A Letter to My Girls

Z and Baby Bird,

You are fighting, a lot.  I watch you fight over who gets to play with the toy broom.  Today, you guys have been fighting over your baby dolls.  Z, you were mad that your sister had the audacity to feed and change your baby doll.   You expressed this with much yelling.  Baby Bird, you tried to assault your sister because she was sitting in my lap and you didn’t want Z to have access to your mommy.   Sometimes you fight over who gets which baby doll.

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My angels, they are the same.

But, really, I am thinking forward twenty-five years in the future.   Baby Bird, when you have had your first baby and big sister Z shows up with broom in hand to clean your house for you, cook you a meal and tuck you into bed, I seriously doubt you will still be fighting over brooms.

Z, on a related note, when you are tired and have hands full with multiple toddlers and Baby Bird sends you out with your sweet hubby to the movies while she feeds and cares for your babies, I don’t think you will complain.

It is amazing how perspective changes some arguments.

I hope forty years from now, when I am old and gray that you will both still be fighting about who gets the privilege of spending time with Mommy.  I bet perspective changes this too, but I hope not.

 

They Dont Build Things To Last

My sweet Mother is seventy-four years old and she still works full time.  This is most certainly by choice.  She could retire.  She probably should retire.  She wont retire.  Dr. Pepper has offered to buy her a house where we live so that she can enjoy Little Z and Baby Bird, but she stubbornly refuses.    She has been a hairdresser in the same small town for fifty-four years, and she has no intentions to stop teasing blue-hair into football-helmet shaped blobs anytime soon.  So, she should be pretty savvy about all things hair related, so I had no concerns about showering at her house a few weekends ago when I had forgotten my own hair supplies.  Imagine my surprise when I was greeted with this monstrosity:

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This is the world’s oldest, and perhaps most-unsafe hairdryer.  Notice that it is held together with a conglomeration of duct tape and electrical tape.

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I cannot recall ever seeing a metal label welded onto a modern hair dryer.

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That is correct folks, the off switch is broken, so this baby is always on.

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And, last but not least, no GFI, so if you drop in in the bathtub while luxuriously drying your hair during a soak, forget it. You are most certainly dead.

So, I assumed that since it is incredibly old and unsafe that it would be an incredible, unregulated hair-drying experience made of pure fire.  Imagine my disappointment to find that I would have been better off heading down to the local McDonalds and using the hand dryer to style my locks.   It is both dangerous and useless.  I know a certain elderly hairdresser who is getting a new hairdryer for Christmas!!!!

Baby Biscuit

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I took Z through a local fast food drive through this weekend to get a biscuit. I have previously discussed her odd dietary habits on my blog. To review, she is three and still eats baby food for at least two meals daily. If it weren’t for baby food and cookies, my child would have starved by now. But, add to this well-rounded regimen a sudden love for biscuits and you are building a food pyramid! She refuses to call them biscuits, referring to them as “butter and salt sandwiches.”

Imagine my surprise that after two bites, I hear Z in the back seat, “Oh, I love you little baby biscuit! I will keep you safe and warm all the way to NaNa and PaPa’s house.”

I glance bemused in the rearview mirror watching her carefully wrap the biscuit up in the paper like a baby.

A few minutes later I hear crying, “I’m SO sorry Baby Biscuit (I capitalize this because by this point, this is the biscuit’s name). I can’t help it Baby Biscuit. You’re so salty and delicious!”

After a few small bites, the biscuit was rewrapped in its blanket.

This scenario was repeated several times on the way to NaNa and PaPa’s.

There were dramatics and tears.

When Baby Biscuit finally met with his demise, we were left with the “blanket” which she used to put several dollies to sleep. Then she wadded it up and said, “Look! It’s like a ball of crumpled-up paper.”

I rolled my eyes, “Yes, Z, It is EXACTLY like that.”

I think she is going to be a really awesome mom someday.

And we’re ALL Winners!!!!

