I want my...I want my...I want my kids' TV

I don't have to worry about my kids watching too much TV anymore. Because they don't watch it!

It's been forever since I had to listen to Girl Meets World or Teen Titans! I didnt even have to ground them.

I have total control over the remote. I can watch as much Law and Order as I want!!

You may think I'm mom of the YEAR or that my kids have had some sort of spiritual transformation, but sadly that's not the case.

This TV watching shortage in my house is the direct result of YouTube. There's Stampycat, who walks around a fake blocky world talking in an annoying falsetto. There's DisneyCar  toys, which open packs of Shopkins and Baby Alive dolls and have some sort of soap opera going on with Elsa and Anna dolls. Every Justin Bieber and Megan Trainor song has a corresponding video.

And then every child on Abby Lee's dance team has 62 videos on how to put on makeup or the latest gross sounds they can make.

I never thought I would say this, but I kind of miss Dora the Explorer asking me which way to go a thousand times.

I ask too much

Story is convinced that I am a monster who is trying to break her free will and turn her into a mini-slave. So I present to you...the top ten Story statements that demonstrate how I am ruining her life:

1. Mommy, I don't understand how you won't just let me be ME.

2. Why are you always wanting me to be a better person than I am? I don't want to be any better.

3. I don't think I should always have to be nice to you guys unless you are getting me something.

4. I have no control over my life. You tell me everything I am supposed to do. Can I go pee? Am I allowed to breathe?

5. I shouldn't have to be good.

6. You don't ever let me do anything I want to do!

7. Why do you want me to look so perfect all the time?!?! I don't want to be. Stop brushing my hair.

8. Really? How many more times in life do I have to shower???

9. You let me stay up too late and you wake me up too early!!!!!!

10. Why do you want me to be nicer? I have to be nice to people all day. I'm tired of being nice when I get home.

Nature's cruel joke

When my girls were toddlers, they wanted to do everything themselves. Screams of, "I can do it BY MYSELF!!!" echoed throughout my house for years.

Some things are good to do by yourself when you're three... "Yes, you can clean your room all by yourself!" "Sure, go ahead and wash your face all by yourself!"

Others not so much. "No, you may not pour milk from the new gallon jug all by yourself." "Cutting your hair by yourself is not okay." "No, slicing your chicken nugget with the fileting knife by yourself isn't safe."

But with age comes manual dexterity and common sense, and the ability to do many many things on your own! I was very excited for the days my kids learned to put their clothes away, take their own showers, dust, and take care of their own stuff!

Of course, now that they can, they won't. Instead of "No! Let me help!" My days are filled saying, "For heaven's sake, you are ten years old, stop being lazy and do it yourself!"

Mommy, can you please wash my hair?

Mommy, can you help me put my clothes on?

Mommy, will you please help me do my math?

Mommy, please help me clean this up."

Will you get me a drink? Put on my shoes? Brush my teeth? Find me something to eat? Open this? Count this? Do this for me?

Every single thing they fought so hard to do themselves is now something they want me to do! It's harder work than giving baby baths and changing diapers!

I guess one day I'll be alone and regret saying this, but when do I get a break? :) 

Things I Miss

I am not a sentimental mother.

And that's good because I think you can get lost in that....looking back so much that you don't see what your kids are doing in the present.

People miss their kids being babies....they remember them being small and cuddly and smelling good and smiling.....when I see a baby I acknowledge their smell and cuddlyness....but I also remember they have diapers, they cry, they can't talk, they puke, and they require you to pack a giant bag of anything they may need in the course of an hour anytime you go anywhere.....

I read a blog post about a mom who missed washing her daughter's hair. Not me. Maybe I'm not missing that one since I'm newly able to send them to the shower and scream 52 times from the living room, "Are you done?? Don't forget to use the soap!"

I enjoy the fact that they can use the microwave. I like that they can semi-choose matching clothes to wear if I just really don't want to pick them out. I am glad they can read instructions, and that I can trust them around electrical outlets, and also that I know Story won't go straight for the knives and cut her fingers off if they're putting away dishes. Theoretically they might be able to survive a few days without me!

The other day I made a list....a list, people! They did the things on the list. They cleaned toilet seats and sinks and swept floors. I was free to do laundry....and I started to think, "wow, this motherhood thing may be starting to pay off!!"

I'm not entirely cold hearted. I occassionally have a moment of nostalgia thinking about where they were totally entertained by a few belly tickles and eye contact. And then I ask Ivy to make me a bowl of popcorn and she does so I'm okay being in the present.

