Guess What

Some days, Ivy gets a weird verbal tic where she has to say "Guess what?" thirty times before she's allowed to say anything else.....

Ivy in the car today after the doctor's office:

IVY: Mommy?
ME: What?
IVY: Guess what?
*I pause as I wait for her to tell me "what."
IVY: Mommy!!
ME: What?
IVY: I said guess what!
*Another dramatic pause as I waited.
IVY: MOMMY!!!!
ME: What?
IVY: Guessssss WHAT!
*Still waiting.
IVY: Mommy Tracee!!!!!
ME: What?????
IVY: I said "guess what" and you didn't say anything!!
ME: I was waiting on you to tell me 'what.'
IVY: But, Mommy, when I say "Guess what" you're supposed to guess what I'm going to say.
ME: How can I guess? I don't know what you're going to say.
IVY: (in a stage whisper) When I say "Guess what," you just say, "What?" Okay?
ME: Sure.
IVY: Mommy?
ME: Yes, Ivy.
IVY: Guess what!
ME: WHAT?
*Silence.
ME: Ivy, what????
IVY: Welllllll........Oh, I forgot.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Story Brown!

I have never carved a pumpkin.

Okay, that's a lie, apparently I carved one at a party when I was sixteen, but like many many other things that happened pre-college, I don;t really remember it.

But, I thought that it would be a really cool thing to do with my kids. And I thought for sure I could do it as long as I read about it on eHow first. Which I did.

And confident with that, I took the girls to buy pumpkins yesterday at Wal-mart. I decided to use the self-checkout since most of the lines were at least three people deep. I scanned each pumpkin, then waited patiently as the machine freaked out when I placed them in a bag. I inserted my cash, and waited for my change ($2.24!) to magically appear. The coins rolled down the chute, but the cash dispenser remained empty. I got down on it's level and saw my two dollar bills smushed deep inside the slot.

The lady running the self-checkouts called for "back-up." Which was a very young girl who stood with me and spoke into an earpiece begging someone to bring keys to the machine. We waited. Story and Ivy did impromptu modern dance in the aisle. We waited some more. A guy ran across the store shouting that he was getting the keys. Ivy and Story tried to pick each other up a dozen times, crashing into some woman's cart. (Yes, I am waiting for $2. I'm cheap, remember?)

The guy arrived with the keys. At that moment, the young girl decided to take $2 out of someone's till to give to me instead. After we'd waited. And my kids had accosted customers and merchandise.

So, we made it home with the pumpkins, and I decided to use them as incentive for the girls to clean up the playroom. After 6 hours of them begging to carve and me saying, "go clean up first!" I gave in, cleaned up the playroom myself, and then started the process.

We laid out both pumpkins on trash bags. I took a really big knife ans sawed the top of the first one. I was expecting a much bigger mess of stuff than what was in there. Both girls were waiting with anticipation. I tilted the pumpkin towards them, shoved a spoon in, and then pulled a spoonful of stringy stuff and seeds out. "Look guys, we get to scoop out all this stuff!"

"Cool!" Ivy said.

Story put her hands over her eyes and let out a blood curdling scream. "Noooooo, Mommy!!!!"

"Story? What's wrong?" I asked, peeling her hands off of her eyes.

"Mommy! I no wanna do da punkin. I skeered uh dat!" Which, loosely translated, means "I do not want to carve pumpkins, Mother. I am frightened of them."

Story was scared of pumpkins? The girl is a powerhouse when it comes to fear. She's either wildly brave or is intensely scared. Usually her phobias are loud things: fireworks....and fire. (She's got this new fear of the grill we have to get her out of, because we cannot stop grilling!!!) But pumpkins? It's almost like my insane condiment fears. 

Ivy was happily scooping out her pumpkin. She pulled the long membranes out and laughed at the squishes they made. I cut the top of Story's pumpkin off and then tried to engage her into using her brand new scooping spoon. "NOOOOO!!!" she screamed, fleeing the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door shut.

So, Ivy and I scooped and laughed. When we finally got all the gunk out, we drew faces and got out our little carving saws (please forget that I said saws...yes, the package said ages 12 and up, but my girls are smart!) I yelled for Story to come and carve the face out.

She tiptoed in, crept quietly over to where we were sitting. Ivy was attacking her pumpkin face with gusto. Story nervously took the saw, and I guided her hand to where I had drawn an eye. She sawed once, twice, and back again, then let go of the saw and ran crying from the room.

Ivy and I exchanged looks. "Boy, what a chicken," Ivy said. "Hey, that's okay," I said, "leaves more for us to do!"

We finished the pumpkins, and sat them up on the counter. Story came in just as we were done. She walked over to the two orange things and looked at them skeptically. She covered her face with her hands, and then opened them and screamed. "Mommy they scare me!" she said, laughing. Then she turned and saw me dumping the pumpkin innards into a bag. "AHHHHHHH!!!!" she screamed, fleeing the room once more.