I am pretty sure I offended some people on Facebook the other day… not that there is anything unusual about that.

Friend posts: “So what are some good alternatives to participation trophies for little league basketball?”

I poured over the many comments that said things like, “Gift certificates, t-shirts, and you’re child is a wonderful, special little flower posters,” and without thinking it through, I responded, “How about just giving trophies and prizes to the winners?”

This was not well received.

I come from a place of understanding and compassion. I really do.

Z came to us about six months ago and asked to take “nastics” like her friends. For those of you who don’t speak mangled toddler, this means gymnastics.

Now, once a week we struggle her into a sparkly leotard and take her to nastics. Z is very enthusiastic and squeals with excitement running around in a circle every nastics class. But, here is the kicker…. she sucks at it. She really stinks it up.

The other two and three year olds line up in their colorful little leotards and deftly perform flips, and “skin-the-cats” while I am not really sure what Z is doing. I think I blogged about it before and one time I did catch her allowing another little girl to pick her nose for her. This essentially captures Z’s nastics experience.

She is not good at floor. Her flips are all sideways. She is scared of the balance beam even though it is actually on the floor.   She cannot even jump on the trampoline. It usually results in flailing around like some sort of tortured giraffe trying to escape a tar-pit.

But, Z is happy and cheers for her friends and is learning to follow instructions and stand in line. She is way too little to know she isn’t good at this.   She doesn’t need an encouraging participation trophy.   If she doesn’t listen, I am the first one to declare that she doesn’t get her end of class “yolly-pop” or stamp. When I have done this, it is not a popular decision, and results in tantrums, but sometimes life doesn’t give you a reward for just showing up.

So, even though I will not be rewarding her with a “Certificate of Participation” coupon to Denny’s breakfast bar, I will continue to take her to nastics. Not so my toddler can be a world class gymnast, and not so she can build “self-esteem” (she has that in spades). I want her to learn to listen to and obey her elders. I want her to be kind to her friends and cheer them on in their successes. Is that too much to ask?

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Dogs Are Not Children II

I may have mentioned previously that my brother, Dr. Pepper may anthropomorphize his dog, Lucky a little bit.   So I received this text today:

Dr. Pepper:  Lucky was humiliated today at the puppy daycare spring fling party by forced participation in cosplay.  I can actually see the aloof disdain for this undignified experience.   He looks like the beach boys became terrorists and held puppies in a concentration camp at a trashy South Carolina beach resort.

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Me:  He seems really happy to me… Oh, and dignified, definitely dignified.

Dr. Pepper:  “This is what happens to your city dog when he crosses onto our beech”

Me:  I like the rain jacket

Dr. Pepper:   He is putting on a brave front.  He is NOT happy AND his lip is curling AND he is frowning….It’s too small for him.

Me:  It is snug, but that’s the style!   He is wearing it that way to show off his huge forearms.

Dr. Pepper:  It is so tight he looks like he is wearing a green push-up bra.

Me:  Like Bowie….

Dr. Pepper:  Silence

Me:  Like BOWIE!!!! in Labyrinth….

Dr. Pepper:  That does sound much cooler.

Again, I love my four-legged nephew, but I think Dr. Pepper should just be happy that someone wants to dress his dog up like Bowie and take pictures of him in a non-freaky, non-threatening sort of way.  I mean, sure if someone did that with my toddler at daycare, I would think it was a little weird…..

And The Winner Is….

It is official. I am nominating the Sears/K-mart conglomerate for worst customer service ever.  I know it was a close toss-up between them and Verizon.   The Popeye’s Chicken on Vann Drive received an honorable mention.

Envision this….

I ordered four decorative throw pillows for my couch about three weeks ago. I can’t go into the gory details, but I really NEEDED those pillows by tomorrow. I realized about mid last week that they were still not here.   So, I started doing some investigative work and found out that they cancelled my order, AND didn’t notify me, AND charged my account anyway.

