Best-Laid Plans

When will I ever learn?

When will I realize that saying something ridiculous out-loud is basically akin to guaranteeing that exact opposite will happen. Something ridiculous, say, like "Hey, I'll get up extra-early tomorrow so I can get some things done before the girls wake up. Babe, wake me up at 6:00, okay?"

Why did I want to get up at 6:00 am? The girls and I were leaving the next afternoon for a week-long "girls trip" to Lake Maxinkuckee with their Nani, EJ, cousins and various other female family members who will be visiting (okay, fine. We'll let the menfolk come too, but NOT until the weekend! Except Bostie. He can come whenever he wants. And not just because he sponsored this trip. And my sister-in-law is reading over my shoulder and just reminded me that my nephew is actually a boy. Poor Nate-dogg. When you read these someday know that it doesn't mean I love you any less. There's just a HELL of a lot of pink around here).

Phew. Holy digression.

Okay, where was I? Yes. Getting up early.

So, Derrick wakes me and I had the audacity to stay in bed for a few minutes and go through my plan for the morning. And then at 6:02 am Blair started screaming. And then at 6:15 am Paige decided she didn't want to miss out on any of the fun, either.

Hmmmm. Girls - 1, Plan - 0.

So, later that day we get in the van to drive almost 2 hours to Culver. Thinking to myself (I didn't dare say it out loud. Okay, I probably did say it out loud. More than once.), 'this will be perfect.' It's 2:15, both girls will be tired. Blair will probably pass out and Paige might even fall asleep.

Blair: awake the entire ride and periodically yelling out "Mama!" And by periodically, I mean probably about once a minute. Paige: passed out for about 20 minutes, then asking how much longer until we could see her cousins. For 2 hours (minus 20 minutes).

Girls - 2, Plan - 0.

The rest of the afternoon/evening went well. And really just well by Feldmann Family standards. Only a few time-outs. Paige only screamed about 50% of the time. Blair actually let someone else hold her (okay, she was still screaming, but she didn't try to jump out of their arms).

Seriously?!?! ANY amount of grouchiness is worth moments like this...

Bedtime came around, and I put Blair down first. Faaaaast asleep. Paige actually poopied on the potty (shhh...let's just keep quiet and hope it continues) and went to bed. Ahhhh. Quiet time on the lake with family/friends and cocktails. I'll admit it. I got cocky. So cocky, in fact, that I posted a picture to Instagram:

Fast-forward to 2:00 am (and try to keep in mind that all three girls and I are sharing a bedroom. Did I forget to mention that?). Blair wakes up screaming. Paige wakes up freaked out. Both girls are hysterical. I try to get Blair back to sleep in my bed, but Paige keeps saying she wants to get in bed with us, too. So I tell Paige I will be back and she can sleep with me, and take Blair downstairs to the couch and try to get her back to sleep. She is STILL hysterical, and now I can hear Paige yelling upstairs for me. So I go BACK upstairs, put Blair in her pack-n-play (which, as you can imagine, went REALLY well) and grabbed Paige. Went BACK downstairs to try to get Paige to sleep, but we could both hear Blair losing it upstairs (yes, Paige, I agree - Blair does sound unhappy).

So we had to do it. We had to wake up Nani so Paige could sleep with her. I knew she wouldn't care, but waking up Nani is sort of like what I imagine waking up a really drunk crazy person must be like (no offense meant to dear Nani - she will agree). She typically jumps up. Asks about 300 non-sensical questions. Walks around aimlessly in small circles. Then falls back to sleep, with zero recollection of it in the morning. Nope. She's not a heavy drinker. And, nope. She doesn't take sleeping pills. It's just her thing. We love her for it, and it has made for MANY a good story over the years.

I had my game plan. Paige and I walk in, and I gently tap Nani while whispering "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." on repeat. I knew if she screamed, Paige would flip her shit and then we might as well just call it a night. Typical reaction by Nani - I'll spare you the details (see paragraph above - it was a lot like that, but no surprised yelling "what's wrong?!?!?!" Well, maybe just once. Or twice. But she really didn't yell it. HEY! Give her a break! It's her thing - and, seriously, it's hilarious!). Paige got into bed with her and fell fast asleep (bless Nani's heart - she did not. We owe her, big time!).

I head BACK upstairs to take care of Blair. Around 4:15-4:30 am I finally got her back to sleep. In my bed. Every time I tried to stand up with her she would quickly wake and express her dissatisfaction with the situation. So she snored next to me, while I worried about smothering her (yes, yes, yes. I realize she is 13 months old. Sue me - I'm a worrywart).

She woke up early this morning, and I happened to have my phone close by because I was texting Derrick throughout the night - if I'm not sleeping, neither is he...even if he's 120 miles away. She sat up, crossed her legs and ... well, this pretty much says it all:

Stinker. But, oh man, so FREAKING cute. Even on a few hours sleep...

Soapy sass (or, sassy soap?)

Recently, Paige has stepped up the sassiness, taking it to an entirely new level. She's always had a little sass in her step, but now she's just downright rude.

For example, she will ask if she can play games on my phone, and I will nicely (seriously, notice no crossed out words here?) say "No, honey. Not right now." To which she will reply (often while taking a swat in my direction), "Yes I can, Mommy! Now just stop it!"

Or, I will say (less nicely, as my patience is usually wearing thin by this point), "Paige, go sit in time out until you can stop being sassy." To which she will reply, "No! You go to time out, Mommy! You being sassy!"