Cowgirl and the loose tooth

Ivy had this loose tooth that she had been wiggling for days, much to my dismay. See, I hate loose teeth. I can't stand to watch them being wiggled. I don't like to think about them being pulled.   I never pulled my own teeth ...and I tried to hide them from my dad so he wouldn't pull them. There's NO WAY I would ever be able to pull someones tooth.

But, I have a kid losing teeth at an alarming rate.  A friend of the family pulled her first tooth. Her teachers have pulled many more of them. Her dad pulled one. One just fell out.  I have had nothing to do with any of them.

The tooth in question had been pulled on by many, including Ivy, but of course not me.  She walked through Wal-mart wiggling it. Played on the swing set wiggling it. Laid in bed wiggling it.

Then, as I am making the bed yesterday, I hear a scream, a cry, a thud, and an undecipherable exclamation....something like "Fye Foooo!!! Aye looooffff id!"

I ran out into the hallway and was immediately confronted by Ivy, blood dripping down her chin. "Fye Foof!" she exclaimed. "Fye foof es gone!!!!"  I ushered her into the bathroom, gave her a cup, and told her to start rinsing.

But not all the noise was coming from Ivy. Story stood in the door of the playroom sobbing, large tears falling from her eyes down onto her cheeks. "What's wrong??" I asked. "Ivy is fine! She just lost her tooth!"

"I know!!!!" Story wailed. "I made her tooth fall out!!!!" And with that sentence, she wailed even louder.

"What happened???" I asked, but inconsolable Story couldn't tell me.  A non-bleeding but still-hard-to-understand Ivy filled in the blanks.

Story had decided that she wanted to be a cowgirl.  And that Ivy was going to be her horse. All good horses have reins, though, and this issue was remedied by a jump rope placed in Ivy's teeth. Story mounted, grabbed hold of her reins, and pulled...and suddenly Ivy didn't have a tooth anymore.

Story was still crying, but I managed to calm her down and explain that she kind of did a good thing...of course, jump ropes in mouths were bad, and it could have been a permanent tooth, but all that aside, she didn't need to cry anymore.

Five minutes later, I found the tooth. It had been flung 15 feet into the next room. If I had been a forensic pathologist, I could have determined that something much more dangerous happened with the jump rope to fling the tooth that far, but lucky for Ivy and Story, I'm just a music teacher.

How???

Some kids go through the "why" stage, but Story's new favorite word is "how." This is just a sample of every single conversation we've had this week.

STORY: Mommy, why is the stove hot?

ME: Because electricity goes through it and makes it hot.

STORY: How does electricity get in there?

ME: We plug it into the wall and the electricity goes through the cord.

STORY: How does eek-tris-tee get in the wall?

ME: There are wires with electricity in them that run to our house.

STORY: How did the wires go to our house?

ME: Someone made them go to our house. They bring power to here.

STORY: How do they get the power?

ME: From a power plant.

STORY: How does the plant get power?

ME: They burn coal.

STORY: (slight pause) Mommy, how do you know?

ME: Because I'm smart.

STORY: How are you smart?

ME: I'm smart because I listened in school.

STORY: How did you do that?

ME: (no speaking, just "the look")

STORY: Oh.

So far this week, I've explained how leaves turn colors, how toilets work, why I do laundry, and how cars use gas. And each conversation ends exactly the same way- with my daughter questioning my intelligence, and me administering "the look".

There's a bright and shining future for Story in law enforcement, I'm sure. Or maybe torture.

10 items of randomness for my 100th post

Whoo-hoo!!!

It's my 100th post! Can you believe that 100 blog-worthy things have happened to me? (okay, I'll be honest- probably only 47 blog-worthy things have happened...the remaining 53 are not very good).

So, in honor of my 100th post of nothing, I decided to compose 100 short stories about things that have happened to me lately...

And then I got realistic....and decided to post ten.

Here goes:

1. Story keeps wanting strange foods for breakfast...this morning it was mozzarella and oranges. Yesterday she wanted bananas and a hot dog. At least she's not mixing them up.

2. Abby (my dog) needs shaved. Badly. Every time I let her in the house, a steady trail of hair flows behind her, kind of like Pig Pen and his dirt from Charlie Brown. If she lays down on the rug, when she gets up, it looks like she's left little puppies all over the carpet. I have swept more the past week than I have in a year.