It took approximately an hour and several frustrating conversations with people named Jerry and Bill who inexplicably had Pakistani accents to even convey to them what the problem was.   Finally, Jerry condescended to allow me to purchase a similar pillow. He also considered it fair to require me to pay the thirty-five dollars in highway robbery that they call expedited shipping.

This led to me speaking to Jerry’s manager, Glenn. After a rather frustrating fifteen minutes during which Glenn forgot how to use her phone (I am not joking), Glenn finally agreed to waive the shipping charge retroactively. This wasted hour of my life and frustrating experience exemplifies the competence of the entire Sears/K-mart corporate. I can certainly understand why Martha Stewart hitched her wagon to this star.

Fast forward to this very afternoon if you will. Remember, for reasons that will not be explained, I NEED these four pillows by tomorrow.   They sent me ONE pillow.   ONE.   It was this encounter that pushed our winners past such fiercely incompetent competitors as Best Buy’s Geek Squad, and the Airlines. Thanks Sears/Kmart! Keep up your commitment to the fine customer service that we have come to know and love and you will start circling that drain at an even swifter speed.

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Well, At Least It’s Protein….

I am daily astounded by the differences and similarities between my babies. Z is precocious. She was an early talker.   She has made shocking speeches from the time she was eleven months old. Most recently, we have been potty training and we spent an eternally long couple of days in the Mythical Big Girl Panties.   It didn’t go well. We had SEVERAL accidents. Finally, Z looked at me and said:

“Mommy, I think my Big Girl Panties are bwoken.”

I said, “Really, Z, what’s going on.”

“They have holes in them. They don’t hold the peepee,” Z replied candidly.

After trying to contain my laughter, I promptly switched her back to pull ups. Clearly she just isn’t ready for this.

Baby Bird only communicates in a string of grunts and pointing and screaming. It is amazingly, just as effective as Z’s soliloquys.

Z is afraid of everything:

  1. Bugs
  2. Going too far from the house
  3. Anything on TV that is not PBS
  4. Airplanes
  5. Trains
  6. The dark
  7. The dining room (for some inexplicable reason)

Baby Bird is fearless.   She crawls headlong into danger. I lost track of her the other day and looked up and she was half way up the stairs oblivious to her impending head injury.   I was trying to get some housework done the other day and I noticed a black spot on her face. I went over to examine what was going on, and found half a bug hanging out of her mouth. She was happily munching on the other wriggly bit. When I removed the half that was accessible, she grunted, pointed and screamed about the loss of her delicious bug.   Moments after that, I found her trying to smash a snow globe into the carpet with both hands trying obtain access to its delicious contents.

And sand…. Where Z would timidly taste a little play sand, making a horrible face and discarding it, Baby Bird got a cup of the stuff and was drinking it like a med student guzzling coffee at two am on the wards.

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I don’t really know what I expected.   I guess I assumed that they would be miniature clones of me. Yet they have their own personalities that I had nothing to do with.   They came out endowed by God as the sweet little individuals I am now responsible for.   I thought they would be a blank slate, but I guess it is more fun un-wrapping the layers that are Baby Bird and Z. It is the most wonderful present I have ever unwrapped.

How Do You NOT know how to Target?

As a working mother, there are a few small pleasures on my day off.  One of these is to don yoga pants and load the kiddos up for a midday trip to Target to commune with my stay at home sisters.  This is my new spa day, replacing what actually used to be a spa day.

I have a specific routine.   We stop by the snack bar for popcorn and a red slushy for the kiddos.  This keeps them placating while I luxuriate in my Target experience.   Then I stop by the dollar bins at the front of the store to see if I can find an awesome Hello Kitty themed bag, or a Frozen puzzle, or how bout some novelty socks.  Awesome, right?  Then I take the cart around the entire perimeter of the store starting in housewares.   Anyone who knows anything about Target is aware that clearance items are placed on the outside perimeter.  Convenient, right?  Then, I venture forth to the wild interior to look for deals on apparel and diapers.

