Like the fabulous mommy I am, I have no idea when I am supposed to start letting my kids have real toothpaste instead of the swallowable kind (you know, with Thomas the Train Engine on it?)
At some point that I can't remember, I talked Ivy into using real toothpaste. (Well, kind of real...it tastes like bubble gum and has a picture of Dora on the tube.) I made her rinse with a cup of water after every brush so she wouldn't get a bunch in her mouth and swallow it. She took to it extremely well, trusting that her mommy was right in all things. She followed my instructions exactly and now brushes her teeth with finesse. She prefers the toothpaste that "doesn't taste like minty gum."
Story, on the other hand, never ever ever trusts her mommy about anything. She worries constantly, reminding me how to do things if I vary from the norm ever so slightly.
So, you can imagine what happened when I tried to persuade her to use Ivy's toothpaste a couple of months ago. She said, very simply, "No."
So, I pushed a little. She screamed, "NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" So I gave it up for a week. All week long, I talked about what a good girl Ivy was for brushing her teeth with the "good girl" toothpaste. Story didn't care.
After the week was up, I tried it again. This time I got the brush in her mouth and on her teeth before she realized what was happening. But, when she did, she gagged and screamed at the same time. I pulled the brush out immediately and Story did her impression of an exorcism by turning red, convulsing, and spraying toothpaste and spit in a wide arc around the bathroom.
I waited a couple of days this time. I tried again after her bath one night, using the smallest drop of toothpaste I could. The gagging, crying, and spitting ensued, but this time I wasn't fooled by the act. I persevered, forcing her to open her mouth so I could wiggle the toothbrush around a bit and feel like I'd accomplished something.
For several weeks, this power struggle continued. In the morning, I let her use the baby toothpaste, but after her bath, the battle was on. You'd think it would have gotten less traumatic after a couple of days, but Story has unheard of staying power. I hope she uses powers for good and not evil one day.
Now, she uses the "big girl" toothpaste at ever brushing. She still gags. Sometimes she cries and turns red, but at least we're not wrestling anymore. I'm assuming that she'll grow out of this by the time she's in college.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The correlation between the day of the week and the cleanliness of my house
During the weekend, I clean like none other. Vacuuming, mopping, dishes, laundry, dusting, organizing, and toy removal.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to do this. It's not like it will ever be done....there will never be a point at which I sit down and say, "Wow. There's nothing else to do." Unlike God, there will never be that seventh day of rest in which everything I have done is perfect and finished.
But for some reason I persevere. Some involuntary part of me thinks the week will go better if it starts with a clean house.
Assuming I finished the clean-a-thon by Sunday evening, on Monday evening, I cook dinner and marvel at how clean everything is. In order to preserve it, I wash dishes as I cook and I carefully straighten every room before I go to bed.
On Tuesday, I attempt to unload and reload the dishwasher, but some dishes remain in the sink. The girls' rooms probably have toys strewn about, and I've not put away some of my bathroom products.
Wednesday evening, the house goes crazy. Somehow while I'm giving lessons, every toy manages to hop out of the toybox and onto the carpet. No dish gets washed because no dinner dish makes it from the table to the sink. Clothes jump out of closets and hampers. Beds aren't made. Clean towels end up on the floor. Even though there is no mud within 10000 feet of the house, the dog will leave muddy footprints all over the floor.
Thursday is our busiest evening of the week. I'm gone and the girls come home with their Daddy. They totally take advantage of him by bringing toys into every room that doesn't usually contain them (and these aren't regular toys- oh, no, they are my nemeses Polly Pocket and Littlest Pet Shop, which are hard to clean up when the mess is centralized). Somehow beds that aren't made become destroyed. Blankets are pulled out of baskets and laid throughout the house. When I come home, I try to immediately go to bed. I can't take sitting in the nightmare that was my clean house.
Friday after school, I don my tennis shoes and jogging pants and get to work. I try to focus on decluttering one room at a time, but in the end, I'm doing laps from one end of the house to the other putting stuff away. It usually takes me several hours...and no real cleaning is happening. Every thing's just going back in its place. Hey, at least it's exercise, right?
And Saturday morning, the cycle begins again.
I'm not sure why I feel the need to do this. It's not like it will ever be done....there will never be a point at which I sit down and say, "Wow. There's nothing else to do." Unlike God, there will never be that seventh day of rest in which everything I have done is perfect and finished.
But for some reason I persevere. Some involuntary part of me thinks the week will go better if it starts with a clean house.
Assuming I finished the clean-a-thon by Sunday evening, on Monday evening, I cook dinner and marvel at how clean everything is. In order to preserve it, I wash dishes as I cook and I carefully straighten every room before I go to bed.
On Tuesday, I attempt to unload and reload the dishwasher, but some dishes remain in the sink. The girls' rooms probably have toys strewn about, and I've not put away some of my bathroom products.