3. I did Zumba for the first time the other day....in addition to finding out that I still have the coordination of an adolescent, I also realized that I can't seem to move my hips...at all. Oh well, at least I didn't fall.....

4. Ivy's doing this annoying thing where she laughs all the time, even when she's in trouble. I'm not sure how to handle this, but it infuriates me!!! I find myself saying all those cliches my mom used to say to me....funny how that keeps happening.

5. I painted my fingernails hot pink for a wedding last weekend. And then I put on a red dress. (If there's a man reading this who's thinking, "What's wrong with that?"....that's tacky!!) Then I stole some sea shells from the reception for my hermit crabs...and got caught doing it by a groomsman.

6. Story's starting to get in to a good sleep routine again, but Ivy is being very resistant to going to sleep anytime before midnight...which is weird because it's usually the other way around! Methinks we need some Benadryl assistance.....

7. I should really clean the house...but I'm not too excited about doing that because in 4 hours, I'll just need to sweep it again. Why bother when the improvement is short-lived I say?

8. Story and I have had some interesting conversations lately as her vocabulary has improved and she's become more talkative. Too bad I still can't understand anything she says.

9. I'm trying to teach Ivy to give herself a shower...and it's hard! What makes it worse is she has no desire to do it herself either. I mean, I guess if someone offered to bathe me everyday, I'd probably let them, so I see her point, but, wow, it would be so much easier if I could say, "Ivy go take a shower" and 72 minutes later after much nagging and yelling, she's cleaned herself!!

10. Story's favorite new lullaby? Dynamite by Taio Cruz. I know, right?

The doctor appointment

Story had her yearly check up and shots scheduled for 10 AM.

You would think that I could get both kids ready and out the door by then, but my children are on "summer schedule," which means waking up at 10 would be an issue.

I had decided that we'd leave at 9 to give ourselves a good cushion of time just in case anything went wrong. (If you've learned anything from my blog, it would be that something always goes wrong!)

I got dressed and then attempted to wake the kids up. Story popped right out of bed when I told her she would get a certain sippy cup after she got dressed. Ivy wasn't so easy, but she eventually did what I asked (with much whining).

As I was assisting Ivy with her hair, Story grabbed her Nintendo DS and was doing one of their favorite activities: recording her voice and playing it back over and over and over again.

I put shoes on us all, made eggo waffles and an egg muffin, and put them all in baggies. I made coffee for myself, sippy cups for the kids, and ushered us all out the door...by 9:30.

Story couldn't carry her stuff because her hands were filled with the DS that she was singing "Dynamite" into. I placed her sippy cup on the arm rest in the front seat, passed out the baggies of breakfast, buckled seat belts, and took off.

I was trying to eat my egg muffin and drive without spilling anything on me, and I was doing good! Just as I mentally complimented myself, part of the muffin started to spill... I swerved a little bit to catch it, and suddenly I felt a strange cold feeling on the right side of my legs.

The sippy cup!! I hadn't given it to Story!

About the time that I screamed when I realized that kool-aid was making its way all over the seat of my shorts. I was en route to the doctor and I didn't have time to change!! How was I going to keep from dying of embarrassment???

I grabbed a jacket from the back seat and started mopping it up, finally just sitting on it, hoping that it would wick away the moisture from my shorts. Once settled in the seat again, I heard a scream from the back seat...and the a giggle from my two kids. Followed by a repeat of the scream, and then more giggling. Story had recorded me!

So, off to the doctor I went with a wet rear-end, my scream in the back seat a reminder that I should have given Story her cup!

The Toenail Fairy

About a month ago, I, along with my friend Sally**, was invited to judge my school's cheerleading tryouts by my esteemed colleague Susie**, the cheerleading coach.

Didn't that sound professional?????

As usual, I brought Ivy and Story with me, and they spent most of their time in the warm-up room playing with the ranks of the cheering hopeful. Story lasted until right before the scoring began, and then she hadtohavehermommy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Some well-meaning students brought her to me in Susie's classroom.

She played around the room where we were adding and figuring out the squad, seeming to be content as long as she and I were in the same place. Sally left for the restroom, and as she did, Story eyed the door with a particular interest.Our classroom doors and kind of heavy, and will close themselves unless propped open.

I really didn't pay attention to Story and she opened the door, then let it fall closed repeatedly. Opening it was hard for her because the handle was above her eye-level. After a couple of minutes, Story found that she could do with it what she wanted- ride the door as it shut.

She opened it, held tight onto the handle, picked up her feet, and the door would give her a little ride as it closed. I think I even pointed out how cute it was to Susie once.

