The Name Says It All

Out of the blue yesterday, Paige asked if she was A Big Girl.

I explained that she did big girl things, like wearing underwear and sleeping in a bed.  And then, as if moved by Jesus himself, the words "but big girls don't use a pacifier" just came tumbling out of my mouth.

I did not wake yesterday morning intending to encourage the baby to rid herself of the very last piece of her babydom.  I wasn't really ready.  I don't *want* her to be completely done being a baby.

Oh don't look at me like that!  YES!  I realize she's two (and a half).  I KNOW she's not really a baby anymore.  And yes, I am AWARE that she is entirely too old to be using a pacifier. 

But before you judge me, let me say that this child is an AMAZING sleeper.  And she's only allowed the paci while she's in her bed.  I was worried that she would STOP being an amazing sleeper if I got rid of her special little sleep prop.

Oh hell, you're still judging me, aren't you?

But listen to THIS: that poor child tossed and turned for AN HOUR last night before she finally fell asleep.  And? NO NAP AT ALL TODAY.  NONE!  She laid in her bed for over an hour before we finally gave up.

SEE?  I'm DOOMED!

I Have a "Special" Purple File Now

This morning Paige woke up as usual and proceeded to the potty where she removed her (dry) diaper, and then, you know, did her thing in the bathroom.  Afterward, she ran (naked) into her bedroom to pick out a pair of panties.  This is our everyday routine.  The peeing and the nakedness and the panty-picking.

While she's doing all that, I stand in her closet and choose her outfit for the day.  This works out great.  By the time she is clad in her drawers, I'm standing by to dress her the rest of the way.

Today was no different.  At least until we were halfway down the stairs.  That's when she stopped in mid-step, grabbed her crotch with both hands and began SCHUREEEMING and stomping her feet.  She was clearly in terrible pain and kept exclaiming that her "bottom" (actually her "front bottom") hurt.  I scooped her up and brought her downstairs where I removed her pants and examined her, um, "bottom regions".  I found nothing wrong.  Absolutely nothing. 

I re-dressed her and she hopped up and ran off to play acting as if nothing had happened.   Dave and I exchanged a look, then he said "don't look at ME, *that* area is YOUR responsibility".  He's always been a bit squeamish about dealing with Paige's GIRL area. 

I continued on with my morning routine, but right before it was time to leave for school, Paige did it again.  All of it, the screaming, the stomping, the grabbing of the crotch.  But this time she wouldn't stop.  She was inconsolable. 

I decided to call the pediatrician.  The triage nurse asked questions that led me to believe she suspected a bladder infection.  She asked about frequent urination.  Crying during urination? Fever?  No on all fronts.  Paige seemed perfectly fine except for these weird outbursts.

Of course the nurse scheduled us to come in at 10am.  She was perplexed.

About an hour before we were supposed to leave for the doctor, it occurred to me that Paige might be reacting to some irritant in her panties.  I decided to switch to a different pair and see if the symptoms continued.

Sure enough.  She was CURED!

Turns out there was a tiny little thorn-y thingy in her panties that would poke her in her Most Sensitive Region when she'd move a certain way.

Which meant that I had to call the pediatrician's office and explain that my daughter was, in fact, NOT suffering from a severe infection.  Just a little 'ol sticker in her panties.

The receptionist OPENLY LAUGHED at me.

I have a feeling they have a special color-coded filing system at their office for people like me.  I wonder what color they use for Wacko Overreacting Nut Jobs.  Purple probably.  That seems right.

Anything for Beauty

Two weeks ago I set out to find myself a new outfit to wear to this season's Christmas parties.  I have plenty of cocktail dresses, but this season, I found myself invited to several "casual-ish" parties.  I needed something a step down from cocktail, but still festive.

I wandered in to White House Black Market thinking I'd find something, well, BLACK.  Black being my go-to color when I'm feeling a bit, um, chubby (which is always, it seems).  But my eyes kept traveling over this little hot pink number:

Hot pink.  HOT PINK y'all!  I have never, EVER in my life worn bright PINK.  I'm a redhead.  With pasty white skin and eight million freckles. 

