Once in awhile (okay, really more often than I'd care to admit), I get ideas.
Brilliant ideas.*
*Note: The above should be read with a heavy dose of sarcasm to ensure full appreciation of what is toe follow. Rolling your eyes and adding a British accent (after all, aren't we all wannabe Brits this week anyway?) would probably help.
It came after reading my favorite "Crunchy Mom" blog, where she extolled the virtues of naturally dyed eggs. Think of it! No artificial dyes seeping into your egg and possibly giving your kids ADHD. No packages. No chemicals. No fuss.
I was in heaven. No artificial anything? Wonderful! As it is, artificial sweeteners are banned from our house and the word "artificial" is looked at with little tolerance - mostly because I have no willpower once something enters my house, so if I keep it out, everyone is happy. And because my girls have enough of their lives to make all the food choices they want - my goal is to keep them healthy enough to have that option.
Of course, I stopped reading at this point. I missed the rather large caveat at the bottom, the inevitable, "BUT WAIT!".
Instead, I decided to try it out. After all, I was working from home the Friday before Easter - the perfect time to try out egg dying au naturale during my lunch hour. Woodstock thought I was quite possibly the coolest mom ever. That was enough for me.
She helped me fetch the necessary ingredients:
Turmeric
Paprika
Purple cabbage
Blackberries
Spinach
Carrots
Vinegar
Boiled eggs
And multiple pots. At this point I should have realized just what I was in for - anything that requires MULTIPLE pots and all four burners of one's stove should be examined a little more closely to see what the fine print had to point out.
Because fine print is not for Super Moms, I forged bravely ahead. I quizzed Woodstock on what colors the various edibles would produce, and she put them in little bowls. I measured water. She dumped crushed veggies, spices, and such. I added vinegar while she held her nose and asked, "Will it make the eggs stinky?!" We waited for the water to boil and the color to leach out into the water. We poured it over white eggs nestled in coffee mugs. This should have been another warning flag - it required the use of every coffee mug in the house. 12 eggs. 12 coffee mugs, which means I even had to use the ugly golfing mug I got as a white elephant gift and have been meaning to part with (for once, it's good thing I procrastinated!).
And then ... we waited. And waited. And waited. It wasn't so hard for me. At this point, my lunch hour (and then some) was over, and I was beginning to feel the hairs on the back of my neck raise in alarm given the color of my (now formerly) white counter top (yes, white, with gold speckles - an homage to the 1970s), along with the amount of dirty dishes now piled in the sink. Pots. Knives, cutting boards. Little bowls. And soon ... 12 coffee mugs, whenever the eggs decided they were done soaking.
Woodstock, however, being only 3 1/2, was not so into waiting. Every 2 minutes like clockwork she asked to see the eggs. After a couple of hours, she forgot and eventually focused her energies on something else.
Dinner rolled around, and I re-entered the kitchen. Inwardly I groaned. Not even Mr. Clean's fabulous magic eraser (reserved for special occasions) could remove the turmeric-blackberry-paprika infused stains on the counters.
The moment of truth had arrived. One by one I pulled out the eggs and dried them with a kitchen towel (which also now bears the rather psychadelic hue of turmeric-blackberry-paprika). As it turns out, carrots make lousy dye. As does Spinach. Probably because it was the last one, and I forgot and boiled all the water out of the pan and had to add new - all of the green likely evaporated into thin air with the original water. Bad mom. Although purple cabbage was a much-touted source of natural blue dye - and the water was a lovely blue violet color, the egg was ... white. Maybe a touch whiter due to a slight tinge of blue. But really not noticeable to Super Mom and her offspring.
But the other 9 eggs? Beautiful pale Easter egg colors - they looked like Robin's eggs and other naturally occurring colored eggs. A bit speckled. A bit uneven in their color. But beautiful.
Woodstock gasped, "Oh mom, they are soooooo beee-uuuuu-ti-ful!" Pebbles said, "Egg!" repeatedly, as if we were mid-way through a vocabulary lesson. I began to wonder what possessed me to dye 12 eggs when 1/3 of the people in the room (ahem, me) didn't even like eggs and the remaining 2/3 had the collective appetite of a sparrow.
