have confessed my greatness, the next time I hear a knock at the door, I'll open it widely welcoming the Mom of the Year committee proudly into my house....or I'll be hiding under the bed from the social workers.

Overnight in E-town

My husband had a meeting in Elizabethtown Saturday morning, and asked if the kids and I would like to go with him. I thought it would be a good idea- a chance to leave the house, stay in a hotel, swim in the pool, and eat some fast food. So, we decided after school on Friday to pack as fast as we could and get on the road, which happened as planned. Ivy packed a suitcase with some toys in it, we packed clothes and we were off.

But nothing happens easily for me. We had a couple of errands to run on the way out of town, which we did, but then the DVD player started acting up by reverting to the "blue screen" every 15 seconds. (I would like to interject here and add that I have no idea how my parents carted me and my siblings on 3 hour car trips every other weekend to see our grandparents without a DVD player!) So, I opened it, let it cool, inserted new CD, and closed it again. It then played 30 seconds of a DVD before the infamous blue screen came back to haunt us.

And, of course, my little darlings couldn't just wait patiently for the thing to restart. Every time the screen came back, Ivy would shout (because she can't just talk in an enclosed space), "Mooooom, the DVD is back to bluuuueee!" (In the tattling voice!) Then, Story had to repeat what she said in gibberish between mouthfuls of cookie, but at an even higher decibel level.

Step two of fixing the DVD player? Change DVD's at lightning speed followed by brief slaps on the screen. Which didn't work AND caused Ivy to tattle on me to Daddy. Daddy already knew what Mommy had done, though, because when I slapped the DVD player frantically he had his head on the headrest where it was attached.

On our way we went, crying/chatty kids, frustrated Mommy, head aching Daddy. As we pulled up to the restaurant where we'd decided to eat, the clouds opened up and it poured. When we got back in the car, we desperately tried to find a Walmart to buy arm floaties (because I forgot to pack them in my haste), but the GPS and the Droid were of no immediate help. When we eventually found one, it was 4 miles away from the exit. Rob and Ivy were asleep in the car, so I woke Rob up and locked him in with the kids. I went into the store by myself, and with only a couple sideways glances from sinister characters, managed to find the floaties and leave.

I got back in and drove. Fifteen minutes later, I had to stop at a gas station and down a 5 hour energy, even though I was only 30 minutes away. Those little funny dreamy-things kept dancing on the road in front of the car.

We got to the hotel, checked in, got everything up to the room, and then my husband crashed. I, howeve, had 4 hours and 30 minutes of energy left. I took a shower, laid out clothes, reorganized the suitcase, and facebooked. I think I went to sleep just shy of 3 AM.

At 7 AM, I had two kids (who could not possibly wake up easily at that time on a Tuesday) bouncing on their bed and mine. I got up, they got dressed, and we went to the continental breakfast. Ivy had a waffle. Story had three botes of a waffle, three bites of bagel, and one of banana. We went back upstairs and got ready for the pool.

After taking the elevator downstairs clad in our suits and arm floaties (which caused a big fight amongst the natives, even though both pairs were identical!), we noticed that the pool door was locked. I inquired at the front desk, and they said the pumps were being repaired and they would call me when it was fixed. Back up the elevator we went, and had been back in the room for 10 minutes when the front desk dude called me and said, "Nevermind, the pool is broke." But, he assured me I could pack my kids, floaties, towels, and purse across the parking lot in the 45 degree wind to the hotelo next door and use their pool. No thanks, dude. Ivy cried. Story whined. We undressed.

Then, Ivy started acting funny. She was pale, said her head hurt, and that she might have to "spill hotdogs" (throw up). I made her lay by the toilet for 30 minutes, but nothing happened.

Eventually, it was time to check out. My husband still had a meeting to go to, and my plan was to get lunch and window shop. I packed the suitcases, gathered the bags, and told the kids to follow me to the elevator, which they did. We got in, I pushed the button to go down, the doors shut, and I looked over at Ivy just in time to see her cover her mouth and throw up the aforementioned waffle. When the elevator door opened, I threw everything out (including Story, I think) and rushed her to the bathroom. We left a trail of vomit and by the time she was next to the toilet, she was done puking.

After I alerted housekeeping, cleaned Ivy up (since when do I only bring one pair of jeans for her??), and got out to the car, Ivy had decided she was fine and wanted to go to the restaurant "that sells pizza and has the big potato on the top." I asked some leading questions and figured out that she meant Fazoli's. I was pretty nervous, but she assured me she was fine and wasn't going to spill anymore hotdogs. When we got there, we had a mini lesson on the difference between potatoes and tomatoes.

Halfway through lunch, Story puked on the table. Glad that I had just finished my ravioli, I cleaned up that mess and got us the heck out of there.

I dragged them into about three stores, bought them antacid and toys to make up for not getting to swim (can I mention that Polly Pocket and long car trips are not a match made in heaven?), and went back to the hotel to pick up Rob. When he started driving, I immediately became engrossed with abusing the DVD player again, and finally made him go to Best Buy so we could get a new one for the five hour trip back home. We ended up getting this one: http://www.amazon.com/Philips-PET7402-37-7-Inch-Portable/dp/B001V3B8YC/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1271602339&sr=8-1-spell and it worked well, which made for a quiet trip home.