Although I got her to pose for pictures with the finished product, Story has assured me that she is very scared of the inside of pumpkins. She is also never going to carve one, and was practically in hysterics until I promised her that Ivy and I would do all the carving from here on out.

And although I would like to pretend this is a silly little fear, as a condiment-phobic, I'm just thinking the apple has not fallen far from the tree. The girl is in for it.

Conversations with Story

Story blows a raspberry in my face. I pretend to cry.
STORY: Mommy why you crwying?
ME: You hurt my feelings.
STORY: Mommy, it only a widdle spit.
ME: I know. Spitting can hurt my feelings.
STORY: No, spit doan hurt feewings.
ME: Yes it does.
STORY: No it doan. Spit to me.
ME: No, I don't want to hurt you're feelings.
STORY: Mommy! You can't not hurt my feewings! Spit to me! See, I spit to me.
**brief struggle as she tries to "spit to" herself.
STORY: See? My feewings no hurt.

ME: Story! Get down here for your bath!!! One....Two...
STORY: Mommy I coming I coming!
**I wait in bathroom, no Story
ME: Story! Come on, you have to take a bath!!! One....Two...

STORY: Mommy I coming I coming!
**she doesn't show up. I look, she's sitting on the top step in the playroom watching TV.
ME: Story! Get down here!!! One...Two.....
STORY: Mommy! Shew! I tole you I was coming!
**she walks down the stairs.
STORY: Mommy, why you so angwy to me?
ME: Because I had to tell you three times to get down here for your bath!
**She rolls her eyes (that's right, I have a three year old eye-roller!)
STORY: I not dirty.
ME: Yes, yes, you are!
STORY: No I not! See?
**she drops her pants, turns around, and bends over to show me her butt.
STORY: See? I no have poop on my butt.

**Story is sobbing uncontrollably. I pick her up.
ME: Baby, why are you so sad?
STORY: Ivy woan pway with me!!!!
ME: What do you want her to play?
STORY: I just wan her to be a mouse.
ME: A mouse? Why?
STORY: So I can sit on her.
ME: You're going to sit on her?
STORY: Yes. I'm an ewephant. See?
**She takes her arm and flaps it up and down saying, "wha-hoo! wha-hoo!"
ME: Well, maybe Ivy doesn't want to be a squished mouse?
STORY: But why? Why, Mommy?
ME: Maybe she wants to be an elephant too.
**She seems to ponder this for a moment.
STORY: Mommy, will you be my mouse?

**in the car....
STORY: Mommy, I want the whoa whoa song.
ME: The whoa whoa song? What's that?
STORY: I want the whoa whoa song!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: What whoa whoa song???
IVY: (translating) You know, Mommy, the song that goes, "Whoa, whoa, I wanna know!"
ME: OH! Well, it's not on the radio.
STORY: I want the song!!!!!!!!!!! WAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: I can't just make a song play on the radio, Story.
STORY: Why? I want whoa whoa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
ME: Because I can only play what the radio has.
STORY: Why? Mommy why? MOMMY WHY???????
ME: Because I'm not the boss.
STORY: Mommy, you are.
ME: No, I'm not.
STORY: You are. You say, "Sit down. Be qwiet. I'm the bossa you!"

Tracee the spider slayer

If you've not gotten the clue that I'm a little wacky yet, this one is sure to convince you.

I have this thing with spiders.

See, I hate them. Most of them are evil, I am sure of it. When I was young, I was petrified of them, even the little bitty ones.

As I've gotten older (oh, and moved "out in the country") I've become more tolerable of the small ones. Okay, not tolerable, just not as scared. And this is because.....

Where I live is like the big hairy spider capital of the planet. No, really.

And suddenly I've developed this superpower where I have visions that I am going to see a big spider right before I encounter one. It's not everytime I encounter one, but it's hard to negate the following examples:

• A few weeks after we moved to this area, I approached the kitchen sink with caution. I just thought, "Oh, wouldn't it be horrible if there was a big spider in there?" Lo and behold, I raised up a pan in the bottom of the sink and a big, nasty wolf spider jumped right out at me. This happened numerous times at this house in the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and garage. I'd know there was a spider there, and then it would jump out at me.
• We were staying at a friend's house for the summer to take grad classes. I woke up from a particularly nasty dream that I was taking a shower in the bathroom of this house, but I saw a really big spider standing on the drain. When I opened the shower door for real, there it was. On the drain. Waiting to eat me.
• I grabbed the dog's bowl and then had a feeling that there was a spider under it...and there was. It was the biggest spider I have ever seen in my life. I couldn't even kill it with a shoe....I had to dump bleach on it. And then I threw the dog bowl away.