As it turns out, 5 days later, my counters are still stained. I had to wash the mugs twice. (It turns out natural dyes dye everything else right along with the eggs). I still have 6 sad hard boiled eggs in pretty colors in my fridge, taunting me. "Do not waste us," they chant, "Even if it means giving in, salting the heck out of us, and eating us just so you don't waste food." Because those eggs know I'd rather choke them down than throw them away. I still am exhausted thinking about the sheer amount of chopping, measuring and boiling required to eeek out those pretty pale colors.
But Woodstock is terribly proud of her beee-uuuuu-ti-ful Easter eggs. And while naturally dyed eggs are a PAIN IN THE NECK, it required close supervision, which meant spending a solid 90 minutes sandwiched between the two girls standing on stools in my one-and-a-half-bum kitchen. Some day, while Woodstock will likely not care about how hard I worked to save her from the evils of Red Dye #3 and Yellow Dye #6, maybe she will remember the time she and I spent in the kitchen conducting her very first science experiment, and remember how much her mom loved to spend time with her. That will probably make staring at turmeric-blackberry-paprika stained counter tops for the next six months worth it.
Until next holiday, when Super Mom attacks once again.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday.
If I ever needed Good Friday, it was today. There was nothing particularly wrong with today - other than this lingering chest stuffiness (which is trying its hardest to turn into bronchitis), two kids beyond tired of winter, a pile of work that was not very motivating, a house that would probably cause the child protective service people to gasp in horror and a pending drive to Happy Valley. (It doesn't matter that I lived for 18 months in Happy Valley or that it technically has fewer inhabitants than The Frontier. It still has worse traffic, more construction, more sprawl and results in more under-my-breath grumblings in the car while Woodstock says, "What mama? I can't hear you."
Tonight, once it was quiet, the girls were asleep, the laundry and dish washer were started, I listened to a podcast I'd been wanting to hear while scrubbing pots and pans and sweeping. (Sometimes I'd like to tell people my third job is as an after-hours janitor).
It was on Good Friday and Easter and how the celebration has morphed over the years.
I stopped to think about Good Friday - the day when many Christians observe the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ. Yet, little is said about the single most significant event in human history - the time CHrist spent in the garden atoning for each of us - individually - the loneliness and sadness and hurt and pain and disappointment and grief and guilt and sorrow and sin. The event that came before Christ surrendered himself to be presented before Roman officials in a mock trial.
This has been one of those incredibly long weeks. Two sick kids, one sick mom a seemingly endless season of rain and cold and damp, a house that has self-reproducing piles and an imaginary cleaning fairy that listens about as well as a 3-year-old. One of those weeks when the silence is too quiet, the noises are too loud, the to do list is too long ... I caught myself thinking how the atonement takes care of times like this too. That Christ felt all of this - and more - as he submitted himself in prayer to his Father. That he knows what it feels like to be a parent who doesn't feel well and still must plow through without thought of sleep or noodle soup or respite in order to keep the world (and the children) functioning at a semi-appropriate level.
It's a simple little thing - this too shall pass - and yet ... I'm glad for the rmeembrance that my Savior knows ME and suffered for ME and submitted Himself to unspeakable horrors in order to make MY life a little easier.
Good Friday indeed.
Tonight, once it was quiet, the girls were asleep, the laundry and dish washer were started, I listened to a podcast I'd been wanting to hear while scrubbing pots and pans and sweeping. (Sometimes I'd like to tell people my third job is as an after-hours janitor).
It was on Good Friday and Easter and how the celebration has morphed over the years.
I stopped to think about Good Friday - the day when many Christians observe the Passion and Crucifixion of Christ. Yet, little is said about the single most significant event in human history - the time CHrist spent in the garden atoning for each of us - individually - the loneliness and sadness and hurt and pain and disappointment and grief and guilt and sorrow and sin. The event that came before Christ surrendered himself to be presented before Roman officials in a mock trial.
This has been one of those incredibly long weeks. Two sick kids, one sick mom a seemingly endless season of rain and cold and damp, a house that has self-reproducing piles and an imaginary cleaning fairy that listens about as well as a 3-year-old. One of those weeks when the silence is too quiet, the noises are too loud, the to do list is too long ... I caught myself thinking how the atonement takes care of times like this too. That Christ felt all of this - and more - as he submitted himself in prayer to his Father. That he knows what it feels like to be a parent who doesn't feel well and still must plow through without thought of sleep or noodle soup or respite in order to keep the world (and the children) functioning at a semi-appropriate level.
