I scratched my baby girl's bottom last night. No. Not the cheek. Not the outerlying cheekal regions. Not even the innerlying cheekal regions. THE HOLE ITSELF. What can I say? I was bored.
Recently we've had ever-lengthening sessions of back scratching; she's very demanding, awaking in an instant from almost-sleepage if I dare remove my nails from her back a second too soon. I'm pretty much willing to do anything possible to get her to go to or stay asleep, so I acquiesce. She's been a terror the past few weeks so it's like walking on screaming eggshells, but she was actually bearable at the doctor's office yesterday and after her new antihistamine, kind of ready to go to sleep for once last night. Normally when I scratch her back, she's all "datch my back. DATCH MY BACK, MAMA. datch my ba-a-ack." Sometimes she'll pop up, review which arm I'm using to datch and select: "use DAT one." So I switch and use dat one. This can go on for an HOUR. Rarely she'll ask Daddy to put her to sleep or back to sleep and he's back in 5 minutes. HOW? "I just don't scratch her back." WTF?! How can you deny that angelpants? How are you not scared of her? "I just lie down on the floor next to her bed and she falls asleep." WTF ever.
So yesterday afternoon she had a major poop IN THE POTTY LIKE A BIG GIRL and we made sure to extra clean the "area" while she was in the bath. The eczema's always been a problem and the pediatrician recommends using only water. Usually we just wash her hair with organic baby shampoo that's also infused with flecks of gold and the skin cells of angels apparently because it's $9 a bottle, but after major poopage we go deep. As soon as she pops out of the bathtub her tiny hand goes straight into her butt crack. If I had a dollar for every time I yanked her hand out of her bottom and said "get your hand out of your bottom, please" I'd be napping right now. Given just about any circumstances, I'd choose napping. On the 11.7-ft walk to her bedroom, she scratches about 14 more times and fights, fights, fights putting on her diaper. Finally she leaps onto her tiny toddler bed onto her belly and pitifully wails at me: "datch my bobbum, Mama! datch!" Mama rushes to datch her bobbum, on the cheeks. "NOOOOOoooo, IN IT, IN MAH BOBBUM!" I venture further, hoping "in" vs. "exact target" will suffice. At this, she grabs my finger, pokes it IN IT and makes me datch.
They say it happens when you first lay eyes on your child or the way you feel when your baby gets sick for the first time. But I think it truly happened last night. I am officially a Mommy.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Thong Song [Originally Posted 9/1/2009 (On my old blog)]
For some reason, I woke up around 4 am this morning and just could not get back to sleep, which meant, of course, that E (who was 3.5 at the time) slept “late” until 7:30am. I was working in my office when I heard her door open and she glanced at me and kept on truckin’ her little self past me and all the way downstairs. I listened for a minute and then heard, “Mommy! MOMMMMAAAYY! I had an accident.” I went downstairs to find her standing in front of the potty, undies about mid-shin, in, NO KIDDING, 3 feet of pee. She just started sleeping without Pull-Ups a few weeks ago and this was her very first “accident” although I did ask her why the F she walked all the way downstairs to pee instead of using her bathroom. She is so lucky. She’s 3 and has her own bathroom. I don’t even have my own bathroom.
So I decided to head off this morning’s tantrum by suggesting we take a shower to get washed off and because she loves to take showers. I should point out that E is quite the keen observer of all things that exist ever anywhere at all. She can be very complimentary, too, and I’ll take that wherever I can get it. A few weeks ago we were getting into the shower and she reached up, poked my chest and said, “I LOVE your big boobies.” HELLO. It’s been DAYS since I’ve heard that. “Well, thank you, baby, that’s very sweet.” And then, “um, Mommy? When I get 20 could I have big boobies, too?” Ask your father.