I have a system.  But, the other day I ended up at Target with my husband.  I expressed a desire to look for socks, but he apparently took this way too literally.  He was surprised and astounded when I began my routine.  He kept saying things like, “aren’t we here for socks?” and, “I thought you were looking for socks.”

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Half a cart full later, it suddenly occurred to me that my dear husband has now idea how to Target.   I just found myself shaking my head in disbelief.   How can one reach the ripe age of thirty-seven and not understand how Target works?

Make it Rain…

wpid-img_20150215_152346_657.jpgFor those of you who have never watched a rap video, Making it Rain, according to urban dictionary, is when one, “throws a lot of money into the air at a strip club to show the ladies how rich you are.” I am pretty sure that this has been a lifelong dream of my husband.  I know this because every time he takes money out of the ATM for the nanny he offers to “Make it Rain” if I want to dance for him.   So far, his advances have been met with an eye roll.

We were lucky with Z.  She is a thumb sucker so we never had to worry about additional paraphernalia at bedtime.   But, Baby Bird has been a different story.   She requires a paci at bed every night.   And…. if she looses said paci, then it results in screaming.

I had the bright idea that we would just place a couple of extra pacis in her crib so that if she lost it in the night that she could easily placate herself.   This was great until she started clutching a paci in each of her tiny, clenched fists.  Now she cries if she doesn’t have a paci in her mouth and both hands.

So now we have fixed this problem by keeping a bucket of pacis nearby and tossing handfuls in every time we put her to bed.  Sometimes she wakes with one in her mouth and 2-3 in each hand.  It occurred to me the other night that tossing handfuls of pacis at a one year old was not the “Making it Rain” that my husband has been dreaming of.  Oh how life has changed.  wpid-img_20150215_152346_657.jpg

So MUCH Shaking My Head

A terribly frail elderly couple came into my office today.  The gentleman is ninety two years old.  He has horn- rimmed glasses perched atop the fragile bridge of his nose.  He is hobbling in on his rolater.   (In case you don’t have the pleasure of knowing what a rolater is, it is one of those super snazzy walkers that have a seat and brakes that all the cool seniors are sporting these days.)  His was candy apple red, like a race car.

He uses every ounce of strength to sit down in the examination room, grimacing with pain.  After the pleasantries of greeting him, he says, “Doc, I got to have a cortisone shot for my joints.  I am just achy all over.”

“The cold weather must be really getting to your bones,” I nod sympathetically.

He grinned sheepishly at me, “Nah Doc, that’s not it.  I know what I done.”

I wait with baited breath.  Could it be the dreaded “fall in the bathroom” or “slipping on ice” that I frequently hear tell of.   I was totally unprepared for the next words out of his mouth.

“Well, I want to have a big garden this year, so I was out in the front yard with the chainsaw cutting down some trees to clear out a piece for it…” he starts

“Wait a second,” I interrupted, “Do you think at ninety-two you should be out there on your rolater using a chainsaw?  I have to question the safety of such a decision.”

He sighs, “Now Doc, I knew you were going to get on to me about that.  I was real safe.  I locked the rolater and sat on the seat.  I didn’t even climb up in the tree or nothing. “

“Well that IS a relief,” I replied, “I am glad that you didn’t climb into a tree with a chainsaw and your walker.”

So MUCH shaking my head.

*shared with permission

My Life as an Exhibitionist

Confession time…. I don’t get to shower regularly. Okay, so I do get to take a whore’s bath every day (cleaning the vital areas for business), but only about twice a week do I get to luxuriate in a shower (for the ten minutes required to wash my hair and shave my legs). Otherwise it is just jumping in quickly to do the necessary.

So, let me set the scene. We have all had the flu this week and earlier in the day Baby Bird threw up on me more than once. It may be in my hair. I am super gross.   I am really looking forward to this shower.   My husband announces that he also needs a shower which he takes for about twenty –five blissful uninterrupted minutes.