It's a simple little thing - this too shall pass - and yet ... I'm glad for the rmeembrance that my Savior knows ME and suffered for ME and submitted Himself to unspeakable horrors in order to make MY life a little easier.
Good Friday indeed.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
It's That Time of Year Again...
CAUTION: If small children (or adults still longing to be small children) are reading this - I'm warning you now, the Easter Bunny is about to be discussed in full detail.
There are eggs and plastic grass strewn from one end of the house to another. My mom friends are "making a list and checking it twice" regarding what an over-sized imaginary. Every store has beautiful (and overpriced) frilly dresses hanging in the front windows.
It can only mean one thing: Easter is just around the corner.
I've caught myself a few times nearly uttering the blasphemous phrase, "I hate Easter." Truth be told, I LOVE Easter. I love the message of redemption, the time to reflect on the most significant even in Human history - the atonement, sacrifice and resurrection of my Savior. The act that will ensure my myriad of human faults won't be enough to keep me from exaltation.
What I don't like is "Easter" - the "celebration part." And not just because I don't like eggs and I get stuck with a ton of them every spring. One can only hide them in so many things, and while the girls would gladly eat them 3 meals a day I cannot in good conscience indulge them.
I love spring. I love egg hunts. I love giving little presents to the girls. I love frilly dresses (as long as I'm not the one that has to wear them - or pay full price for them). But why do we have to completely overshadow what is arguably the most religious, solemn holiday of the year with fluff and consumerism?
Maybe I'm jaded - after all - there was no Easter Bunny in my house growing up. We got small baskets, but my parents made sure it was known that they were the providers. We did egg hunts and egg dying and had an annual Easter picnic - but we did it the day before Easter. Easter Sunday was a day to don new dresses (or dress in our best clothes) and attend services. It was a slightly more reverent, religious Sunday than normal Sundays.
One could argue the same thing about Christmas - but I dissent to some degree. Christmas is FAR too over-commercialized and very much a "gimme" holiday and could stand to be toned down a lot. However, the celebration of Christ's birth is about good will to all men and the gift our Father in Heaven gave the world in the form of his only begotten Son. I find no fault with giving in the spirit of giving, of celebrating life and family and good will. Even Santa is fine (to some degree) - as he embodies the spirit of Christmas in giving and celebrating the good.
The Easter Bunny and baskets stuffed to the brim with more candy than is handed out on Halloween are another thing entirely. I understand where the tradition of egg coloring and Easter Bunnies and so forth come from - as part of the Spring Equinox celebrations and the joyous celebration of the new season. But over-sized furry mammals and plastic eggs (and ESPECIALLY that horrendous green plastic grass) have incredibly little to do with one of the most solemn, significant and religious observances there is. I am fine with the "rebirth" theme - after all, the celebratory point of Easter is resurrection and the rebirth of humanity's soul as we are provided a way back "home." Yet other than an alarmingly high fertility/reproductive rate, rabbits are still a long ways from being the symbols of the true Easter holiday.
I'm not totally grinchy. Woodstock and Pebbles get small token gifts, and will color and hunt for eggs (I'm soliciting egg recipes now - only the good ones, please) - on Saturday. On Sunday they will dress in nice clothes (probably not new clothes because it is disgusting how many clothes they already have) and attend church.
Some would call me a whacked-out religious zealot. I'm not. I have a very simple faith and I am not nearly as devout as I would like. I simply dislike the rampant "gimme" holiday that Easter has become - without regard to the amazing miracle it celebrates.
Okay, off my soap box. Back to cleaning up that @#$@%^$^@$^$^&%&^$&%*&(*( Easter grass.
There are eggs and plastic grass strewn from one end of the house to another. My mom friends are "making a list and checking it twice" regarding what an over-sized imaginary. Every store has beautiful (and overpriced) frilly dresses hanging in the front windows.
It can only mean one thing: Easter is just around the corner.
I've caught myself a few times nearly uttering the blasphemous phrase, "I hate Easter." Truth be told, I LOVE Easter. I love the message of redemption, the time to reflect on the most significant even in Human history - the atonement, sacrifice and resurrection of my Savior. The act that will ensure my myriad of human faults won't be enough to keep me from exaltation.
