Story gets a lot of pets at her daycare. They have fish. They had chicks in a cage for a week. They've been watering plants. Now, they have bird eggs in an incubator. Ivy, understandably, is jealous.
She loves her class...but is really wanting to get a classroom pet. I told her she should ask her teacher if they can have one. And if they wanted fish, they could have our fish tank (which no fish has survived for more than a month in, but I'm hoping it's just me).
This was Ivy's conversation about it in the car....with herself:
Well, I could tell Mr. B that we need a pet, or ask him if we can get one. And they costs lots of money. We don't have a lot of money in our class. Like Abby was expensive right? Maybe something smaller would not cost as much monies.
But that would be hard on him. It would be a lot more responsibility, and he already has a lot of responsibility.Maybe he would say yes, though...and then if we gave him the fish tank he would only have to get some fish, and they aren't very expensive, right?
But I don't know where we would put it? It can't go on the computer table. The cubbies are all full. We can't put it in the housekeeping section. No way it would fit in the reading corner. We could make room for it somewhere, but then where would Mr. B put the stuff we moved? He really needs a bigger room.
But then, Mommy? How would we feed the fish when we were gone on the weekends? And in the summer? The poor fish will starve. And if we go to a new class next year, do the fish go with us? Even if they haven't gone through a whole year? And would that be fair for Mr. B to keep them for a new class?......and on and on and on.....
Gee, do you think she's got control issues?
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
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.
Friday, May 6, 2011
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. =)
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. =)
Friday, April 22, 2011
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.
"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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Go, Big Blues?
I can imagine how many sports fanatics clicked on this link, especially in the wake of the Morehead State victory over Louisville...unfortunately as they and you, reader, are about to find out, I'm not blogging about anything to do with points, a field, and balls.
Nope, this blog is about THE BLUES. As in sadness. Down in the dumps. That cruddy feeling you just can't shake.
I've had the blues periodically throughout life...as a teenager after a break-up...or after a possible relationship fell through (which happened more than I care to admit. I know what you're thinking- Tracee? Someone didn't want to date Tracee? I know, right? I'm totally awesome).
After I had Ivy, I had a touch of them. The "baby blues." The "oh my gosh, what did I just do letting this little stranger into my house" sads. But they passed really quickly and I was smitten with my little girlie.
When I had Story, I had them bad. I had the "can I really take my baby to the fire department and drop her off no questions asked?" bad. It didn't help that she cried all the time either. Apparently, she just wasn't that into me. But, eventually we made up, and it's a good thing because she's just about as awesome as I am.
But lately, I've had them with increasing frequency, which is odd. Aren't people supposed to be less depressed after winter leaves? Isn't the sunshine supposed to make me happy? I only have two months until summer- shouldn't I be giddy?
But I'm not, and I'm not sure why...it's not like kids keep asking me if I'm pregnant or anything. Oh, wait...they do.
Well, it's not like I've gained 20 pounds in the last year...oh, wait, I have. Am I that petty? Possibly.
At least gas isn't like over $3 a gallon prohibiting me from going on trips to see friends and family...
And I could be one of those unlucky people who has a summer of crazy yard work ahead of her...
And my property taxes could be exorbitant...
And I could have had to sell the car I loved this past year...
And I could be faced with the daunting task of having to replace all my summer clothes due to a large weight gain that's not in the budget...
Wow. I'm not sure writing IS the best therapy. Just a couple of these are enough to worry about...all of them together...maybe that's why I'm down?
Most of this, however, is petty. I'm healthy, the kids are healthy, we have jobs, a roof, cars to drive (although gas to put in them is questionable). So, I'm pretty thankful, even if I am a bit blue. =)
Nope, this blog is about THE BLUES. As in sadness. Down in the dumps. That cruddy feeling you just can't shake.
I've had the blues periodically throughout life...as a teenager after a break-up...or after a possible relationship fell through (which happened more than I care to admit. I know what you're thinking- Tracee? Someone didn't want to date Tracee? I know, right? I'm totally awesome).
After I had Ivy, I had a touch of them. The "baby blues." The "oh my gosh, what did I just do letting this little stranger into my house" sads. But they passed really quickly and I was smitten with my little girlie.
When I had Story, I had them bad. I had the "can I really take my baby to the fire department and drop her off no questions asked?" bad. It didn't help that she cried all the time either. Apparently, she just wasn't that into me. But, eventually we made up, and it's a good thing because she's just about as awesome as I am.
But lately, I've had them with increasing frequency, which is odd. Aren't people supposed to be less depressed after winter leaves? Isn't the sunshine supposed to make me happy? I only have two months until summer- shouldn't I be giddy?
But I'm not, and I'm not sure why...it's not like kids keep asking me if I'm pregnant or anything. Oh, wait...they do.
Well, it's not like I've gained 20 pounds in the last year...oh, wait, I have. Am I that petty? Possibly.
At least gas isn't like over $3 a gallon prohibiting me from going on trips to see friends and family...
And I could be one of those unlucky people who has a summer of crazy yard work ahead of her...
And my property taxes could be exorbitant...
And I could have had to sell the car I loved this past year...
And I could be faced with the daunting task of having to replace all my summer clothes due to a large weight gain that's not in the budget...
Wow. I'm not sure writing IS the best therapy. Just a couple of these are enough to worry about...all of them together...maybe that's why I'm down?
Most of this, however, is petty. I'm healthy, the kids are healthy, we have jobs, a roof, cars to drive (although gas to put in them is questionable). So, I'm pretty thankful, even if I am a bit blue. =)
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)