Um. Yeah. In the words of a famous clown from my youth, "Homey don't play that." (Bet you thought I was going to quote Bozo or Ronald McDonald? Not so much.).

So, we've tried time outs, which clearly aren't working. We've tried ignoring her. I've even bopped her in the mouth a few times. To no avail. I turned to my sister-in-law, who is the mother of 4 young kids. And to say she has dealt with her fair share of sassiness would be an understatement.

She reminded me that when her oldest daughter, Gracie (now almost 9, and possibly the original 'Bis mini-me') was little they got to the point where they had to put a bar of soap in her mouth to stop the mouthiness. And they only had to do it once or twice - after that, the threat of it was more than enough.

Assuming that it would be too much trouble to buy enough duct tape to remedy our problem, I decided to go the soap route. Derrick and I had a talk with Paige about it yesterday (after she kicked her sister and told her to "go find your mommy, Bear!"). She FREAKED out, and all day long all we had to say was "tomorrow when you talk this way we will be putting soap in your mouth." Not because we were dishing out idle threats, but just because we didn't happen to have any bars of soap in our house (I mean, who keeps those around? I'm pretty sure we used to have them...right by the phone books and butter churner).

This morning I loaded the girls up in the van and we headed to this little boutique down the street. I'm not sure if you've heard of it. It's called "Target." Well, I should have learned from past experience with Paige and folks at Target. She proceeded to tell everyone...seriously, EVERY-SINGLE-PERSON... we passed that we were there to buy soap to put in her mouth. Because she's so sassy. And that it will probably be disgusting. And she may or may not have tossed in a dramatic dry-heaving sound every now and then.

The reactions were pretty uniform - mostly a lot of people with what I am hoping were confused looks (and not a look of trying to remember if they had the number for Child Protective Services programmed into their phone). I'm HOPING people were assuming they had misheard her. She did repeat herself multiple times, probably to clear things up for them. She's very helpful like that.

I wanted to tell them that I wasn't going to cheap-out on her. To point out that it's not like I was going to buy one of those bright yellow bars of Dial or anything. For cry-eye-eye, I'm going to spend almost $6.00 on a bar of all-natural, fragrance-free Tom's soap!

But then I realized I should probably just keep my mouth shut. "Clarifying" would probably only make the situation worse.

That, and the other moms would probably think I was a big idiot for wasting the money on "nice" soap when any old soap will do.

This Old House

Ahhhh, isn't living in an old house wonderful? Except when it's not? Which is, like, most of the time?

When Derrick and I were in our newly-engaged bliss ... ha, that's hilarious! This isn't fiction, people! Let's try that again!

After Derrick and I got engaged in 2005, we began the arduous process of trying to find a home. Most importantly, trying to find a home that had the things we BOTH (aka, I) wanted. Derrick loves "fixer-upers." I love new construction. This was going to be a problem.

After months of searching, we finally found a little house in Broad Ripple. Close to the Monon and parks (okay, we were young and kid-less ... close to the bars and lots of fun, trendy restaurants). And, the rest is history. We have owned the same house for 7 years, and have only threatened to sell it once (we finally took it off the market when we both agreed we were the laziest home-sellers ever. Thanks to a toddler and a newborn, most requests to see the house were denied. Not helpful to potential buyers).

Anyhoo, those of you who know me know I have a real love-hate relationship with this house. Love - cottage-like feel, space for kids to play, proximity to basically everything. Hate - mice and spiders (I know, every house has them. Blah, blah, blah. It's gross. I hate them. The critters here are on steroids), plumbing issues, finding out (all too late) that everything we want to change is "not up to code" or "covering moldy drywall" thus making each project three times what we actually budgeted.

However, my girls have discovered that an older home works VERY well to their advantage. How, you ask? A few examples:

Over the past few months, Blair has become OBSESSED with the toilet. Not using it, mind you. Just playing in the water inside. Opening and closing the lid. Pulling on that fun silver handle that makes the toilet go "Swoosh" ... over, and over, and over again. You know what's even more fun, thinks Blair? Flushing the toilet over, and over, and over again while Mommy is in the shower and can't reach me (even though she sticks that wet hand around the shower curtain and unsuccessfully swipes at me, missing me by a good two feet, yet soaking everything else in the bathroom). AND, you know what is even MORE fun than watching soapy Mommy try to reach me? Listening to her screech when the water turns from ice cold to scalding hot each time I flush the toilet. This trick is AWE-SOME!!!! And for some reason doesn't work when I try it in the nice, new houses my grandparents all live in!

Alright, thinks Blair, now this is boring. Plus, Mommy actually seems a little pissed and I'm pretty sure she's the one that is making my dinner tonight. Now what am I going to do? Mommy's locked me in here to protect me from Paige and mostly myself keep an eye on me. Let's see, Blair ponders. This old door LOOKS latched. Let me push on it a few times, then pull. Yep. Success. See? Blair knows that just like every single door in our house, the bathroom door might click shut, but nothing really fits well so doors are super-easy to open (except the front and the back doors, potential robbers. These have been replaced and are deadbolted, chained and alarmed. So back the F off - oh, did I mention at times our neighborhood is ... um, questionable? The suburbs it ain't, folks).