Unfortunately, a downside to the heavy doors and Story's lack of height was that she couldn't be seen from the other side of the door.

When Sally came back from the bathroom, she opened the door, not being able to see Story. And Story, unfortunately, had her feet on the ground trying to pull the door back to ride again. There was a scream, an, "Oh no!" and Story started bawling. I ran, picked her up, and told her to shake it off as usual.

Then I saw the blood.

It was pouring out from under her big toenail. I ran to the bathroom, leaving a red trail behind us. I didn't know what to do, so I ran it under cold water...and it wouldn't stop. Sally and Susie followed me to the bathroom with a band aid, but it was several minutes until I could put it on. And what was left? A toenail I was sure would come off.

As the days went by, the toenail started rising, and looking just plain gross. I couldn't bear the sight of it, and just kept applying band-aids. I confided in my friend Jenna that I was sure I couldn't deal when the thing fell off. She was my support, having lost a toenail herself once.

As the days turned into weeks, I became angry. Why hadn't the stupid thing fallen off yet?? Why was I being tortured by the likes of a toenail?? Story wasn't about to let me cut it off, and I wasn't sure I could do it either. Finally, one day when we were at Jenna's house, and Ivy and Story were playing with her daughter, Jenna came outside with a baggie. "Story lost her toenail!!" she exclaimed.

So, not only did I not have to witness it, I didn't even have to deal with the clean-up!

The only issue was Jenna had told Story that the toenail fairy would visit her that evening. All I had to do was remember to put it under her pillow. Right.

First, I lost the toenail. Then, I forgot to put anything under her pillow. She didn't remember till late the next day, so I thought, okay, I can do it tonight instead! Except the next day, I forgot again. Luckily, I changed the sheets, though, and when she asked about it, I pulled a 5 dollar bill out of my wallet and thrust it into her hands, explaining I had found it when I changed the sheets, which was good enough for Story.

And then she lost the $5 somewhere. I hope to find it in the playroom soon. Mom of the Year right here, people!

**names have been changed to protect my innocent bffs Traci, Jamie, and Myrtle. Oops, did I just say that?

High School Bathrooms and Black Dresses

So, our band concert was today. My husband and I brought the girls with us, and they basically just played with whatever kids weren't performing until he or I were available to watch them.

To the concert, I wore a nice, conservative knee length black dress which didn't give me any real wiggle room based on the constricting material of which it was made. I also wore 2 inch black heels (in other words, a disaster waiting to happen). 

After the concert, I realized I brought nothing to change in to for the take-down. So, I shucked the heels and pearls, pulled my hair back with a rubber band, and started tearing things down in my dress as well as I could.

We're waiting on pizza to arrive, and Story comes running in the band room yelling about how she has to poop NOW!!!! I took off after her to the bathroom. She got there first, and shut the door behind her. I waited patiently by the sinks until she was ready for me to help her "clean up."

"Mommy! I done!!" she yelled a minute later. I walked to her stall, and pulled on the handle. It didn't move. I pulled on it, pushed on it, and shook it, but it was locked and not giving.

"Story!" I yelled as I tried to jimmie the thing with my thumbnail. "Get off the potty and open the door!"

"No."

"Yes!" I yelled, frustrated at my now shredded thumbnail.

"I can't, Mommy." So, I looked under the door to the stall where there was definitely not enough room to me to crawl through.

"Story! I can't fit through here! You need to get off the potty and open the handle for me!" She sat quietly and smiled.

"You can fit."

"No, I can't!" I yelled even louder out of frustration. I didn't know what to do...should I try to fit? Or tell her good luck with the wiping? Fortunately, that last thought sent a shudder through me, and I decided that I had to get in there. Even if she did make it off the potty, the chances of her smearing poop all over the bathroom were large.

So, I gauged the amount of room I'd have under the stall door. I tried to crawl under it, but of course, I was too big. Finally, it looked like my only option was an army crawl...

Yes, that's right. An army crawl. On my stomach, in a tight black dress, on the floor of a high school bathroom. I took a deep breath, and pushed myself forward with my hands, trying best I could to think of ice cream and Christmas, and not the millions of particles of...of...stuff I was smushing up against me. At least it was only on one side of me, or so I thought.

I made it through, but then realized that I couldn't get up. My dress was acting like a plastic tube around me, keeping me from the necessary motion I needed to get vertical again. So, I ended up rolling onto my back, and contaminated BOTH sides of myself. But, on my back, I could propel myself into a squatting, then standing position.