What I don't like is "Easter" - the "celebration part." And not just because I don't like eggs and I get stuck with a ton of them every spring. One can only hide them in so many things, and while the girls would gladly eat them 3 meals a day I cannot in good conscience indulge them.
I love spring. I love egg hunts. I love giving little presents to the girls. I love frilly dresses (as long as I'm not the one that has to wear them - or pay full price for them). But why do we have to completely overshadow what is arguably the most religious, solemn holiday of the year with fluff and consumerism?
Maybe I'm jaded - after all - there was no Easter Bunny in my house growing up. We got small baskets, but my parents made sure it was known that they were the providers. We did egg hunts and egg dying and had an annual Easter picnic - but we did it the day before Easter. Easter Sunday was a day to don new dresses (or dress in our best clothes) and attend services. It was a slightly more reverent, religious Sunday than normal Sundays.
One could argue the same thing about Christmas - but I dissent to some degree. Christmas is FAR too over-commercialized and very much a "gimme" holiday and could stand to be toned down a lot. However, the celebration of Christ's birth is about good will to all men and the gift our Father in Heaven gave the world in the form of his only begotten Son. I find no fault with giving in the spirit of giving, of celebrating life and family and good will. Even Santa is fine (to some degree) - as he embodies the spirit of Christmas in giving and celebrating the good.
The Easter Bunny and baskets stuffed to the brim with more candy than is handed out on Halloween are another thing entirely. I understand where the tradition of egg coloring and Easter Bunnies and so forth come from - as part of the Spring Equinox celebrations and the joyous celebration of the new season. But over-sized furry mammals and plastic eggs (and ESPECIALLY that horrendous green plastic grass) have incredibly little to do with one of the most solemn, significant and religious observances there is. I am fine with the "rebirth" theme - after all, the celebratory point of Easter is resurrection and the rebirth of humanity's soul as we are provided a way back "home." Yet other than an alarmingly high fertility/reproductive rate, rabbits are still a long ways from being the symbols of the true Easter holiday.
I'm not totally grinchy. Woodstock and Pebbles get small token gifts, and will color and hunt for eggs (I'm soliciting egg recipes now - only the good ones, please) - on Saturday. On Sunday they will dress in nice clothes (probably not new clothes because it is disgusting how many clothes they already have) and attend church.
Some would call me a whacked-out religious zealot. I'm not. I have a very simple faith and I am not nearly as devout as I would like. I simply dislike the rampant "gimme" holiday that Easter has become - without regard to the amazing miracle it celebrates.
Okay, off my soap box. Back to cleaning up that @#$@%^$^@$^$^&%&^$&%*&(*( Easter grass.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
Teenagers in Toddler Bodies
I have a theory - that the only thing separating teenagers and toddlers (besides a decade) is a few pounds and a few inches and a broader vocabulary.
Cases in point:
Drama Queen. If Woodstock didn't mis-pronounce "frusterated" as "fruster-dated", you wouldn't know she was 3 1/2 instead of 13. She'll sigh, roll her eyes, thrust out her hip and say, "Oh mom!" [insert "my-mother-has-no-idea-what-on-earth-is-going-on-poor-thing" tone of voice here] or "I'm so fruster-dated!" when I have the never to correct a behavior, make a suggestion or calmly point out that her case for having bedtime snuggles ("but mom, I'm so lonely in here, I need a friend") is being denied. Or there are the times when she has what I swear are hormonal mood swings - though in pre-schooler/toddler years those are called "someone didn't get enough sleep," where she dissolves into a puddle of tears, wailing, lamentations and gnashing of teeth over nothing or almost nothing.
Incomplete Logic. Woodstock dumps an entire bottle of shampoo on the floor one day. I ask her why. Her response (complete with rolling eyes), "Oh mom, I just wanted to see what would happen, that's all." As if we should all do things just to see what happens. No need to rely on the laws of the universe, physics, experience of those going before us, etc. Because the world simply did not exist before they did.