Somehow this gift has also enabled me to attract spiders. I do not like this. But they seem to flock to me...let ten spiders go in my kitchen and they all run straight toward me. Which is odd because all I'm going to do is kill them. It's like how the vampires kept coming after Buffy. One time there was a black widow in my screened in porch in December. How it got in my porch has yet to be seen.....it must have just felt this great attraction to me.

I recently had my worst spider encounter yet, and I didn't even know it. I was driving my new (to me) truck and was in the drive-up window of the bank. Suddenly I felt this searing pain on my ankle. I looked down and it looked as though there was a piece of mulch on my sock. I flicked it off, and the movement it made reminded me of a bee. A yellow jacket. I was stung by a yellow jacket. And trapped in between teller machines. I stomped and stomped on the floor mat to kill it before it stung Ivy.

I pulled out, parked in the lot and looked for the offensive butthead. All I found was a wet spot on the bottom of my shoe. Hoping that the spot was the yellow jacket, I hopeed back in and began to drive.

The pain was unbearable.

It radiated out of my bones...my whole leg was on fire. And sore. How did people get stung multiple times? I wondered. I almost didn't make it home- I called everyone I knew from the road and compared stories about stings. I cried. I moaned. The girls thought I was funny.

I put ice on it at home and spent the evening in the recliner.

The next day, my ankle was swollen. I figured it would- stings make me swell, even mosquitos. I went to work (in pain) and put it up again when I came home. Well, I elevated it after cleaning up the mess left by my kids after an evening of Mommy not running around behind them cleaning.

I woke up the next morning, and it was HUGE. And itchy. And even more painful. And I was sick, like achy and nauseous. What kind of mutant bee was this? I barely got through the school day. The ankle just kept swelling. Luckily, I had great classes who let me sit at my desk with it propped up on a stool all day.

That night was the worst. I couldn't even move the ankle..all I could do was lay there and hurt. And itch.

The next morning, I woke up on the recliner and the swelling was down. Refreshed at the thought that it was finally healing, I put on some socks and limped around the house cleaning bathrooms and sweeping floors. About 2 p.m. that day, I took my sock off and almost threw up- my ankle had this weird red stuff on it, climbing up my leg and down my foot.

I took pictures of it and texted them to various members of my family. I spent 20 minutes on hold waiting to talk to a nurse, who frantically told me to come in. They saw me right away, and took two seconds to say, "spider bite."

Everyone kept asking me if I was sure it was a yellow jacket. I had been.....but it was dark on the floorboard. Could it have really been a spider? When the doctor came in, she told me exactly how serious it was. She also said that if I'd waited till after the weekend to come in, I might have lost my foot. My foot?? From a spider???

Even though I had to take like 20 pills a day after the visit, I was really glad I'd come in. I mean, I need my foot. Sometimes I like to drive. Or clean the house. Or walk. Or tap my toe to music.

And in retrospect, I am starting to wonder if I've lost the only superpower I've ever had. I mean, shouldn't I have known right before the most important spider encounter I've ever had? It wasn't even a good superpower....but it was the only one I had. I felt a little bit like Harry Potter. Sigh.

Back to the world of mortals.

The Quest to save 15 cents

I usually do all of my grocery shopping at Wal-mart. You know, low prices, lots of variety. There are a couple of things I do not trust to the superstore giant, though, and one of them is meat.

I always drive to Food City to buy meat. I only spend about $20 every two weeks there.

At the beginning of the summer, the local Food City started running a promotion- get 150 points on your value card and you can receive 15 cents per gallon off your gas at their gas station. I'm a girl looking for a deal always, but $40 a month was not getting me anywhere close to the needed point values.

Then, my sister-in-law came to visit. I had this elaborate salmon dinner planned, and of course, I bought the fish at Food City. When I totaled up my purchases in my head, I was pretty sure that this trip would be the one where I would fulfill the number of points needed for the gas discount. Which was awesome because my car was sitting in the lot on empty.

The cashier rang up my groceries and gave me my total: $48. I was excited to check my receipt for the confirmation of my new gas discount! Alas, when I looked at it, I realized that I only had 147 points...three short.

How could I get three points? (At the time I wasn't thinking that by spending three more dollars, I'd only end up saving $1.50 in gas. No, the thrill of saving money at all was enough to put me over the edge.

I grabbed one of the cashiers at the self pay checkout and hounded her into telling me what I could spend money on to ensure that I would receive my three points and my gas discount. She said I could spend three dollars on anything but alcohol and cigarettes and gain the needed points. Suddenly, the entire store opened up to me. What could I buy?

Mu buggy left with the cashier, I went and picked up a 12 pack of Dr. Pepper. Then, I went and cruised the dollar section. I remembered that I needed chalk. While looking for the chalk, I talked myself into buying a nice pen or two to use at work (I'm always using those pens I take from hotels; they're not very nice). I selected a box of chalk (99 cents) and a pack of two pens ($1.99). I put the pop back, glorious with my three dollar purchase.