Once we’re actually IN the shower, E grumpily asks me if I could please stop blocking the rain. Every 6 seconds. Because, apparently, my big fat grown-up ass hogs all the water. So basically I have about 2-3 minutes to fully complete my showering routine before E decides I’m finished now (“Mommy, could you get out now?”) and continues with her shower. I stay in the bathroom with her the whole time and get dressed and ready while spending the next 30 minutes trying to convince her to get OUT of the shower. I am mostly not successful in this endeavor. E started this morning’s shower off by purposely hitting my unclothed bottom with her forehead and saying “bonk bonk bonk” and then “butt butt butt” and then requested I do the same to her. Seriously. With my forehead. On her butt. Okay, yes, I did it.
After I was kicked out of the shower, I put on the standard bra and undies (and by that, I of course mean MATCHING ones, from, like, somewhere other than Target or Walmart) and am putting lotion on my face, when E yells from the (clear glass) shower: “Mommy!” Yes, baby? “You have a wedge.” I turn around and look in the mirror. “Okay, thank you, baby.” A minute later: “Mommy! You still have a wedge!” So I explain: “They’re made this way on purpose, sweetie.” She considers that for a moment. “Oh. It looks twisted.” And that was it. I decided to assume “twisted” referred to my underpants and not my big fat grown-up ass.
After a somewhat unrelated mini-tantrum, we’re in her room and she puts on her underpants, sticks her bottom out and turns her head to look at the back of her undies. “Mommy, I have on THESE kind of underpants. What kind are those called?” It’s not like it’s a bad word, so I say, “this kind is called a ‘thong’ and grown-ups wear them.” Which is when she walked behind me and plucked my thong like a violin string and started singing, “thongy thongy thongy."
I think we might have a song writer in the family.
So I decided to head off this morning’s tantrum by suggesting we take a shower to get washed off and because she loves to take showers. I should point out that E is quite the keen observer of all things that exist ever anywhere at all. She can be very complimentary, too, and I’ll take that wherever I can get it. A few weeks ago we were getting into the shower and she reached up, poked my chest and said, “I LOVE your big boobies.” HELLO. It’s been DAYS since I’ve heard that. “Well, thank you, baby, that’s very sweet.” And then, “um, Mommy? When I get 20 could I have big boobies, too?” Ask your father.
Once we’re actually IN the shower, E grumpily asks me if I could please stop blocking the rain. Every 6 seconds. Because, apparently, my big fat grown-up ass hogs all the water. So basically I have about 2-3 minutes to fully complete my showering routine before E decides I’m finished now (“Mommy, could you get out now?”) and continues with her shower. I stay in the bathroom with her the whole time and get dressed and ready while spending the next 30 minutes trying to convince her to get OUT of the shower. I am mostly not successful in this endeavor. E started this morning’s shower off by purposely hitting my unclothed bottom with her forehead and saying “bonk bonk bonk” and then “butt butt butt” and then requested I do the same to her. Seriously. With my forehead. On her butt. Okay, yes, I did it.
After I was kicked out of the shower, I put on the standard bra and undies (and by that, I of course mean MATCHING ones, from, like, somewhere other than Target or Walmart) and am putting lotion on my face, when E yells from the (clear glass) shower: “Mommy!” Yes, baby? “You have a wedge.” I turn around and look in the mirror. “Okay, thank you, baby.” A minute later: “Mommy! You still have a wedge!” So I explain: “They’re made this way on purpose, sweetie.” She considers that for a moment. “Oh. It looks twisted.” And that was it. I decided to assume “twisted” referred to my underpants and not my big fat grown-up ass.
After a somewhat unrelated mini-tantrum, we’re in her room and she puts on her underpants, sticks her bottom out and turns her head to look at the back of her undies. “Mommy, I have on THESE kind of underpants. What kind are those called?” It’s not like it’s a bad word, so I say, “this kind is called a ‘thong’ and grown-ups wear them.” Which is when she walked behind me and plucked my thong like a violin string and started singing, “thongy thongy thongy."
I think we might have a song writer in the family.
Blurt Alert
You'll be introduced to my daughter E's best friend J (a boy) soon enough anyway, so it might as well be via this story. As we walk in the door from work/school yesterday, the first thing E says to me is, "Mommy! Guess what J and I are going to do tomorrow?" Because I can generally assume any discussion centering around E and J will involve marriage, dinosaurs, spitting, or a combination of all of those (eerily similar to my own marriage), I continue with dinner prep and say, "what?"