Both girls now know that if something they want is behind a door, a little elbow grease will pop that thing open in seconds. Closets? Silly, Mommy. We will open those doors and TEAR SHIT UP in there before you can even round the corner and realize what we're doing. Door to the bathroom (aka, home of the fun toilet and always entertaining toilet paper roll). Oh, Mommy. Now you're just embarrassing yourself. You ain't seen nuthin' till you see how quick we can unroll this paper and stuff it all in the potty.

See,  here's the thing about these girls. They are the loudest children you have ever met (seriously, ask around). UNTIL they are doing something they know they shouldn't be doing. Then it's like super-stealth ninjas have replaced my children, and they are fast little f-ers. They can get in, wreak havoc and get out before I even realize they are no longer in the same room with me.

In fact, as I re-read this, it almost seems as if I might be raising future thieves. Hmmm...

Lord, please let them be good enough to not get caught. And also to only steal the expensive stuff that will make our family rich. I mean, we all want our kids to be the best at what they do, right?

Camp Crap

Last week Paige went to her first Day Camp. We were a little nervous (and by "we," I mean "I").

Obviously NOT nervous

New school, all new kids, the subject of gardening ... none of these are things I enjoy, or in which I really excel.

Sure, I can fake being excited to meet new people, but oftentimes social gatherings make my stomach churn. And you can admire my potted plants at my house, but really they are just hanging baskets put into pots. Don't get me wrong - I cut the wires off the basket part. I'm not a moron - just lazy and incredibly inept at keeping plants alive.

People and pets? I'm all over it. Plants? I will most certainly kill you.

So, I'm not going to lie. I was sort of hoping Paige would come home each day chock-full of gardening wisdom she could pass along to me. For God's sake - the camp was called 'Green Thumb Cubs.' I can tell you she had a decent time. Each day at pick up she said she had fun, but that she "didn't LOVE it, Mommy." (I suspect that had more to do with her bestie being in a different class, but that has been remedied for the next session).

What did I pick up each day instead? A sweaty, cranky toddler and a bookbag full of crafts ... I mean, crap. You all know we've had issues with this distinction before, but honestly, I sort of suspected things to be a bit more "crafty" in my terms, and less "crappy" in Paige's. Here are a couple examples of items discovered in Paige's backpack (or, 'packpack,' as she calls it):

A "nature wreath" ... I'm guessing? It came with zero information about it, the teacher was busy reading a book when I picked Paige up, and Paige provided nothing to help me decide what it was.

Um ... a rubber glove. Each "digit" is filled with a little cotton and some seeds. Again, Paige didn't know what it was (clearly money well-spent) and I kid you not when I tell you that the note attached says that the 'seeds included MAY sprout into plants.' That will be hard to check. Unless we head to the landfill.

Seriously. They are as crappy as they look in the pictures. In fact, the pictures are sort of over-glamifying them (I might have just made that word up - if so, I call dibs. It's awesome).

And honestly - I'm not a horrible mom. I LOVE when I get projects, and couldn't wait for the day Paige brought home cute little items and gave them to me with a sticky kiss and shouts "Look what I made for you!!" I have binders for my kids' artwork, and I regularly rotate displays so they can see their things. Okay, just Paige has artwork. But Blair DOES have a binder. Which I'm sure we will fill with crafts once she starts school and someone is willing to clean up the mess she will most certainly make with whatever adorable item she makes for me.

Anywho. I thought to myself, "Self. Let's cut them some slack. They had a classroom full of 3-5 year-olds, and they probably tried to pick crap crafts that were easy for all involved, and relatively quick to make. Also, they probably wanted to do things the kids could explain to their parents. Thus improving the significant parent-child interaction after camp each day." (I may or may not just sound that intelligent in my head. If I tried to tell someone else this it would probably sound like "What the hell is this crap?").

Granted, Paige was so tired every day that she was pretty much a sealed vault regarding information about camp. So, yesterday Paige walked into the kitchen and I pointed to the nature wreath (?) proudly displayed on our bulletin board.

M: "Paige, tell me a little more about this nature wreath you made at camp last week."
P: "What nature wreath?"
M: "This one right here. That we put up after camp last week. With the sticks, dried leaves, and dead grass glued to it."
P: Eyeing the wreath skeptically. "Mommy, I have no idea what that is. Mrs. Watsons (Mrs. Watson) told me to make it, so I glued those things on it."
M: "Oh, but it's so pretty, isn't it?" (No, it's not)
P: Looking at me like I'm a crazy person. "No, it's not."

Wreath, meet our trash compactor.

Paige, you have no idea how rewarding it is (sometimes) to have a mini-me let me know my thinking is on the right track. Even if my mini-me happens to be 3.

Poop

I'm not exaggerating - I'm pretty sure we have spent as much time this past month TALKING about poop (or, "poopy" as we like to say) than anyone reading this blog has spent actually pooping on the potty. Because that's how all grown-ups describe it, right? You need to "poopy on the potty?"

Paige has been potty-trained for a year now. Peeing on the potty is old hat, and we rarely have accidents anymore. Unless she's too busy doing something to go to the bathroom (could you imagine if adults did this? Oops - I peed my pants, but I was just too into this conference call to realize I had to go!).

Pooping on the potty? Another story entirely. She HAS poopied on the potty before, but each time a new day rolls around, Alzheimer's sets in and she thinks she's scared again. Of what? Well, we get a litany of excuses. Sometimes snakes live in our potty. Sometimes she's scared it will hurt her tummy. Sometimes she looks me right in the eye and tells me "I just like pooping in my diaper. Okay, Mommy?"

