Archive for January, 2009

Comfortable Mattresses

Wednesday, January 28th, 2009

I’ve found the solution to an uncomfortable mattress.  If yours is giving you troubles and you are finding it difficult to sleep, I suggest you hire young children to wake up at an early hour.  There’s something to this.  My mattress has never felt as good as it does when I hear my daughter’s first “mommy” of the day.

This Can’t Be Good

Saturday, January 24th, 2009

“Just don’t put me in the cage, mommy.”  That’s my 2 1/2 year old’s newest thing to throw out when I’m disciplining her.  Lovely.  It joins her other favorites of “don’t be mean to me, mommy” and “don’t hit me, mommy.”  For the record, my daughter has never been in a cage and, with the exception of one diaper padded fanny tap, has never been hit.  Where she gets this stuff from is beyond me.  Part of me wants to giggle at her inventive responses to distract me from calling out her bad behavior.  Another part is scared poo-less she’s going to unload one of these babies at the worst possible time.  My memory is still fresh when it comes to our recent visit to the ER for a split lip.  That was before any of these juicy little nuggets were part of her conversation.  It wasn’t hard to conclude the staff there was asking questions to determine if they were dealing with a childhood accident or abuse.  I can’t imagine what would have happened had Olivia remarked about a cage or me hitting her back then.

Knowing whatever she says casually around the house is destined to make a public appearance, I’m torn over how to handle all of this.  Choice ‘A’ is to ignore it and hope it passes without any fallout.  The problem with choice ‘A’ is my luck doesn’t seem to go that way.  Choice ‘B’ is to tell her why it is important not to say things like that.  The problem with choice ‘B’ is it might actually sound worse if her conversation piece morphs into “my mommy told me I shouldn’t tell you I don’t want her to put me in the cage.”  Never mind having the discussion to begin with just brings the fact she’s got me by the toes to her attention.

Sigh.  Why is it I have to put so much cranial effort into figuring out how to counter my daughter’s clever moves when her strategy comes together effortlessly?

And She Wanted Cans?

Sunday, January 11th, 2009

My kids’ Great Grandmother gave them each $5 for Christmas.  My son is too young to know about money and buying things, but my 2 1/2 year old sure was excited at the thought of cash.  Grandma made it clear she wanted Olivia to go to the store and buy a treat with the money.  Olivia and Grandma both have a sweet tooth the size of Mount Rainier and can often be found tucked away in Grandma’s room indulging in naughty num-nums.  I fully expected Olivia to jump at the opportunity to buy junk food.  I was imagining donuts, ice cream, cookies and chocolate as top contenders on her list of possible purchases.

The day before I planned to take her to the store, we went over a list of things she could afford with $5.  Junk food was on the list, as it was in line with Grandma’s plan to spoil her, but my husband and I also worked in practical things like Dora panties, a tooth brush, a coloring book and lotion.  She loves all of the above.  After hearing the list Olivia shocked us both by picking something all on her own, something that hadn’t been on the list of possibilities at all.   Olivia wanted to buy cans.  Cans?  I clarified to be sure I was understanding what she meant.  Yes indeed, she wanted to buy cans and she wanted to be the one to put them in the cart.  “Cans with things for eating, mommy…MMMMMM!”  Oooooooookay.

When we arrived at the store, Olivia was ready with her money.  I had other shopping to do and fully expected her to waffle on what she might want to buy as we worked our way up and down the aisles.  We passed candy, donuts, yogurt smooties…all sorts of yummy stuff.  When we got to the aisle with all of the cans Olivia’s eyes lit up.  She was ready to make her selection.  She was ready to pick out her Christmas present.

Canned vegetables really aren’t our thing, so I steered her towards the fruit.  She looked at the labels and proclaimed peaches the winner.  She was thrilled to realize $5 would buy her more than one.  As I handed her cans to her and she set them beside her in the cart she had an enormous smile on her face.  I did too, for that matter.  My daughter’s maiden voyage on the roller coaster of making good choices with one’s money was a success.  She used her $5 to buy something she needed, something that was good for her and something she liked a lot.

By the time dinner rolled around that evening, Olivia was brimming with anticipation.  “Let’s have a can, mommy.”  Peaches are normally lunch food in our house.  I try to keep sugar at a minimum at night so I don’t have to battle kids bouncing off of the walls at bedtime.  We made an exception, however.  Olivia ate 1/2 a can all by herself and then offered to share with her brother.  He thinks peaches are a gift from the heavens.  Such a good sister.  Such a wonderful present.

I’m proud of my daughter.  Can you tell?

What Ya Don’t Want To Smell

Friday, January 9th, 2009

I’m just going to put it right out there.  When I come to your house the last thing I want to smell is Febreze.  Why?  It’s not that the smell is all that unpleasant, though I’d hardly dub it the olfactory delight the commercials make it out to be.  Nope, the smell in itself is not the problem.  It’s the fact once I smell it I know for a fact I am sitting on or near something that would likely make me shudder.  Sure, that baby throw-up, athletic residue, pet disaster or toddler pee has transformed into a fragrance resembling a meadow on steroids, but that is all that has happened.  An odor has been killed or subdued.  The instigator of the odor remains reveling in its new found stealth ability.

Shame on the Febreze company for making their product so recognizable.  Do they not see the social consequences exposing consumers’ friends and families to a trademark smell that should set off warning bells to anyone with an ounce of good sense? I don’t know what’s worse, smelling the original odor or allowing one’s guests’ imaginations to run wild with what the homeowner is attempting to cover up.  For me, it is my nature to march mentally to the worst possible scenario. The unknown is much more tragic than facing the truth head on.

So, to the loyal Febreze groupies I say this.  Put down the spray bottle.  Masking isn’t the answer.  Cleaning is.  I say this as I prepare to sign off and wash my daughter’s bean bag chair of Febreze and something else I’d rather not mention.

This Will Probably Sound Dumb

Tuesday, January 6th, 2009

I’m spitting nails mad right now.  As I toss around words to express my angst, well, it all sounds ridiculously silly.  I’m going to give explaining myself a shot though.  Ready?

My husband cleaned the refrigerator.  Not ‘cleaned’, as in scoured, but rearranged the contents and purged what he felt was no longer needed.  I should appreciate the effort, right?  Grrrr.  It’s so not the case.  He did this after a few jabs over how chaotic it had become and jokes over how his mom could help me straighten it out.  I don’t dispute the refrigerator needed some attention.  After time it becomes a condiment cemetery of sorts.  Mind you, the condiments are mostly there to serve the never ending need for my husband and daughter to goop up their foods.  I’m not the condiment junkie in this house.  That’s another topic, however.  What irks me is my husband’s criticism of the space, which I view as mine, while so much of his world is a tornadic mess.  There is something deeply irritating about having a slob point out areas where I could stand to be more organized or tidy.  This is especially true because so much of my time is spent cleaning up after other people, namely kids and husband.  Yes, it is nice to have someone help with what I consider to be my territory from time to time, but for the love of God, take care of your space first.  If the goal is truly to help me, tackle the chaos that is your own.  Sort through the rubble I am unable to make keep or toss determinations on.

So there it is in a nutshell.  I’m mad because my husband pitched in and helped me today.  I told you it sounded ridiculously silly.  I really would like help with things like cleaning the refrigerator (although actually cleaning it, with a sponge and all, would have been a nice touch).  However, I’d have more time to stay on top of my territories if I weren’t spread so thin with keeping up everyone else’s.