Excessive Phone Use. Pebbles last night was wandering around the basement for 15 minutes, having an entirely one-sided conversation (in which the only words we could decipher were "He-wow" (Hellow) and "Gee-Gee" (her nickname for Woodstock) with Himself's iPod (Pebbles uses it as a Phone - she does not like using her actual play phone because she can't make it light up and "work"). The entire conversation was complete with head cocking, sighing, dramatic pauses, hand gestures and a flood of what I assume are words - just not anything verifiably English. After 15 minutes, when her conversation was still going strong, and there was no end in sight, I announced that it was bedtime and the phone time was over. Pebbles shrieked, "No no no no no!" and ran (toddled?) down the hall. I put her to bed still crying for "Phone!"
Budding Independence. Two weeks ago, Woodstock and I had what would pass for a heated conversation in Target in which she begged for a particular yellow skirt. Anyone who knows my kids know there is no danger that they will ever run out of clothing and be forced to run around naked. Ever. Even if I go on laundry strike. It's ridiculous. On that principle alone I was not going to buy any more skirts for Woodstock. Even yellow ones. Then she remembered her gift card from Gramma L. "But I have money!" she exclaimed. "I can buy whatever I want." She bought the yellow skirt. We'll save the "I can buy whatever I want" conversation for a date when it will actually mean something.
Pebbles, lest she be left out of it, is loudly asserting her independence about every 3.5 seconds. (We're hoping the "loudly" part gets toned down now that her ears aren't full of fluid - because that kid has two volume settings: Off and Loud. And the Off setting only reliably works when she's sleeping). Last week I thought, "at this age, I was not schlepping Woodstock everywhere, she was walking." (Of course, at this age, I was 5 months pregnant with Pebbles, so I really didn't have a choice). I put Pebbles on the sidewalk and had her walk herself into the sitter's, rather than having me carry her. Brilliant! Except - now she thinks she needs to do it (and demands such) every single time - even when we're in a hurry; especially if there is snow or rain puddles on the ground (yes, it's April, someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that winter is over); particularly if there are cars in the parking lot and always, always, ALWAYS if Mom didn't bother putting shoes on her. Oy.
Boundary Testing. Pebbles might as well put her thumbs in her ears and waggle her fingers and yell, "Nah nah nah, you can't stop me!" right before she does something she knows she isn't supposed to do, because she gets this wicked, mischievous grin that says the same thing. She makes a point of looking directly at you before she toddles over to push a button or dump out all the blocks for the 587th time or drop food over the side of her high chair or climb up on the kitchen stool to re-arrange the silverware drawer (doesn't matter where we keep the stool, or that it is as big as she is - Pebbles has discovered that that stool opens up a whole new world of delightful possibilities and has been known to drag it from one end of the house to the other to satisfy her curiosities). It's the equivalent of a teen saying, "So? Whatcha gonna do about it?"
It's high drama all the time in our house - and I can only imagine what it's going to be like when I can no longer physically pick them up and remove them to a different spot. Or what happens when behind all the drama and eye-rolling and sighing (side note: I've never rolled my eyes at my kids - I am not sure where on earth that comes from - unless hard-wired in) they run to me, arms wide open, and exclaim "Mama!" when they see me - even if I've only been hiding in the bathroom. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm no longer "the best mother in the whole world" or when they're too big for my kisses and snuggles to right the world.
As similar as they may be, I'll keep my toddlers for now and hope the next 10 years and teenager hood takes a long time to get here.
Cases in point:
Drama Queen. If Woodstock didn't mis-pronounce "frusterated" as "fruster-dated", you wouldn't know she was 3 1/2 instead of 13. She'll sigh, roll her eyes, thrust out her hip and say, "Oh mom!" [insert "my-mother-has-no-idea-what-on-earth-is-going-on-poor-thing" tone of voice here] or "I'm so fruster-dated!" when I have the never to correct a behavior, make a suggestion or calmly point out that her case for having bedtime snuggles ("but mom, I'm so lonely in here, I need a friend") is being denied. Or there are the times when she has what I swear are hormonal mood swings - though in pre-schooler/toddler years those are called "someone didn't get enough sleep," where she dissolves into a puddle of tears, wailing, lamentations and gnashing of teeth over nothing or almost nothing.
Incomplete Logic. Woodstock dumps an entire bottle of shampoo on the floor one day. I ask her why. Her response (complete with rolling eyes), "Oh mom, I just wanted to see what would happen, that's all." As if we should all do things just to see what happens. No need to rely on the laws of the universe, physics, experience of those going before us, etc. Because the world simply did not exist before they did.