Challenge accepted, my friend.

We have tried bribery. M&Ms have graduated to mini-peanut butter cups to a FREAKING sand table she can only play with after she poops in the potty. I even convinced her that while she sleeps Mommy and Daddy go out and play with her sandbox because, hey, we both decided to poopy in the potty that day. (As opposed to our pants? I don't know - she hasn't logically thought through my argument. Yet.) Her response to me? "Well, maybe I don't need a sandbox, Mommy." So she longingly stares at it when we play outside, but she has become fine with the fact that old sandbox will keep collecting dust.

After a few weeks of this, I may or may not have snapped. I may or may not have put a screaming Paige down for a nap in her panties. And I may or may not have told her that if she won't poopy in the potty, she can poopy in her bed. And I may or may not have told her she would have to clean it up (because, let's face it. I'm SO sick of touching her poopy!!!). Yep. She went to bed hysterical. I sat on the couch feeling guilty. Then I went in and put a diaper on her and read her an extra book.

Paige -2, Mommy - 0

Then I had an idea. One morning we were watching TV reading lots of educational books, and we saw a commercial picture of a little girl using the potty with a cape on. I asked Paige if she liked that cape. She replied that she did indeed like that cape. In moderately disturbing haste, I concocted a lie story about a Pooping Princess. She brings capes to all the little girls who are scared to poopy on the potty. She leaves them under their pillow at night, and then the little girls can wear them to feel brave. Mommy had one when she was little (no, I didn't), and so did all the other Mommies (no, you didn't). She seemed interested.

I quickly texted Nani and told her I needed a cape, ASAP. Nani immediately texted back "What kind of cape?" (Which, incidentally, is why we love Nani so much. She did not question WHY I needed a cape, or why I was texting her about it at 6:30 in the morning. Only what kind of cape I was in the market for.) "A pooping cape." I replied. And so it begins.

So far, so good. The pooping cape appeared, and while each day I have two 40 minute fights about getting Paige to poopy on the potty, we have gotten ... um, results.

Notice the Poopy Cape on her lap. We're not sure why she needs to be naked. Honestly, at this point we figure it's better to just go with it. And, for the love of God, how many more times can a grown woman write the word 'poopy' in a blog??

Let's hope this trend continues, because, let's be honest. Changing a 3 1/2 year-old's poopy diapers is disgusting.

Greasy Assumption

I had a 5:00 meeting last night, so as Derrick breezed in about 3 seconds before I needed to leave (while he was on a conference call, no less), I quickly shouted "Dinner! Bath for Paige! Horrible naps - so bed by 6:30!" as  I ran out the door. Mom shorthand that I can only hope Dad speaks (because, who are we kidding? I certainly wasn't going to take the time to write him a note on how to parent his own children. No people - he's not BABYSITTING. He's being a dad. I can't STAND when people say that. But, I digress).

So, this morning when I got Paige ready for camp (again, a post for another day), I wrestled her until I could hold her tight between my legs calmly brushed her hair into in a ponytail. I noticed it was a bit - how you say - greasy. And by greasy I mean I could have probably used it to quiet creaks in the doors at our house. All of them.

So, obviously, I blamed her daddy.

Rinsing Paige's hair is a test in both patience and agility, as she typically screams at the top of her lungs that her ears hurt while grabbing them and wriggling away. Where's my sympathy, you wonder? She's got tubes, folks. The water DOES NOT hurt her ears. I've confirmed it with her ENT. And, more often than not her "wriggling away" actually involves knocking her little sister face first into the bathwater. Which, as you can imagine, is a treat for everyone involved.

So, yes, I assumed that Daddy decided to half-ass the hair-rinsing part of the bath.

And I may or may not have shared my assumption with a couple of friends today. And maybe a few casual acquaintances. And a stranger or two. (What can I say? It was seriously that greasy. People were staring.).

Since it's camp week, we're doing baths every night to rinse some of the paste-they-call-sunscreen off her skin. Today I waited to shower until the end of the day so we could have both girls shower with me. I'm just that lazy good of a mom.

I went into my room to get dressed and got ready to go downstairs. I heard something in my bathroom and said "Paigers? Are you still up here?" She replied, "Yes, Mommy. I'm just polishing something up."

Suspicious. Especially since I'm pretty sure she has no idea what it means to polish something.

I walk in and in the two minutes it took me to get dressed she has somehow gotten the spray lid off her detangler. And she is pouring it into her hand and rubbing it on her hair.

Aha. That explains the greasy sheen.

Sorry Daddy. Let's just save that assumption for another day, shall we?

Mom of the Year

I am constantly keeping tabs on myself to be sure I include all of my top-notch parenting moments in my application for "Mom of the Year." I'm not sure where exactly to send it, but I've got a pretty strong dossier started.

For example, we recently had a 'photo shoot' for Blair's one-year pictures. It included both girls in tutus painting canvases in our driveway. Now, I did my research and chose non-toxic acrylic paint. But, I was still a little freaked-out when Blair put a couple of fistfuls in her mouth.