My black dress was....gray. I brushed it off, and then wiped Story. She covered her ears, and I pushed the button for flushing. Interestingly enough, everything went down the toilet with the exception of a giant piece of poop. I pushed the button again. It didn't budge. Again. Nothing. Really? I thought. Am I really dealing with this after I just army crawled through a cesspool????

But, I was pretty sure that I couldn't get much dirtier...so I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and pushed it in to the hole, and reflushed....and it went down. 

Story ran out of the bathroom, and I tried to disinfect as much of myself as possible...and then I got the heck out of that bathroom before I got any nastier.

To pick or not to pick?

Story is a serial nose picker.

I think all kids learn to pick their nose at some point. I mean, there's stuff up there. The finger fits so perfectly. They see other kids at daycare do it.

But most kids have realized by a certain age that it's not nice, and definitely that if they continue to do it, they have to at least hide in the bathroom or something.

Not Story.

She picks and eats with pride in front of anyone. The more embarrassing it would be to me for her to do this, the more she does it. In front of the band. At school. In front of my mom. Doesn't matter.

The past couple of months, Daddy and Ivy and I have been telling her how nasty it is. I refuse to pick her up or touch her if she's just played "hide the finger." Nothing has worked.

A ray of hope came last week when Story confessed to me that she had talked to her teacher at daycare. Her teacher had a heart to heart with Story about her bad habit.

Story proclaimed, "Mommy, Imma not pickin' my nose anymore."

I was elated, but cautious. "You sure? You sure you won't pick it?"

"No, Mommy, I pwomise."

As I said, I was leery...but I didn't need to be. In fact, Story took great pains to make sure I knew she wasn't doing it anymore. She'd walk right up to me in the kitchen and yell, "MOMMY!"

"What?" I would say, right after I peeled myself off the ceiling.

"Watch me not pick my nose!" she'd exclaim, and then stand and stare me down...her finger going nowhere near her nose.

"Uh, good job?" I said.

This went on for days. Several times an evening, Story would yell to one of us and tell us to "watch her NOT pick her nose." We were all very patient and did as she asked.

Then, her allergies started back up. I'd see that little finger sneak its way past her upper lip, pause, and then back down. At least she's resisting, I thought.

Finally, she couldn't stop the urges. I saw her duck into the bathroom with a finger in her nose. At bedtime, she'd hide her head in the pillow, but I knew what she was doing.

One might think this is defeat, but I find it instead to be a VICTORY. She might have fallen off the wagon, but at least she's trying to hide her habit now. And she's stopped demanding that I watch her NOT pick her nose. =)

Story and the hair cut

On a Saturday morning while the girls were still in pajamas and I was frantically doing 16 loads of laundry, I set the girls up at the kitchen table with items from their art box: paper, crayons, stickers, markers, and scissors (a central item in this story). Twenty minutes later as I power walked through the kitchen I noticed two things: an absence of either child and a lock of hair on the floor.

"IVY!!!" I yelled. She appeared. "Did you cut your hair?" I asked calmly while holding up the forsaken pieces.

"No, Mommy," she answered, and I believed her. Lately she has an unrelenting conscience (another blog for another time).

"Oh, Stor-y!!!!!" I called in a sing-song voice. Moments later she walked into the kitchen....with bangs. Bangs she didn't have before the art box activity was started.

Amazingly in control of my temper, I crouched down to her level and held up the hair. "Did you cut your hair?"

She looked me straight in the eye and said, "Yes, Mommy."

"Why?" I asked, and she shrugged with all the nonchalance of a teenager. Seriously? I thought. No explanation??? No remorse???

My temper, not so in check anymore, flared. I unleashed a lecture on cutting your hair and how it was bad, and tried to make her feel guilt by alluding to the fact that our hairdresser would be very disappointed in her. I dragged her to the bathroom and made her look at her bangs. She started crying, giving me the reaction I needed to ensure she'd never again cut her hair.

On further inspection, I had to admit- she really hadn't done a bad job. The bangs didn't look to bad...the were crooked, but really in a cute, face-framing kind of way. But I still didn't let her in on that fact; I was going to use every tool available to me to make sure she never cut her hair again. Later that evening, I found more cut hair embedded in the carpet of her closet, and I launched another tirade.

In the meantime, I was comforted with horror stories of other "hair-cuts" done by preschoolers. I learned that many, many worse things could have been done with safety scissors.