Well, almost quiet. Story didn't want to watch the Barbie as Pegasus DVD and Ivy tends to scream a lot during Tom and Jerry.

Needless to say, I am staying PUT for the next three weekends!!

Fighting amongst my offspring

This past week, the girls have been fighting. A lot.

Usually it's over some "thing". For instance, yesterday Ivy was holding a marker. She puts it down on the coffee table, and walks away to get something else. Story saw that something her sister was holding is no longer in her possession, so she grabs it. Ivy has a sixth sense about those things, and she immediately senses that something she once had is now in the hands of her enemy.

So, Ivy shouts at the top of her little lungs, "MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!! Story took my marker!" She used that sing-song voice that usually accompanies "Nah nah nah boo boo." Nothing irritates me more.

"Story! Give it back!" I yell.

Story responds to this admonishment by running around the living room gleefully in her tutu (and nothing else, the preferred method of wearing it). Ivy chases her, I start counting....and eventually we all three end in tears.

But, what's fair here? Ivy did put it down. But she did have it first. How am I going to judge who should get the marker? Story definitely only took it because Ivy had it, but Ivy put it down. In these cases, I most often have to end up taking it away from both of them, which causes a volcanic meltdown of mega proportions, and I try to avoid those if at all possible.

If I let one of them keep it, I can't seem to interest the other one in anything, even CANDY!

Sometimes I get all Biblical on them and try to cut whatever it is in half in hopes that one of them will sacrifice it to the other.....but this always backfires, too.

I like it when my husband is home, because then I can pass the job of judge on to him. I just try to ignore the ensuing fight when one of them takes something the other one had in the hopes that his toleration for screaming is less than mine, and he'll step in and deal with it. (Please don't tell him because he might try to outlast me.) Then, when the offended party starts crying, Mommy can step in and be "good cop."

And I can only imagine this getting worse- what happens when they fight over clothes? Boys? Really, am I going to threaten to cut little Johnny Smith in half when they both like him?

Hopefully I'll figure it out. Soon. But, let's be honest- I probably never will.

Since Story turned three

Since Story turned three, she's had a huge change in behavior. I am trying to document this so when she's 16, I can look back and A. Realize this might be the turning point or B. Look back and think, "Thank God she's not three anymore!!"

• Story refuses to take off her tutu. She has two green and blue ones that she sleeps in. She has a dirty pink one with an attached long sleeved shirt that she wants to put on the second she comes in from daycare. She likes to wear that one outside everyday in front of the neighbors, who by now I am sure are contemplating her sanity. She likes to wear these tutus with no other clothing, not even panties.
• Story likes the word NO. Not that she never used it before, but she's really expanded her use of it: "Story, are you hungry?" NO! "Do you need the potty?" NO! "Do you like Santa?" NO! "Why are you crying?" NO! "Let's get out of the bathtub." NO! "No." NO! NO! NO! NO!!!!!!
• She has also learned the word WHY and when to use it. But, I really don't think she cares to actually know why, she just wants to be annoying.
• She wants to eat crescent rolls. All the time.
• She refuses to eat at every meal (even the ones of the pizza persuasion). After leaving it sit on the table for three hours without touching it, I usually let the dog have it. At this point, she uses that internal toddler radar and runs screaming into the kitchen shouting "Where's my FOOD????? Who ate my FOOD??????" So, guilt ridden as I am, I fix her more food....which she leaves on the table and does not touch.
• She bullies Ivy non-stop. I have tried to convince Ivy that if she puts her foot down, Story will stop (and then I of course can spend more time on facebook). Ivy decides the better plan is tattling at the top of a singsong voice. This plan backfires because I get annoyed with the tattling and yell at Ivy rather than the little devil who started it all. Seriously, can't these kids govern themselves yet? :)

I am sure I could think of more, but I might have to go do something.

My first post

I thought I'd create a blog to categorize the numerous interesting things that happen to me that I usually create a one line blurb about and post on facebook. Sometimes things need more explanation!

For instance, the time my daughter Story took her panties off, put her pants back on and pooped in them after I told her not to poop in her panties anymore. You just can't describe the hour and fifteen minutes it took me to scrub her down, chisel the poop out of the pant leg, and sanitize the bathroom in a sentence or two.

Or how about my fun filled conversations with my five year old, Ivy? Seriously, I shorten them greatly when I am posting them. There was the one where she repeated the same two sentences twenty times over until I stopped her. I could recreate them in their entirety!!

Of course, my dad always loves my conversations that start out with, "Hey Dad...let's say there was this 31 year old mom of two girls, and hypothetically she....." which end with things like, "fed her girls expired eggs. Like WAY expired," or "left the kool-aid out all day, is it hypothetically safe to drink?" I think this random information is valuable to the masses of people like me who probably are an inch away from killing their entire family with salmonella every day.

And then there are my random ideas. Today I seriously considered altering my entire wardrobe to what it would be in the 1800's. Lots less clothing to wash....and pretty cool hidden pockets. Plus, I'd get to wear hats and gloves and no underwear. Pretty cool. Of course, I'd probably lose my job because they'd figure out what a nutso I actually am.

If no one I might offend were actually reading this blog, I could vent! I mean really vent! I could call all those people who illegally fish on the golf course and walk through my yard like it's a frickin' state park lots of names!!

In short, this could be like therapy!