It never occurred to me that A. there would be no tax and B. tax wouldn't count. I checked out at the self checkout lane. My total? $2.98. Only two points, not three. The cashier laughed at me as I sprinted over to the candy and selected a box of tic tacs. (I don't think I have ever bought tic tacs.) My new total was $3.60. I put my ten dollar bill in the slot and skipped over to my buggy with my new pens and chalk, and my receipt showing that I was the proud owner of 150 points, eligible for 15 cents off of gas.

Halfway to the car, I realized that I never got my change from the checkout. I did a big U-turn in front of a Cadillac whose owners looked at me like I was insane, and ran back in the store. I parked my buggy by the same woman who clearly at this point thought I was nuts. I raced to the receptacle and collected my $5 in change. I ran back to the buggy.

I felt good when it only cost $27 to fill up my car. That is, of course, until I realized that I'd really only saved $1.50.

My descent from green cleaning into the depths of chemical use

A couple of years ago when Story was just a baby (and cried all night) I spent way too much time on the Internet. I ended up web surfing to a page that talked about the evils of soap. Yes, soap. The stuff that is supposed to make you clean? Well, I read it was full of this sodium laureth sulfate that was supposedly descended from the ninth level of Hades or something. So, I researched my choices and decided that my family was no longer going to use this poisonous stuff called soap.

Before this turns in to a blog about soap, in my anti-soap research I ran across a website that told me how to make my own cheap and healthy laundry detergent. I started doing it, and was amazed at the affordability and "safeness" of the stuff. The detergent making was only a step away from what would become my new obsession: green cleaning.

As I read more and more about how all these products that we buy every day could turn us into mutants or give us diseases, I started freaking out. I packed up all the Comet, Resolve, Windex, etc. into a box. I researched what I could clean with and found three items: vinegar, club soda, and baking soda. Not only were they better for all of us, they were cheap! There were thousands of uses for them. Yes, the vinegar was really stinky. It didn't smell clean at all. The club soda didn't shine like Windex. Baking soda left no smell, but I got some really strong arm muscles trying to scrub anything with it.

But I convinced myself with a little more muscle, everything was cleaning as good as the stuff I packed up. Sometimes I told myself that it cleaned even better. Sadly, I think I was deceiving myself. Everything in the house lost its sparkle. And cleaning started to take twice as long as I applied a lot of elbow grease.

So, when we moved into our new house two years ago, I was relieved to be starting with really clean stuff from scratch. Unfortunately, with the size of the new house, it became increasingly difficult to clean anything! Plus, the stuff wasn't staying shiny.

Last year, I bought my first bottle of pledge. I'd been scrubbing the furniture with vinegar and olive oil....which was really icky and not at all cost efficient. It was like the heavens shone through the windows on my coffee table. Everywhere I looked with a cleanable surface I heard the sound of singing. My husband said, "Thank God you bought the Pledge!" Apparently the smell of vinegar was affecting him, too.

Recently, I received some coupons for a variety of Lysol products. Exhausted from all these years of green cleaning and (ha ha) elbow grease, at Walmart I reached for toilet cleaner and bathroom spray.

I came home, and began to clean the girl's bathroom. I was floored. I had never seen the toilet so white! The rust stains were coming off (I know, right? Rust stains on a two year old toilet? A combination of bad water and baking soda cleaning no doubt). All of the bathroom gunk came off with no effort! And the smell was amazing!!

I cleaned all three bathrooms in less time than it took me to clean one with vinegar and baking soda. I actually only had to clean my shower once! With the other stuff, I was scrubbing it three times at least.

Moved by the cleanliness of my bathrooms and the possibility of more free hours on a Saturday suddenly moved me to denounce my green cleaning ways. No more would I be the slave to club soda on the mirrors. No more would I wallow in self pity while trying to scrub a toilet with something that belongs in homemade cookies. I was going to have clean, and have it quickly.

So, I moved the green cleaning materials to.....the baking cabinet. I gave the bottles of Lysol the new place of honor under the sink.

I still make laundry detergent, because it's cheap and easy. I take my reusable bags to the store. But, I'll never be given a super-eco award now. Green cleaning is not for me....because I like things that are actually clean.

My life is (on) a highway....

I was traveling home from my mom's house yesterday on a four lane highway.  We'd been making pretty decent time when I noticed in the rear view mirror (which is placed on my kids, not the road, ha-ha!) that Story started squirming and crying in her seat.

"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"

"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"

"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.

I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."

"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.

"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.

I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"

Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.

She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.

Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"

"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.

We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.

I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.

I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.

When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.

"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.

"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.

"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.

I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.

I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)

"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.

"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.

I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.