Two evenings later, my husband drove her to the hairdresser so he could fix the disaster. Upon questioning, Story admitted that she was trying to make her hair yellow, like Rapunzel. You know, that movie Tangled? The one where Rapunzel's yellow hair turns brown when it's cut? Story thought her brown hair would turn yellow.

Thanks, Disney.

Story and Hat Day

I'm always trying to walk the fine line between having my kids stick out enough to be special, and then be like their classmates enough to blend in. And I'm always trying to avoid being like my mom on dress-up days.

See, my mom (bless her heart) could take a fun day like "hippie day" and turn it into the worst day of my life. Mom would get so excited, spending an hour or two planning out every detail of my wardrobe on hippie day, pulling out all of her old bell bottoms and suits and shoes and jewelry. We'd straighten my hair, draw a peace sign on my face, and she'd send me off to school...where everyone else had just put on a tie-dyed shirt. If I'd been the person I am today, I would have tried to rock it, but at thirteen I wanted to blend more than anything.

So, this is the dilemma I am faced with when I dress my kids up. How can I guess what the other kids will be doing? How can I make sure no one will laugh at my girls?

Today was hat day at Story's daycare in celebration of Dr. Suess. My plan was to send her in Ivy's "Cat in the Hat" hat.

Except we couldn't find it this morning. I searched, Ivy searched, my husband looked, Story ran around looking forlorn. It was nowhere. So, I used my powers of persuasion to get her to wear the only other hat I could find: a Santa hat. She was on board, life was good.

Then, on my way to work, I got the call from my husband, who informed me that all of the other little girls in Story's class were wearing pink ball caps with Dora and other assorted girly characters on them. I felt so bad as he described how she took the hat off and put it in her cubby. As he told me in detail the look on her face, I hung up, feeling worse than ever.

I dialed the daycare, and while talking to her teacher, I was convinced that I had to rectify this situation. I called in to work, made what was probably a highly illegal U-turn, and hightailed it to Wal-mart. I parked in the first space I saw, ran in, and bought a $7 Barbie ball cap. I ran back outside, realized I was in a handicapped spot and was getting dirty looks from a woman walking past my car, so I tried to limp a little. I know- lame.

I drove straight to the daycare, spun my tires in the lot pulling in, and ran into the building waving the cap proudly. I walked breathlessly into Story's classroom where everyone, teachers and kids alike, looked at me like I was nuts.

"Here! Story! Here's a new hat!" I cried. She reluctantly put down her toy at the insistence of her teachers and walked over to me, looking at me like I was some kind of alien.

I held the hat out to her and said, "Is this better than the Santa hat?"

She regarded me coolly for a moment, then reached in her cubby and brought out the Santa hat. I took it from her hands, and pushed the Barbie cap into them. "Try it on!" I urged. "Want me to put it on your head?"

She shook her head, took the cap out of my grasp, and placed it in her cubby where the Santa hat had been, Then, she ran back to the corner.

Stunned, I called, "Story! Want a hug?" She stomped back and gave me a half-hearted hug, and went back to her toys without another glance.

"It's okay," the teacher told me, "She's just not used to you being here right now."

That might be true, but I just know I've already scarred her for life.

The Naked Girls Club

If you were expecting a blog about naked people, or maybe a funny story about how my kids run around in the nude, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

This blog is about....dolls. Did you know that I live in a strictly enforced doll nudist colony?

Any time my girls encounter a doll with clothes on, they feel it's their right...no, that it's a compulsive need to strip it down to the plastic it was born in.

It doesn't matter if the doll is large, or the size of a coin, they will attempt to de-clothe it immediately. Barbies, babies, Polly Pockets, Teddy Ruxpin. Nothing in our house born a doll is spared.

Sometimes, they even take off doll clothes that weren't meant to come off. I remember a hand sized baby that was holding a bear. The bear was sewn to the baby's hands, but also to its chest, straight through the purple sleeper it was wearing. The last time I saw that baby, its sleeper was pulled as far over the bear as humanly possible. It's been that way for over a year.

The only reason Flynn Rider still has his pants on is because they are painted on his legs. And I wouldn't be surprised to see one of them chewing the paint off one day.

Occasionally, the dolls are allowed to wear clothes in the course of a game. My professional doll strippers can't seem to figure out how to get the clothes back on though. So, after a hard day of dressing dolls, I sometimes encourage the nakedness.

Polly Pocket and Barbie are the worst. Not only does Story like to undress them, but she also likes to chew on their hands, making any attempt at putting the clothes back on near impossible.