When he finishes, I inform him that it is my turn.   Z is entertained by Granny.   Baby Bird is asleep.   THIS IS MY MOMENT.   I head off to the shower and hear my husband using his neti-pot it what can only be described as an ode to the memory of a dying whale.   This was one minute into the shower.

At about a minute and a half, Baby Bird wakes up due to the tortured hunchback snorting in our bathroom.   Seconds later, I feel cold air hit my backside and as I rinse the shampoo from my eyes quickly (it burns, it burns), I look down to see my husband holding the baby and sitting on the floor next to the open shower so we can “talk”.

I demand that the shower be closed. My request is met with reluctance and hostility. I look down and can see a pair of tiny hands on the glass like a scene from a horror movie trying to gain entry.   Then she is licking the door.

At about three minutes in, Z comes running in screaming, “I peed in the POTTTTEEEEE.”

Folks, this isn’t news. She has been doing this for like six months intermittently, mostly for chocolate.   She still expects us to receive it with the same excitement. It is getting old.

And on cue, at about four minutes, Granny comes in to hang out with the kids, so for the record, during my relaxing shower, both of my children, my husband, and now my Mother-in-Law are all chilling in the bathroom.

It was the best shower I have had all week.

Hey Jerk, Don’t Bring Your Sick Kid to Church

The last two weeks my family has been afflicted with the stomach virus and we missed church two weeks in a row.  I want to share with you the strange thing that happened.   We did not get struck down by lightening.   I know, it is really strange, in my experience, most people believe that Jesus wants them to go to church no matter their state of health.

I could understand if our church was into faith healing. I don’t think a lot of that showboating actually goes on at our contemporary, coffee-bar style church. Besides, dropping your pestilence-ridden toddlers off at the nursery is NOT an attempt at faith healing. It is just a Jerk move.

I would propose that in addition to the contexts of your child actively spewing forth from both ends, coughing up hunks of green nastiness, or bleeding out their eyeballs that there are several other circumstances that merit staying at home.

  1. If your child has had a fever in the last forty-eight hours perhaps you should skip church or at least the nursery. (One day we were dropping off Z in the nursery and we overheard another couple talking about how their angel had been up sick all night and they were really looking forward to dropping him off for a break. Really? We just turned around and came home.) Also, if you are continually medicating your child to keep their fever down it doesn’t count as “not having a fever”.
  2. If your child has an actively snotty nose, or obvious respiratory infection. Don’t play. You know your baby is sick. Stop lying and saying things like, “oh her nose is really runny when she is teething.” That baby’s snot is green with blood in it. That is NOT teething.
  3. If your child has had stomach virus in the last week or so, you should pass up church. Rotovirus is highly contagious with just a few viral particles and can be transmitted for several days after the acute illness passes.   Plus, it is just gross and miserable and you are not a good person for doing this to others.   (On a related note, saw many people a couple of weeks ago on Facebook comment about how bad the stomach virus was at their house only to see them at church a couple of days I am sure all the volunteers are really going to be sending you a thank you card when they are missing valuable work time because for some reason you felt compelled to bring your sick child to church.)
  4. If your child has a positive flu and/or strep test, YOU. SHOULD. SKIP. CHURCH. (I shouldn’t even have to mention this, but sadly, I do.)

Just consider the above a public service announcement from both a physician and mommy.   Remember that there are other children, elderly and pregnant women at church who may have depressed immune systems. There are also numerous people that cannot be vaccinated for myriad reasons (transplants, allergies, etc.) They rely on us not to expose them to diseases.

I think the problem is that people feel “safe” at church and expect people there to act ethically and in the best interest of the whole community and they do not use the vigilance they would in other public settings to protect themselves against germs. Please realize that God is not going to strike you down for enjoying the sermon remotely while in your PJ’s if your family is sick. We will ALL thank you for this.   Also, remember to wash your hands and vaccinate those kiddos! We are all in this together!

Jesus, Thank you for our Christmas Stomach Flu

Dear Lord, thank you for the Christmas stomach flu,

Thank you that it hit my girls a little before Christmas so they still got to enjoy the magic of your birth.