Pasty white redheads can NOT wear pink.  Right?  That's what I've ALWAYS been told, anyway.

But I tried that top on and fell madly in love with it.  I paired it with black velvet JEANS and sequin peep-toe pumps.  Jeans! See there? Casual, yet festive.  Perfect!

I couldn't WAIT to put my new outfit on this evening. 

Except I couldn't zip the shirt.  Couldn't.  Oh, I'd love to blame the ZIPPER.  But, it turns out I bought my pretty pink shirt the first day back from a week long stint with the flu.  I was dehydrated that day.  Plus, I'd barely eaten while I was ill.  Apparently, I've puffed up QUITE A BIT in the last two weeks.

I had exactly 30 minutes to figure out what to do. 

I opted for my most powerful pair of Spanx.  These suckers bind me up like sausage casing.  And sure enough, I was able to (barely) zip myself into that shirt.

However, I think I may have sustained permanent damage to my spleen from the Spanx.  And I'm not sure I'll ever get the feeling back in my lower extremities.

Eh.  Small price to pay for beauty. 

It's Ornamental

We put up the Christmas tree on Sunday.

Today I finished my Christmas shopping.  Including stocking stuffers.  And wrapping.

I'm done.  And before you roll your eyes and put me in the category of "one of THOSE people", I would like to state for the record that I have NEVEREVERNEVER been an early Christmas shopper.  Procrastination is an area where I excel.  In fact, I've been known to dash out on the 23rd only to find myself surrounded by  MEN (we all know THEY wait until the last minute).

I have no real explanation for why I'm finished early this year.  The only thing I can come up with is: the kids are fun to buy for.  They're at the ages where they've really developed a clear "taste" for what they love.  Dave and I spent one afternoon in the toy section of Target and we'd done 90% of our list.  We dashed from aisle to aisle spotting dozens of things they'd LOVE.  The hardest part was narrowing it down.

Oh, and I suppose I should tell you that we've decided not to exchange gifts with any of the adults on either side of the family.  So my list diminished to a measly SIX this year- all of them children. 

I probably should have mentioned the SIX PEOPLE at the beginning of this post.  It would have put the whole "I'm done" thing into perspective, eh?

How about this?  I'll show you what a procrastinator I can be.  Check this out:

This is an example of my Christmas tree ornaments.  We have about seventy-five wee little frames on our tree.  Each is filled with a photograph of someone in our family. 

Dave and I hand-made the ornaments for our first Christmas together.  It was a project of MAMMOTH proportions.  The first step being dinner with our grandmothers and great-aunts and cousins to procure old photos.  It was such a fun time visiting with relatives about their history.

For instance, here is a picture of my paternal grandmother standing in front of the orphanage where she was raised. 

It's one of a very few photos of her as a child.  I see a bit of baby Paige standing there, don't you?

Once we had all the original photos, we made color copies (remember, this was 1998, there weren't scanners and photo-printing computers).  Oh! And, we didn't like the color of the frames, so we painstakingly spray-painted all 75.  Then we cut out the photo copies to size and mounted them with spray adhesive.

It was a daunting project.  One that I would never DREAM of undertaking today with my busy life.  But back then, we had oodles of time after work and on the weekends to fritter away doing silly projects. 

Ah, those were the days.

Anyhoo.  I'm telling you this story so that you can now judge me.  You see, not one time, EVER, in the intervening years have I updated the pictures on the tree.  Which means my 13 year old nephew is on the tree AS A NEWBORN.  My own children?  Yeah.  Nowhere to be found.

Essentially, if you were in my family in 1998, then you're on the tree.  If not?  Well, file your complaints with management.

See there?  I'm a master procrastinator.  It's not so impressive that I'm done with my Christmas shopping now, is it?

When I Grow Up

My kid is slated to be "The Kindergarten Star of the Week" next week. 

The Star of the Week has an entire bulletin board dedicated to him/her in the Kindergarten classroom.  This bulletin board is filled with pictures of the child doing his favorite things and posing with his favorite people. 