Maybe this means my girls are just interested in fashion. Or ER nursing. Maybe I don't need to worry about their future careers as exotic dancers or nude colonists.

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!"

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.

Watch this, Mommy!!

You know it's going to be a great Saturday when it starts out with one of the kids yelling, "Mommy, watch this!!"

I don't know why they keep telling me to watch things. I mean, I watch twelve or twenty things, and then I stop. I mumble, "Oh, good job," or something like it a beat or two after they tell me to watch them. Not sure why they haven't caught on yet.

And most of the time, it's weird stuff they ask me to watch. Like dangerous stuff. Jumping off the couch. Jumping off the couch onto the coffee table. Jumping over their sister from the couch to the coffee table. You know, things they should do when I'm not looking. (And for those of you thinking, why doesn't she make them stop when they do that? then you obviously need to go back and reread my blog posts. I can't control these crazy forces of nature I live with. I can only keep them from killing themselves or each other. Barely.)

Sometimes it's totally odd what they want me to watch. Story holds her hands out and turns around. Ivy makes a silly face using fingers up her nose. Story blinks her eyes twice. Ivy puts five chips in her mouth at once. Story takes a drink of juice. Ivy hangs upside down from the back of the couch. I mean, why these things?

Why don't they say, "Watch this!" and then put their toys away? I'd really enjoy watching that. Or, "Hey, Mommy, watch this!" which is followed by them cleaning the toilet. "Mommy, watch us!" and they perform a scene from Twilight. Those are things I'd love to watch.

I could probably explain to them what I actually want to see them do, but I think, like everything else, they might listen and then do what they want. Oh, well. There's no use complaining, I have a lot to do....like watch them pretend to fly off the kitchen counters.

Throwing out a hairbrush

If you're my friend on Facebook, you've probably read my umpteen million freak-out posts about how my children have recently acquired head lice after one week of public school.

On Sunday morning, as I was nursing a slightly sore throat and waiting for a friend to show up to attend Mass with us, I brushed Ivy's hair, looking closely at her scalp (something I just do out of habit anymore). And I saw what I had always been dreading- white eggy things attached to her hair.

I ran to the phone and immediately dialed my mom, who is part counselor and part dramatic inciter in these occasions. She confirmed what I was seeing must be true- my darling had lice.

Normally, I would get on top of things, make lists, take action. For some reason, I was so unnerved, I just sat on the porch and drank three cups of coffee. Three. As if the infestation wasn't leaping off of Ivy's head onto every piece of fabric in the house as I sipped. After about thirty minutes, I decided maybe I was wrong. I called Ivy over to the kitchen and took the flashlight. The eggs were still there and then something crawled and I threw the flashlight and screamed. Okay, no denying it now, I told myself. Time to move.

I packed my squirrely kids in the car with a vague thought about how the car was probably infested, too. We struggled through the door at Rite Aid, and I unceremoniously dumped both girls into a shopping cart and avoided anything close to their heads. I also threatened their very existence if they so much as touched anything with their pinkie finger. I pushed the buggy mercilessly forward in order to stop any silly questions about which fingers they could use to touch things.

When I got home, I dumped the goods on the kitchen table, known as Lice Ground Zero from that point on. I went crazy, ripping all the sheets off the beds. Anything fabric and washable was immediately thrown in a big heap in the dining room. I rubbed the kids furiously with the shampoo, rinsed, and spent 2 hours combing them out. I sprayed down the entire guest room to make a Lice-Free Zone (that I promptly locked the offspring out of) for the clean laundry. My washer and dryer went non-stop on the hottest settings for 24 hours.

Exhausted, I reached in my bathroom drawer for my hairbrush. I brought it closer to my hair, looking in the mirror, and stopped. Time was frozen. I was sure thousands of lice were bungee jumping from my brush to my hair. Finally, I threw the panic aside and launched the brush at the floor.

In my family, we have four combs and three brushes (Daddy gets by with just a comb). However, these brushes are not assigned to any one person. They're passed freely from family member to family member.....kind of like the hippie ideals of free love, just with hair care. In a panic, positive that lice were breeding and spilling out of both bathrooms, I snatched up all of the skanky, dirty brushes and threw them in the kitchen sink. I ran hot water over them, filled up a pan of water, boiled it, added bleach, and dunked them in. I kept them in there for several hours.

I emptied the pot and set them out to dry. Then, I needed a hairbrush. I picked one up, turned it over, and promptly put it back down. What if the bleach hadn't killed them? Would I infect my clean head?