Wednesday evening, the house goes crazy. Somehow while I'm giving lessons, every toy manages to hop out of the toybox and onto the carpet. No dish gets washed because no dinner dish makes it from the table to the sink. Clothes jump out of closets and hampers. Beds aren't made. Clean towels end up on the floor. Even though there is no mud within 10000 feet of the house, the dog will leave muddy footprints all over the floor.
Thursday is our busiest evening of the week. I'm gone and the girls come home with their Daddy. They totally take advantage of him by bringing toys into every room that doesn't usually contain them (and these aren't regular toys- oh, no, they are my nemeses Polly Pocket and Littlest Pet Shop, which are hard to clean up when the mess is centralized). Somehow beds that aren't made become destroyed. Blankets are pulled out of baskets and laid throughout the house. When I come home, I try to immediately go to bed. I can't take sitting in the nightmare that was my clean house.
Friday after school, I don my tennis shoes and jogging pants and get to work. I try to focus on decluttering one room at a time, but in the end, I'm doing laps from one end of the house to the other putting stuff away. It usually takes me several hours...and no real cleaning is happening. Every thing's just going back in its place. Hey, at least it's exercise, right?
And Saturday morning, the cycle begins again.
Monday, January 17, 2011
My house, the stranger
I end up traveling. A lot. Especially for someone who doesn't like to leave the house.
Many of my forays into the outside world are overnight. If we're gone for a night, I try to straighten up the house a bit before I leave. When we come back, it's no big deal to unpack and get into our routine again.
Some of our trips are more than one night...and for some odd reason the math doesn't work on packing. Instead of taking the overnight trip and adding that much more stuff per day, instead we take the amount of stuff for overnight, multiply it by 3.281, and pack it into every single bag we have.
I clean the house furiously before we go somewhere for more than one night. I like coming home to a clean house...however, 99.8% of the time we destroy the house rummaging through drawers and closets on our way out the door.
When we get home, I have the exponentially enormous luggage to unpack, plus the last minute stuff we drug out, and any presents the animals have left for me.
The house also feels weird. (See? I am finally getting to the point. Don't lose faith, readers!) It's like I can't seem to reconcile it with the house I left...is the stuff in the fridge good? What's even in the fridge? Is the dishwasher clean? Did I take the trash out before I left? What's that smell in the sink???
I walk to the bedroom. Are my sheets clean? Is there dirty laundry in the bins? Did I suddenly get a bed bug infestation? Does the shower still work?? Is that really where I put my jeans in the closet????
See, even a short absence can make me feel like I don't know my own home. It's like I gingerly put stuff away and get to know the place again when we get home. It feels weird to just step back into things...the end result is that my house feels like a stranger; like a beach house you rent where you have to look for everything and get used to its weird smell.
Maybe it's something to do with routines, and not about my house at all. Or maybe I'm just nuts.
And this might possibly be the worst blog ever.
Many of my forays into the outside world are overnight. If we're gone for a night, I try to straighten up the house a bit before I leave. When we come back, it's no big deal to unpack and get into our routine again.
Some of our trips are more than one night...and for some odd reason the math doesn't work on packing. Instead of taking the overnight trip and adding that much more stuff per day, instead we take the amount of stuff for overnight, multiply it by 3.281, and pack it into every single bag we have.
I clean the house furiously before we go somewhere for more than one night. I like coming home to a clean house...however, 99.8% of the time we destroy the house rummaging through drawers and closets on our way out the door.
When we get home, I have the exponentially enormous luggage to unpack, plus the last minute stuff we drug out, and any presents the animals have left for me.
The house also feels weird. (See? I am finally getting to the point. Don't lose faith, readers!) It's like I can't seem to reconcile it with the house I left...is the stuff in the fridge good? What's even in the fridge? Is the dishwasher clean? Did I take the trash out before I left? What's that smell in the sink???
I walk to the bedroom. Are my sheets clean? Is there dirty laundry in the bins? Did I suddenly get a bed bug infestation? Does the shower still work?? Is that really where I put my jeans in the closet????
See, even a short absence can make me feel like I don't know my own home. It's like I gingerly put stuff away and get to know the place again when we get home. It feels weird to just step back into things...the end result is that my house feels like a stranger; like a beach house you rent where you have to look for everything and get used to its weird smell.
Maybe it's something to do with routines, and not about my house at all. Or maybe I'm just nuts.
And this might possibly be the worst blog ever.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Ivy, and Marley, and Me.
**SPOILER ALERT**
For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.
My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.
"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.
At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.
There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)
Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)
I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?
WRONG.
Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:
Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.
but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.
I think I'm actually going to have to write it.
And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)
For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.
My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.
"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.
At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.
There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)
Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)
I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?
WRONG.
Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:
- Where did Marley go when he died?
- Why didn't they just make the movie with him being alive and happy at the end?
- Why couldn't the doctor fix Marley?
- Did the family get a new puppy?
- Who made this movie be like this?
Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.
but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.
I think I'm actually going to have to write it.
And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)
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