A note came home in his backpack today explaining the whole process.  In addition to sifting through all 12,000 pictures of William, I am also to "interview" William and document his answers on a special sheet that will be posted on the bulletin board and, I presume, at some point will be read aloud to the class.

It's all very cute.  I would love to say "William is very excited to be the Star of the Week", but really, his attitude was more "Meh" than "Yay!".

Despite is cool demeanor about the whole thing, I dutifully conducted the interview this evening, and documented answers to questions like "what do you most like to eat", and "what are your favorite things".  His answers were exactly as I could have predicted.  He loves cheeseburgers and Tootsie Rolls.  His favorite things are Legos and his bicycle. 

But then we got to the "what do you want to be when you grow up" question. 

His reply?

Yes.   You read that right.  He's not sure if he'd like to be an ELF, a CHICKEN, or an astronaut.

Personally, I vote for "elf", as it seems those guys live forever (either making toys or baking Keebler cookies). Plus, I'll bet that job probably doesn't even require a college degree. 

Gag Me With A Spoon

My kids are The World's Most Persnickety Eaters.  Ever.  For years William would not eat meat.  Of any kind.  He still doesn't eat cheese.  And chicken?  Only if he's forced.  And now Paige is following in his footsteps.  Except, Paige won't even eat peanut butter - peanut butter being the only protein that kept my son alive for the first 5 years of his life.

It's frustrating.  And sort of scary.  I fill them with all sorts of vitamins every morning to stave off, I don't know, rickets? Gout?

And here's the real kicker: each night when Dave and I require the children to sample the food I've prepared for dinner, my children don't put up much of a fuss.  They obey.  They're good kids, after all.

But then they vomit.

On the table.

At dinnertime.

William has gotten better about it over the years.  Mostly his tastes elicit only mild gagging.  Paige, on the other hand, regurgitates everything she's eaten for the last 36 hours.  In fact, she vomited on my poor father-in-law over the Thanksgiving holiday.  He had the nerve to let her sample his guacamole AFTER SHE ASKED FOR IT.  He was paid back for his kindness with a lap full of everything Paige had just consumed for dinner.

Do any of you have this issue with your children?  What do you do? 

So far, our only solution has been to make the children sample new foods on a fairly empty stomach (at the beginning of the meal).  This works somewhat.  Although, seriously, who wants to dig in to a freshly-cooked meal with the sound of dry-heaving in the background? 

I blame myself for all of this.  I was a SUPER picky eater as a child, and I still don't eat a wide variety of foods.  For instance, I don't eat fish.  Ever.  And I'm not big of Asian food.  Clearly I've passed on the picky gene to my children.

Internet, I want you to tell me there's something obvious and glaring that I'm doing wrong.  That I can't see the food forest for all the vomiting trees. 

Or perhaps I'm just A Terrible Mother who is raising ricket-y, gout-y, malnourished children.

It's UP!

I hounded Dave all morning to get out the Christmas tree.  The kids were excited to start the Christmas season, and I was just anxious to, well, get it over with.  I hate to say it, but I really dread putting up the tree and all the decorations. 

Does that mean my heart is a cold black stone?  Probably.

Poor Dave has to do most of the work in the beginning...  he puts our artificial tree together, carefully separates all of the bendy little pipe cleaner branches, and then strings the lights. 

While he is working, my job is to wrestle the children out of the Christmas tree box. 

When Dave is  finished lighting and fluffing, we turn the kids loose with the ornaments.  William meticulously places the ornaments with equal spacing. 

Paige, on the other hand, piled eleventy hundred ornaments in a single square foot area at the bottom of the tree.

At the end of the evening, we stood back and admired our work.  I asked the children what they wanted Santa to bring them this year.  William enumerated his list item by item. 

Paige, however, simply answered "CAKE!".

Forget toys.  My girl just wants her some cake for Christmas. 

So I suppose I have 28 days to figure out how to wrap up a CAKE and put it under the tree.