Thank you that Z doesn’t bother to wake us up when she throws up.  She just vomits in one corner of the bed, piles some toys on the top of it and sleeps in another corner.   It isn’t fun to clean up the next day, but it makes for a better night of sleep.

On a related note, thank you that when I found my toddler covered in dried puke with every toy and blanket she owns likewise coated that I had hot, plentiful running water to clean both her and her toys.  Thank you that I didn’t have to walk several miles with a sick toddler and a baby to draw up water from a well to clean my daughters.  Thank you that I had an entire stick of Oxi-Clean on hand to get the stains out.

Thank you Lord that Baby Bird only had a touch of it. When she had a poosplosion of epic proportions and my husband held up a sleeper covered in baby waste shaking his head we both knew we weren’t going to try to salvage it.   Thank you that I wasn’t standing at the sink with my hands covered in filth trying to salvage something so disgusting because we are just so blessed that we can just buy another sleeper.

Thank you that when my mother got sick that there were good friends at her work willing to drive her home and help her.

Thank you that Dr. Pepper is also on the road to recovery.

Thank you for our excellent health on most days of the year.  Lord, thank you that I am not holding a sick and hurting child every day wishing I could make them feel better.

Thank you for Phenergan.

And Ginger Ale….

And Ritz Crackers…..

And Lysol.

Amen

Make IT Stop!

I must speak to and deride a most disturbing trend in Southern fashion.  I am quite sure that much like smocking and pin-tucking that this is a trend only seen in the Deep South and not in the rest of the country.  Don’t get me wrong, I love being from the South, but sometimes, things go too far.  For me, the horror began about a year and a half ago at a consignment sale:

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I know, I know, it is really confusing.  Let me explain to you what you are seeing in this photo.  It is a GROWN woman wearing pants with ruffles around the bottom, like a clown.   It takes me back to that horrible period in sixth grade when clown style jumpers were all the rage (this was an actual thing and it was horrifying).   This was a bad idea then and it is a bad idea now.   I immediately knew who was responsible:

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Matilda Jane makes a line of clothes for CHILDREN that are considered quite “charming” in some circles.  It is mismatched patterns of gingham and stripes and ruffles that looks like Dr. Seuss and Little House on the Prairie vomited out a confused sad clown.    I will admit, they mostly look cute on children, but the trend has expanded to adults.  I know, it is true.

I was at church group earlier this week and someone was wearing them.   I admit, she is about the size of a fourth grader, and could maybe pull off this look, but it is now everywhere I go, mocking me.   One of my friends sent me a “selfie” of her new “Christmas Pants” just to taunt me.

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I mean, she seems happy, but do you SEE how these pants make her look like The Joker?

Clown pants ARE NOT a good look ladies.  Please MAKE IT STOP.   I cant take it anymore.   Everyone should take fashion cues from me and wear ten year old jeans and graphic tees and all would be right with the world.

My Dad Drinks

An evening with underdaddy

Underdaddy

I have tried to be good, really I have. My cautionary tales of trying to be careful of what you say and do around children have apparently been in vain. There really is no way to guess what can be misrepresented.

I am responsible for the bedtime ritual of tucking the children into bed and I love it. Not only because it starts off adult time but because at the end of the day I get a few minutes with the girls to wish them well for the night and give hugs and kisses. For about a month now they have asked me for themed hugs at bedtime. Themed just means that I am supposed to act like a different animal and give them hugs like that animal might (an elephant uses big flappy ears and trumpets).

The first night I gave “Turkey” hugs where I would proceed to gobble my way…

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Karma, or Dogs are Not Children

Traditionally, I have not gone home much for the holidays. During residency and early on in my medical practice I spent many holidays at the hospital.   Now that I have children, some of that has gone out the window, so we decided to make the trip home to my mother’s for Thanksgiving.   There are drawbacks. In the tradition of little old ladies everywhere, it is way too hot, also, NO HIGH SPEED INTERNET, or ANY internet for that matter. Bonuses include plentiful, delicious junk food, FREE Babysitting, and nostalgia.