But not freaked-out enough to stop the photographer (I mean, how cute will those pictures be?!?!?). In fact, I didn't really start to worry until after baths when Blair was having her bottle. I was discussing it with Susu, and she sort of freaked me out a little (Thanks a lot Susu - you just HAVE to make me care about my kids! Sheesh!). So, I called Poison Control. And the call went like this:

Me: "Um, yes. My 1-year-old put some acrylic paint in her mouth. I don't think she swallowed any, and I cleaned her mouth out with a towel and gave her some water. Weeeellll, she actually put some in her mouth twice. But I cleaned it out both times! And gave her water to drink. Both times." (In my head I'm thinking "Stop talking, you idiot - you are only making things worse!")


Operator: "And how long ago did your daughter put the paint in her mouth?"


Me: "Oh, about an hour and a half ago? Maybe two hours?"


Operator: Silence ... followed a few seconds later by an, "Oh. Wow. Okay." 

Which I can only assume translated to something along the lines of "Huh. Well, if you were worried enough to call Poison Control you probably should have done so a few minutes after your daughter put the paint in her mouth. Not NINETY minutes later!!" (and let's be honest, it was probably closer to 2 1/2 hours).

Obviously, Blair was fine. I KNEW she would be fine. I just needed them to assure me she would be.

They did ask me for my address to send "an informational packet of stickers and magnets" to our house. Which I can only assume translates to "a representative from Child Protective Services."

Oh? What's that you say MOTY Committee? You need another recent example? Sure:

Those of you who know Paige know that when she gets sleepy her eyes get a little ... what's the PC way to say it? Crossed.

So, she's been seeing a pediatric opthamologist to keep an eye on things (HA! See what I did there? Keep an eye on things?!?! Totally unintentional, but hilarious).

I was noticing the other day that it seemed to be getting a little worse, and my next thought was that I'm pretty sure her last appointment was right after Blair was born. And I know they wanted to see her at least once a year, if not every six months. I wondered if I maybe forgot to transfer the appointment when I switched from a paper calendar to iCal. THEN, I remembered that we got rid of our home phone, so I bet they called to tell me about the appointment and they got a message that our line had been disconnected and they didn't have my cell phone number and they didn't know how to get a hold of us to make sure Paige came in.

Whew. See how exhausting that was to read? Imagine how the receptionist at Midwest Eye Institute felt as an over-caffeinated me made the call to explain all of this to her.

So, she said it was no problem - she'd just pull up Paige's record and we could reschedule the appointment.

Oops, Mrs. Feldmann. It looks like you did miss an appointment. In February. And it's taken you until June to even think about the fact that you might need to get your cross-eyed little girl in her for a check-up.

I got this competition in the bag, people. Locked up tight.

Ballet Update

Sooooo - we had our last ballet class last night, and by last ballet class I might really mean our LAST. BALLET. CLASS.

It all started off well - but not really, because I decided to walk there so we could have a picnic afterwards (The hubs is traveling. A picnic in the park after a long day alone with no other grown ups is actually a picnic in the park. PB&Js, no clean-up, wear them out. Done.). I was convinced we would be late so I basically ran, and entered the building sweaty and 5 minutes early. Which, coincidentally, is earlier than I've EVER been driving.

We walk in and immediately Paige is off and running. Literally. She and and her buddy, Audrey, get their ballet slippers on and are running around like maniacs waiting for class to start.

Since it's the last class of the session we all get to sit inside the "studio" and watch. As far as "Feldmann Girl" behavior goes, today is pretty tame. Both girls have napped. Paige is wiggly and not listening and Blair is screaming every now and then ... but dude, that's called a relaxing afternoon for us. I mean, I only had to leave the room ONCE for Blair to scream it out, people! (I probably should have left many more times, but seriously. The other moms and I had things to talk about I needed to watch Paige dance.)

Afterwards, Miss Johanna came up and told all the other moms how excited she was to have their daughters in class again. She says things like "Aw-der-ee is a PLEASURE to have in class. I would be thrilled to have her again." And, "Miss Lilly has been delightful! I look forward to her next class!"

Then she turns to me. Based on our last experience, I'm not anticipating much positive feedback. Miss Johanna looks at me, and says "Thank you for bringing Miss Paige."

What the F@^K?!?!? What am I? Yellow Taxi??? Thanks for bringing Paige?????

Wow. So, as we're walking out, Miss Johanna is standing by the door and giving everyone a little pat as we leave. She says, as she lightly taps Paige's head, "Goodbye, Miss Paige."

Paige turns around and sticks out her tongue. Yes, I bopped her on the mouth, but really only because all the other moms and attendees, and Miss Johanna, looked so shocked at her sassy-ness. (And, it was actually barely a tap, and just surprised her more than anything.)

In my heart? I felt horrible for doing it, because what I was thinking was a lot worse. It was a phrase that started with a word that may have rhymed with Chuck and ended with you. Sticking out one's tongue seems like a pretty decent compromise for mixed company.

I may or may not have given Paige a huge hug at the park and told her I was sorry for bopping her, especially after she told me that she didn't like ballet or Miss Johanna.

I may or may not feel super-proud of her for what I hope was "expressing her feelings" towards someone she could tell wasn't a huge fan of her's (and, yes, I realize this is terrible parenting. And, YES, I realize she was probably just being a brat. But the Mama Bear was out!).

Oh, also? Miss Johanna? We're switching to Gymnastics.

LOST

We've been having a bit of an issue lately (Um, okay, for a while. Okay, for a few months. OKAY!! Since Paige could walk! Get off my back!!!!). Phew - where was I? We've been having some troubles with Paige listening. Let's not put a time frame on it, and leave it at that.