With a huge smile on her face, she announces, "weeeee are going to blurt!"
Wait. "You're what?" Now that E is nearing the ripe old age of 6, I've learned over the years to try to rein in and temper my (over) reactions to her announcements until I get the entire story; she does come from a long line of histrionic dramatistas, so I don't fault her entirely -- I do deal with her father DAILY. Le sigh.
So now I've stopped figuring out what leftovers are in my fridge that I can heat up that she'll pitch the smallest fit over having to eat for dinner, and I've focused my full attention on my child, who is now standing in the middle of the living room behind a step stool that looks like a tiny pulpit. Also, can someone tell me why the F there's a step stool in the middle of my living room? Am I the only one? I'm 100% certain it will still be there next year, which will be convenient for putting the Christmas tree back up.
So my tiny orator leans forward, rests her elbows on the step stool, narrows her eyes to look up through her long lashes at me and says, "we're going to BLURT" -- then widens her eyes, as if ready to gauge my shocked reaction.
"Sweetie, I'm not sure exactly what word you're saying. Say just that 'blurt' word again." So she does the lean-forward-coquettish-talking-through-eyelashes look at me again (where the crap did she LEARN THAT?! This child is only 5 years old-uh!) and mumbles: "mmblr-URT! Well, I don't know if I have the first part of the word right, but the last part is -URT."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, you know how when you go up to someone and you say, 'you are sooo cute, and I want to marrrrry youuuuuu'? It's like that."
"Oh, okay, then you mean 'FLIRT,' with an 'f' at the beginning." As in: you're never effing leaving the house again until you're 43 years old, and only then to alert the proper authorities as to my demise.
With a huge smile on her face, she announces, "weeeee are going to blurt!"
Wait. "You're what?" Now that E is nearing the ripe old age of 6, I've learned over the years to try to rein in and temper my (over) reactions to her announcements until I get the entire story; she does come from a long line of histrionic dramatistas, so I don't fault her entirely -- I do deal with her father DAILY. Le sigh.
So now I've stopped figuring out what leftovers are in my fridge that I can heat up that she'll pitch the smallest fit over having to eat for dinner, and I've focused my full attention on my child, who is now standing in the middle of the living room behind a step stool that looks like a tiny pulpit. Also, can someone tell me why the F there's a step stool in the middle of my living room? Am I the only one? I'm 100% certain it will still be there next year, which will be convenient for putting the Christmas tree back up.
So my tiny orator leans forward, rests her elbows on the step stool, narrows her eyes to look up through her long lashes at me and says, "we're going to BLURT" -- then widens her eyes, as if ready to gauge my shocked reaction.
"Sweetie, I'm not sure exactly what word you're saying. Say just that 'blurt' word again." So she does the lean-forward-coquettish-talking-through-eyelashes look at me again (where the crap did she LEARN THAT?! This child is only 5 years old-uh!) and mumbles: "mmblr-URT! Well, I don't know if I have the first part of the word right, but the last part is -URT."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, you know how when you go up to someone and you say, 'you are sooo cute, and I want to marrrrry youuuuuu'? It's like that."
"Oh, okay, then you mean 'FLIRT,' with an 'f' at the beginning." As in: you're never effing leaving the house again until you're 43 years old, and only then to alert the proper authorities as to my demise.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Angry Birds
I've been really proud of myself for not jumping on the Angry Birds bandwagon, because I know if I download the app to my Droid or to my iPad, I'll instantly become addicted. Meanwhile, my husband sees nothing wrong with handing his $500 phone (okay, it was free with a new contract, but still) over to our 5-year-old daughter who may or may not have fully developed her fine motor skills, so she can... torpedo birds at buildings? And get 3 stars? And move up to the next level? I'm so proud. I, on the other hand, am sticking with solitaire, but my own version: Angry Solitaire. Which is mostly comprised of me throwing my phone at the wall and yelling, "stupid fucker!" at it. But see, I'm not ADDICTED.
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