On the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, my husband and I were taking advantage of the free babysitting by taking a nap. This is an absolute luxury available exclusively at the grandparent’s.   Imagine my surprise when I woke up to discover that my mother had cut my 2 year old’s hair without consulting me.   I mean she had casually mentioned beforehand that she thought she need a haircut, and I may have casually joked, “Good luck holding her down for that,” but I didn’t actually expect her to do it without me present.   But, we were taking advantage of the free babysitting so I decided to bite my tongue.

The next day, Dr. Pepper arrives and greets my toddler with, “Oh, who’s a pretty girl?   Did you get a new haircut Z?”   I mutter something under my breath about mom cutting her hair while I was asleep without my consent, and suddenly with wide-eyed, maniacal glee, my brother turns on me cackling, “So HOW does it feel? How does it FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL?”

It took me a moment of thought to determine what he was referring to with such vigor. Suddenly I recalled an incident about three years ago, before my days of childbearing.   Dr. Pepper was at work and left his precious, angel, Lucky in my care. Please see picture below to include crazy-laser eyes (he gets those from his daddy).

 

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As you can see, Lucky looks like you took a Yorkie and supersized it.   He has “bangs” falling into his eyes chronically and on this particular day, he kept running into my table, walls, doors, etc. because HE COULD NOT see. So, I took it upon myself to do a grooming which Dr. Pepper claims he undertakes regularly.   It took a week, and a liter of industrial strength pipe cleaner to set my bathroom to rights after this grooming.   I gently trimmed his bangs so that he could see, and Dr. Pepper went absolutely ballistic. He started screaming about how grooming his dog’s hair was akin to assault and how he would one day cut my future children’s hair without permission.

It was at this point that I pointed out that DOGS ARE NOT CHILDREN, much to the chagrin of my own personal Neurotic Beagle.   I understand.   I really do.   I have been that childless individual over-fixated on my four legger.   I still love the snot out of Neurotic Beagle, but the idea of someone grooming her not to my specifications does not fill me with the ire that the grooming of my toddler can inspire.   I know that this was a moment of Karmic justice in the eyes of Dr. Pepper, but I maintain that DOGS ARE NOT CHILDREN.

 

Bathrooms And Humiliation And Transvestites, Oh My!

I have been giving a lot of thought to the hubbub in Houston over public restrooms. For those of you unversed, the city council of Houston has passed a bathroom bill.   Section 51-17(b) of the bill reads as follows,

“ It shall be unlawful for any place of public accommodation or any employee or agent thereof to deny any person entry to any restroom, shower room, or similar facility if that facility is consistent with and appropriate to that person’s expression of gender identity”

In case you missed that, it means that if a person thinks they are a female, even if they aren’t, then they can use the ladies restroom, shower, etc.

First of all, this is not really anything new.   When I was in my twenties, showering at the local YMCA, there were mothers who brought their clearly way-too-old male children in to the women’s locker room.   This has been a pet peeve of mine for some time. If your kiddo is old enough to shave; and his voice has dropped, then he is probably too old to hold your hand on a trip to the bathroom ladies. My point being is that this is a variety of humiliation that women have been subject to for some time. We are used to this junk, so bring it.

Everyone is crying about the poor children and how they may have to go to the bathroom with some man, but it is not the children I am worried about.   I am not sure that these transgender individuals have any understanding of the rather complete extent to which children can embarrass you.

On a recent shopping trip to Kroger, whilst in the deli, my 2 year old palmed my boobs and squeezed them hard, yelling, “Honk, Honk Mommy! I squeeze your bellybutton.”

Amidst the snickers and glares, I remained calm, “Is that my belly button?”

Z collapses into a fit of giggles, “No Silly Mommy, that’s where milk comes from, like a cow.”