Things came to a head at The Children's Museum this week. It was packed, even within 20 minutes of it opening (which any decent stay-at-home-mom knows is the only time to be there, unless it's an hour before closing). Paige was, as the "good" moms call it, "pushing her limits." She kept running out of my field of vision, causing momentary panic sessions for her ever-worried mama. I kept telling her how awful it would be if she got lost, all the while knowing I was WAY too diligent for that to ever really happen.

Until she really was lost. Somewhere near the Carousel. Where that stupid/awesome Funhouse maze has all those little openings perfect for a toddler to climb in and out of. All the other moms had their perfect kids strapped into their strollers (Compared to Paige, that is. Let's not kid ourselves - that bar is pretty low.) Paige was right behind me, then she was gone. We'd had NUMEROUS talks that day about how important it is to stay close ... to no avail. She kept running off. And this time I really couldn't find her. And my mom friends couldn't find her. And I started to have what I can only imagine a heart attack must feel like.

And then - poof. She was found. My friend asked her if she knew where her Mommy was. "Nope," she answered, without a care in the world. So ... huh. She's clearly afraid of being lost.

After a very stern talking to that may or may not have included a swat to the behind (preceded by a huge squeeze expressing how glad I was to see her), we moved on to ScienceWorks. Where I decided I needed to pee and also change Blair's diaper. So I asked my friend to watch Paige while I ran (literally, sadly enough) to the bathroom.

I returned to a scene I would like to soon forget. My friend Kelly is probably one of the calmest people I know. Pretty tough to rattle. And she had Paige in her arms. And Paige was crying. And so was Kelly's daughter, Audrey. And, I can't be sure ... but Kelly could have been pretty close to tears, too.

In the short time I was gone, Paige had done a Houdini. Ran away from Kelly, blatantly disregarding my rules and Kelly's shouts to come back. So, I did what any self-respecting (and secretly-okay-really-not-so-secretly-crying-inside) mom would do. I swatted her bottom again and told her "Game Over, Do Not Return To Go." We were leaving. Enough is enough.

She screamed the entire way to the car. Blair screamed the entire way to the car. I was sweating and trying to pretend like small tears that were escaping were also sweat ... all the way to the car.

I ended up meeting Botsie and Nani for lunch after this, because both girls passed out during the ride and Nani and I needed to go get fabric for a magic pooping cape (subject of another post - stay tuned).

I was feeling REALLY sorry for myself and telling them the story of our morning when my dad interrupted and said, "I'm sorry. Where did you say you were? King's Island?"

And it all came flooding back. A story of legendary status in the Whitacre family. I was not much older than Paige, and had simply wandered away from them. AT KING'S ISLAND. DURING THE SUMMER. And I was missing for more than 30 MINUTES.

They found me (ironically enough) shopping in a gift shop. And the only thing I had to say, as I ceremoniously pointed to a puppet was "I really like that one, Daddy." Without a care in the world.

Holy shit ... Karma really is a bitch.

Well played, Botsie. Well played.

Ms. Johanna

Paige takes ballet class every Tuesday afternoon at Broad Ripple Park. Her teacher is Ms. Johanna, who has been teaching ballet classes there since ... well, perhaps since ballet was invented, from what we can tell. To-date, we have received stories of "Oh, good Lord - Ms. Johanna was MY daughter's teacher!" dating back to a 17-year-old. We are sure there are more.

Ms. Johanna - rocking the side pony, leg warmers and leotard. Actually, sigh, looking better in a leotard than I probably ever have...

We always marvel at how Ms. Johanna is able to captivate a group of toddlers - getting them to hang on her every word and do exactly as she says without having to raise her voice (at least raise her voice loud enough that we can hear her through the glass. Or over our 'mom chatter.'). She has got it figured out, and she does NOT mess around.

After each class, Ms. Johanna leads the girls back out into the area where the parents are waiting. She always gives a brief recap of how each child behaved/performed in class that day. Paige's past summaries have included: "very, VERY energetic"; "where does she get all that energy?" and "she's like a little Mexican jumping bean" (if only you knew, Ms. Johanna).

So, today Ms. Johanna comes out and talks to Kelly (Paige's bestie's Mommy) first. Her review is stellar, and even brought joy to my heart. "Audrey (pronounced by Ms. Johanna as "Aw-der-ee") does a WONDERFUL job in ballet. She has really become a fantastic listener, and it seems as though she truly is enjoying the dancing and learning." Kelly proudly glowed and nodded.

Ms. Johanna moved to me next, and I awaited her review. "Hello, Miss Paige" she said as she smiled (I never doubt how much she truly loves our kids). She gave her an affectionate pat, turned to me and said "Miss Paige spit on me in class today."

Yep. Sounds about right.

Merci, Ms. Johanna.

Narcissist

Derrick and I often note that as far as narcissism goes, it seems like our 3 year-old pretty much has the market cornered.

What makes us say that, you ask? Hmmm...if only a few examples sprang to mind.

Oh wait, here's one. We had to switch Paige's 'usual seat' at the kitchen table. Why? Because we have a mirror leaning against the wall that she could see from the seat. And I got really tired of saying "Paige. PLEASE stop looking at yourself and eat!" Or, I often have to give her arm a little tug as we are walking past windows...or shiny cars...or pretty much any semi-reflective surface in which she might catch a glimpse of herself. Anything like that runs the risk of us being forced getting the opportunity to watch a full-length version of the 'Look At Me, Watch This, I Paige' show. It's cute ... the first 300 times.