I bagged all the brushes in a Ziploc. I finger combed my hair. I grabbed the keys and the kids and took off for the dollar store. I bought three brushes and three combs. (I can't help it, I like sharing a comb with my husband...Rob loads the comb down with hairspray, and when I use it on my wet hair, it somehow evenly distributes the leftover product into my hair.)

When we got back to the house, I opened all the new brushes and combs. I made sure they were all different so we'd never share again. Then, I looked at the sad and lonely plastic bag of our old brushes. I gently laid it on the table now known as Lice Ground Zero, not able to part with them just yet.

You never know just how attached to your hairbrush you will become. It sticks around longer than a toothbrush. Sometimes longer than a friend. A good hairbrush will grant you endless good hair days, and the karma that flows between you is like magic....okay, that's a little strong, but seriously? It broke my heart to throw them away. The girls had two brushes, one perfect for ponytails, the other great for pigtails. One of them had a mirror on the back that the girls liked to look in when I was done fixing their hair. I had a comb that I've had for a very long time- at least college. I stole it from my mom's bathroom when I was home for the weekend.

And normally, I am the opposite of pack rat. I throw everything out! I don't even print out my pictures anymore because they add to the junk in the house.....but my hairbrush? It's too personal, too much a friend at this point.

But today I took down "Lice Ground Zero," since I think the immediate threat is gone and I no longer need immediate access to lice shampoo and nit combs. I took the 30 gallon trash bags to the garage (guess I didn't need 40 of them after all). I put the Ziploc in the drawer (funny how I only used five out of the economy pack). The last thing to leave he table was my Ziploc of hairbrushes. I cried a little inside as I dropped it in the trash can.   

Lice is the cause of many casualties in this house. Rest in Peace, hairbrush.                        

The difference between #1 and #2

Ivy was my first, and Story was my second. Even though they are only 2 years apart, their early days were totally different.

IVY- in the hospital, I was not going to let Ivy have one single drop of formula, no matter how much those nurses pushed it.
STORY- in the hospital, on the first night when Story cried and the nursing wasn't cutting it, I called for formula.

IVY- she wore Pampers and Huggies in cute designs.
STORY- Since Ivy was still in diapers, Story wore generic...didn't really matter where they were from, but they were the cheapest diaper in the store.

IVY- I knew the exact second when she was going to grow up a size in clothes, and the next size was already washed and hanging in the closet.
STORY- I would be buttoning something, and it wouldn't close! I'd look at the tag and realize I was trying to stuff my 9 month old baby into a 0-3 month onesie. And then I'd still wait a week to get the old baby clothes in the next size out of the attic. I think we skipped 12 month-sized clothes entirely because I kept forgetting to bring them down.

IVY- I could recite how many months, weeks, and days (and sometimes hours!) she had been alive.
STORY- I continued to tell everyone she was six months old until she was 10 months old. I just couldn't remember. One day a woman said, "But I thought you said she was born in March?" I responded, "She was." "But it's January," she said. Oops.

IVY- By the time she could put her feet down and stand on her legs with help, we were holding her hands and letting her pretend to walk. She never crawled, just started walking at 9 months.
STORY- As a result of our previous success with Ivy, I threatened the lives of anyone who tried to help Story walk. She didn't walk until she was 15 months old.

IVY- Every second of Ivy's day was planned. We had playtime, nap time, I did visually stimulating things with toys.....TV watching happened not very often, if at all.
STORY- She was watching TV at 2 weeks, and her "visual stimulation" was watching Ivy play with blocks and me cook.

IVY- rarely sat in a bouncy seat.
STORY- lived in a bouncy seat.

IVY- The doctor was called if her temperature went up to 99.1. Or if she sneezed. Or if I thought she has a tummy ache or an ear infection.
STORY- got Tylenol. I already knew the dosages. :)

IVY- I sang ABC's, kid songs, and lullabies.
STORY- I sang songs by Maroon 5, the Beatles, and Dave Matthews Band.

IVY- when she'd fall, we'd cry with her and wrap her up in band-aids.
STORY- when she fell, we'd say, "Come on, girl, shake it off!"

It's not that we were excellent parents to Ivy and bad parents to Story....it's just the second time around, you know what to expect. Of course, I can see the differences in their personalities- Ivy cries if she stubs her toe and Story would jump off the kitchen counters if allowed......but it's possible that has nothing to do with me, right? :)