At this point, I really wanted to die, but wait, there’s more. The very next week, same Kroger, frozen aisle we are just passing a smokin’ hot guy.   Z immediately starts blushing and flirting, batting her eyelashes and twirling her hair.   I am bemused by this rather appropriate response. She looks him deeply in the eyes and in her best toddler, husky voice uses the greatest pick up line of all time, uttering, “I eats my boogers.”

Great. Thanks for that kid.

Similarly, my friend Supermom is in the bathroom with her tot at the zoo.   Tot says, “I like your butt mommy. You have a nice butt.”

Cute, right?   Everyone in the adjacent stalls laughs politely.   Supermom said later that she could see the next thought run through Tot’s head and she tried to cover her mouth right as she blurts out, “I don’t like your front butt. It too hairy.”

She had to hide in the bathroom till everyone is gone. Almost ALL of my friends have been subjected to some variation of the above by their overly honest children.

So in conclusion, if a tranny would like to use the bathroom with my kiddo, you are welcome to do so, but I am clearly unable to stop her from embarrassing me in public, so when she says, “Mommy, why does that dude look like a lady?” don’t blame me, she does this stuff ALL. THE. TIME.

Also, don’t think I won’t use this to my advantage if it comes to my area. Believe me, I have waited through enough lines at the ladies room during concerts and sporting events to take significant time off my life. From now on, I plan on marching over to the men’s bathroom and explaining that I am feeling really masculine today and take my place atop the porcelain throne.

Actually, I think this whole thing is really stupid.   If you are good enough at being transgender, then people really shouldn’t notice that you are in the wrong restroom to begin with. Seriously, have you seen pictures of trannies from Thailand? They are stunning and I challenge you to pick out which ones are really men.   On the other hand, if you appear obviously male, and happen to be wearing tights, you should probably stick with men’s room. I think this is a good rule of thumb, but apparently the city council of Houston knows best.

The Wounds of Parenting

Z, my two year old has been attending gymnastics class for the last two months.  I say attending because it is largely her running around randomly or crying.    Generally she will do a few tricks with the promise of a lollipop at the end of class.  When she received her first lollipop it was with some consternation that she declared, “lollipop…. it’s like a sucker!”   (Did I mention this kid is a genius).

At first, she adorably referred to it as “flip class”, but now if I ask if she wants to go to “flip class” she haughtily corrects me and says, “It’s Gymnastics” as if she’s Dominique Dawes.

At last flip class Z managed to perform a contortion in such a way that it nearly resulted in a concussion for Mommy.   She didn’t seem to notice the blinding pain that she had caused me and kept happily doing log rolls.

When we arrived home, I decided to rest from my closed head trauma by relaxing on the floor and allowing Baby Bird to crawl all over me as is her new favorite nine-month old pastime.  She promptly crawled onto my chest and shoved her first finger on her right hand so far into my nose that her jagged, impossibly sharp baby fingernail ruptured something and I immediately started bleeding.

baby fingernails

I am thinking about what could have possibly given Baby Bird this idea.  I flash back through the lancinating pain to a moment in flip class where Z and her new friend were discussing their “stuffy noses”.   I was thinking to myself how great it was that she was socializing appropriately when I noticed that the other little girl had started picking Z’s nose prompting her mom to recite the well known saying, “You can pick your friends, and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.”  I had largely viewed this as anecdotal and not instructional until this point.

As I was trying to staunch the bleeding, Z leaps from the couch in what can only be described as a Bruce Lee impersonation and lands a windmill kick squarely to my left ear, rupturing my eardrum.  My world goes dark with pain.   I am bleeding and about to vomit from the instant vertigo that this perfectly landed blow has caused.

In fairness, as I was writhing on the floor, crying, Z did give me “double hugs” and got her Doc McStuffins doctor bag to give me a “check up”.

While I was still bleeding and deaf in one ear, she put a bandage on my thumb (which ironically was not injured), kissed me, and declared me to be “all better”

 

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