Oh, oh! Here's another one! Yesterday (literally yesterday - not to be confused with last night ago), Paige kept stopping what she was doing to run over and tell me she needed "Kiss and a hug, mommy! Hurry!" Seriously cute. So cute, in fact, that I asked her if I could be the President of the Paige Fan Club. She looked at me while she pondered my request, then decided "Well, that is a VERY important job, Mommy. I don't think so." After being denied the post for not being up to the job, apparently, I asked, "Well, then who gets to be the President?" She replied "I do, Mommy." Duh. Of COURSE she is the President of her own fan club. I suspect she might encompass the entire governing board, but I can't be sure.

Oh, and perhaps this will fully illustrate the extent of Paige's self-imposed importance. As I write this very post,  she is coloring at the table, referring to me as "Cinderella." I respond with "Yes?" She quickly corrects me "You mean, 'Yes, Princess Jasmine.'"

We have been playing this pretend game all morning while I cleaned, made beds, etc. (the irony that she is calling me Cinderella is not lost on me). I am Cinderella, Paige is Princess Jasmine, somehow Daddy and Ramsey are co-kings.

Blair's character, as decreed by Princess Jasmine?

The Evil Stepmother.

It's gonna be a LOOOOONG Memorial Day. No doubt all about Paige. I mean, Princess Jasmine.

Annoying ... Adorable

I've been taking note recently on the interesting double standard I seem to have for behaviors in our house. There are certain things the girls do that make me want to grab a camera to get the visual, or write it down so I never forget it. However, oftentimes my husband will do the same thing, and it seriously makes me want to hurt him.

For example:

There is this adorable sound Paige makes when she's really sleepy and sucking her thumb. Sometimes I can hear her from the other room. If I lay in bed with her as she drifts off to sleep, I think I could sit and listen to her all night. It makes my heart hurt a little to think that someday she will no longer be a toddler who sucks her thumb in that cute way (never mind even lets me into her bedroom).

However, those of you who know me well know that typically small, repetitive sounds drive me INSANE. Clicking your pen absentmindedly while you talk on the phone, honey? Don't make me hurt you with that pen. Tapping your foot incessantly while you type as loudly as you can on your keyboard, darling? Seriously, I will break those fingers. Smacking your gum, dear? I will forcibly take it out of your mouth and toss it out the window.

Another example - lots of times when Paige and I are watching TV or reading a book, she will absentmindedly tickle my arm or play with my hair. Seriously? That feeling makes me want to have 10,000 kids. Can. Not. Stand. It.

Husband, on the other hand? He will sometimes try to rub his man toes on my feet while we watch TV at night. Listen, I'm all in for a good foot rub. But, more likely than not your toenails need clipped. And man feet are just gross! Bleachh!

Kid toots? Hil-arious. They will get a guffaw from me every time. And, more often than not, Paige accompanies hers with a loudly exclaimed "TOOT!" Even Blair realizes how funny they are. She tooted the other day when I lifted her bottom to change her diaper, and she looked at me and gave me a huge grin accompanied by a belly laugh! So funny!

Grown-up toots? Not so much. Not funny, and really, not even allowed (unless it's me - then that is obviously okay. But, Derrick, you can't laugh unless I laugh first - then it's funny. If I ignore it, you must too. Especially if I'm pregnant.).

Now, keep in mind that this dichotomy works both ways. When I say something mundane like "Derrick, can you please hand me a spatula?" his typical response will be "You're a spatula". That? One of the reasons I married you, D. 

Paige, when I say "you are making bad choices" and you respond (in your sassiest voice) with "YOU a bad choice, Mommy!" Not funny. Hit the timeout chair, sister. 

You know the way. If you get lost, just follow the well-worn path. And whatever you do, DO NOT toot on the way, or I might just have to let this timeout slide. 

Bloodhounds

I'm not sure what exactly it is about me. I only sometimes wear perfume, and even then it's not much. I make a conscious effort to keep my voice down. I know where all the creaks are on the floors. For the love - I don't even shut the screen door all the way if I come home after hours.

And yet, it never ceases to fail.

I swear - my girls can LITERALLY smell when I enter a 100 yard radius of them. They can LITERALLY hear me arrive on the property. Even in their sleep. No, I take that back. Only while they sleep.

I could walk out of the room for 3 seconds and somehow scare the bejeezus out of Paige by walking back in and asking her a question. Somehow Blair always seems surprised to find me when she pulls back the (clear) shower curtain while I'm showering. But while they sleep, they transform into super-smelling, super-hearing bloodhounds.

Cases in point:

The girls' Nani was watching them the other day. When I arrived at her house to pick them up, it was in the middle of nap time. The front door was open but the screen was locked. So, I walked up to the screen and whispered "Pssst" through the door (after specifically NOT locking my van so the horn wouldn't honk, and being sure to quietly shut the car door. Perhaps I should have coasted into the driveway in Neutral??). Nani assured me the girls were sound asleep, and had been for about an hour. So, I sat on the couch. And both girls began to cry. Yep - nap time over.

The other night I had a pedicure and dinner with my sister-in-law, and I arrived home well after bedtime. I talked to Derrick on the way home, and he assured me the girls had gone to bed and were fast asleep. He had even checked on them about 20 minutes ago and he chuckled that Blair had been snoring with her little bottom in the air. Mind you, I was in Broad Ripple having dinner. It took me about 6 minutes to get into my car and drive home. I pulled into the driveway, walked into the house and this is what I found in the kitchen waiting for me:

Note how she looks pissed? That's probably because I took the time to take her picture instead of taking her immediately and holding her (she was yelling "Mama," for crying out loud). 

Any guesses on when Derrick said she woke up and started screaming? Um, about 1 second after I pulled into the driveway. Before I even had the car in Park.

See? Bloodhounds. Let me know if you have any missing person cases you need them to solve. Of course, it would have to be about me ... here's a hint: I'm probably just hiding in the laundry room.

Hidden Treasures

Once, not so long ago, Paige became obsessed with Hide and Seek. It was so cute - she would tell me to count, and then she would go stand smack dab in the middle of whatever room we were in, giggling loudly (needless to say, each round ended pretty quickly - you can only pretend not to see someone standing directly in front of you for so long).

This obsession graduated to hiding objects - or, rather, taking things out of my hand, running to the Time Out chair and putting said item under a pillow. Ha - what a little trickster! So funny!

Now these obsessions are not so funny. Paige has become a pretty decent hider. Granted, she still is fairly quick to reveal her hiding spot with the giggles. But, there are usually a few moments of sheer panic on my part where I quickly run through thoughts of whether or not the doors are locked, if she could have climbed into the dryer, if she could have opened a window (you know, REALLY logical things, since she can't reach the windows, the laundry room door has a childproof knob on it, and of course the doors are locked - we live in Broad Ripple, for God's sake).

Oh, and what a hoot hiding objects has become. I spent 20 minutes last week looking for my cell phone. We got rid of our home phone, so I couldn't call it to find it. Paige was sitting on the couch watching me, and I finally realized she was quietly giggling. "Did you hide my phone, Paige?" "He, he - I sure did Mommy! I hided it sooooo good! You will never find it!" Followed by what I am fairly certain was an imitation of an evil villain laugh.

I did find it, eventually. Okay, not eventually - actually pretty quickly. Right about the time after threatening to turn off the TV for the rest of the day. And I may or may not have threatened to not let her have her blankie in bed that night (Hey, I never said I played fair all the time).

Today, while Paige was at school, Blair and I decided we needed to go to the mall. (She's a smart one, that little Blair! Full of good ideas!) 15 minutes, two overturned diaper bags, an emptied toy box and one emptied craft drawer later, I found my wallet. In with Paige's sticker books.

Ugh, Paigers! So, so irritating. But, I'm not going to lie - also pretty funny. Stinker. Now we'll just have to talk about how hiding Daddy's things is even more fun that hiding Mommy's ...

Terrorist Plot

I'm working on a theory. I've decided that I'm pretty sure the terrorists are trying to bring down America through the use of our children. Specifically, babies and toddlers (but only because that's as far as my research can go - I sincerely doubt parents of tweens and teens would disagree with me. Hell, my own parents might very well still agree).

Here is my case for this:

First, it seems as though the majority of children seem to choose 4:00-5:00 pm to begin the meltdown process. It's a unified effort. Rarely does one sibling choose to completely lose it while the rest calmly look on in wonder. No - it's a symphony of whines, screams and tantrums sometimes with a fight and/or an injury tossed in. At our house, we may as well light-up the path to time-out from now until bedtime. And it slowly (okay, quickly) drives us into madness. By bedtime our eyes are glazed over and our senses are dulled from drinking trying to keep our patience.

Second (at least in my house), I'm pretty sure my toddler is trying to make me feel like I am an idiot who is very likely losing her mind. A few examples (Keep in mind these are stories from TODAY, people!! Also, keep in mind that it is only 2:00 in the afternoon as I write this post!)

On the way to swimming lessons today, Paige and Blair were listening to some songs from Paige's Kindermusik class. One song came on, and the lyrics were first in French, then switched to English (don't be too impressed - she also knows almost all the words to Fun.'s "We Are Young"). The conversation went like this:

                     P: "Mommy, what are they saying?"

                    M: "It's in French, honey. I can't remember the other words."

                     P: "It's called English, Mommy." (Said with a CLEAR disdain for my idiotic reply).

Oh, so sorry Paige. English. That's right. I surely didn't think you were talking about the other words in the song that I couldn't remember. The ones that would help me remember the title of said song. You were talking about the other language. The one I speak everyday. The one I've been speaking for more than THREE DECADES. The one I taught you to speak!!! 

Phew - deep breaths.

Another example - again, from today. I asked Paige before her nap if she'd like to wear leggings under her dress, stating it seemed more comfortable. She looked at me like I was crazy and said "No, no leggings." I went back in a few minutes later to check on her because she was screaming her head off. What was wrong, you ask? "Mommy, you forgot my leggings!! Sleeping in a dress isn't comfortable!!" 

Wait, we had this conversation! You were specific! Weren't you? Did I imagine that whole thing? Am I losing my mind? Did that even happen?

And I swear to God there was another story I wanted to put in here, and I can't for the life of me think of it. I've replayed the morning and my head and I've got nothing.

Uh-huh? See? This is how they will creep in, people. We will be drunk tired and doubtful of what we used to think of as our own common sense.

Well-played, terrorists. But know that we are onto you. And we fully intend to come up with a plan to thwart you. Probably tonight. Or, maybe tomorrow. Hell, probably never - we're just too tired. Well-played...