Excessive Phone Use. Pebbles last night was wandering around the basement for 15 minutes, having an entirely one-sided conversation (in which the only words we could decipher were "He-wow" (Hellow) and "Gee-Gee" (her nickname for Woodstock) with Himself's iPod (Pebbles uses it as a Phone - she does not like using her actual play phone because she can't make it light up and "work"). The entire conversation was complete with head cocking, sighing, dramatic pauses, hand gestures and a flood of what I assume are words - just not anything verifiably English. After 15 minutes, when her conversation was still going strong, and there was no end in sight, I announced that it was bedtime and the phone time was over. Pebbles shrieked, "No no no no no!" and ran (toddled?) down the hall. I put her to bed still crying for "Phone!"
Budding Independence. Two weeks ago, Woodstock and I had what would pass for a heated conversation in Target in which she begged for a particular yellow skirt. Anyone who knows my kids know there is no danger that they will ever run out of clothing and be forced to run around naked. Ever. Even if I go on laundry strike. It's ridiculous. On that principle alone I was not going to buy any more skirts for Woodstock. Even yellow ones. Then she remembered her gift card from Gramma L. "But I have money!" she exclaimed. "I can buy whatever I want." She bought the yellow skirt. We'll save the "I can buy whatever I want" conversation for a date when it will actually mean something.
Pebbles, lest she be left out of it, is loudly asserting her independence about every 3.5 seconds. (We're hoping the "loudly" part gets toned down now that her ears aren't full of fluid - because that kid has two volume settings: Off and Loud. And the Off setting only reliably works when she's sleeping). Last week I thought, "at this age, I was not schlepping Woodstock everywhere, she was walking." (Of course, at this age, I was 5 months pregnant with Pebbles, so I really didn't have a choice). I put Pebbles on the sidewalk and had her walk herself into the sitter's, rather than having me carry her. Brilliant! Except - now she thinks she needs to do it (and demands such) every single time - even when we're in a hurry; especially if there is snow or rain puddles on the ground (yes, it's April, someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that winter is over); particularly if there are cars in the parking lot and always, always, ALWAYS if Mom didn't bother putting shoes on her. Oy.
Boundary Testing. Pebbles might as well put her thumbs in her ears and waggle her fingers and yell, "Nah nah nah, you can't stop me!" right before she does something she knows she isn't supposed to do, because she gets this wicked, mischievous grin that says the same thing. She makes a point of looking directly at you before she toddles over to push a button or dump out all the blocks for the 587th time or drop food over the side of her high chair or climb up on the kitchen stool to re-arrange the silverware drawer (doesn't matter where we keep the stool, or that it is as big as she is - Pebbles has discovered that that stool opens up a whole new world of delightful possibilities and has been known to drag it from one end of the house to the other to satisfy her curiosities). It's the equivalent of a teen saying, "So? Whatcha gonna do about it?"
It's high drama all the time in our house - and I can only imagine what it's going to be like when I can no longer physically pick them up and remove them to a different spot. Or what happens when behind all the drama and eye-rolling and sighing (side note: I've never rolled my eyes at my kids - I am not sure where on earth that comes from - unless hard-wired in) they run to me, arms wide open, and exclaim "Mama!" when they see me - even if I've only been hiding in the bathroom. I'm not sure what I'll do when I'm no longer "the best mother in the whole world" or when they're too big for my kisses and snuggles to right the world.
As similar as they may be, I'll keep my toddlers for now and hope the next 10 years and teenager hood takes a long time to get here.
Monday, April 04, 2011
Initiation: A Bloody Tale
While we've had two ER visits over the course of being parents - and a couple of stomach viruses, a freaky vaccine reaction/infection, ear tube surgery and a bout with pneumonia - we've been relatively unscathed (knocking on wood and anything else that will prevent Murphy for unleashing his Law after uttering that) in the illness/injuries department.
(Thank heaven for little girls).
In fact, until Saturday, we had not had a single incident that involved blood. The ONE bodily fluid that doesn't make my toes curl and it doesn't make an appearance in Life as a Parent for almost 4 years.
We've now been initiated.
It wasn't a beautiful day on Saturday, but it was warm, so when Woodstock asked to watch a movie after General Conference was over, I told her she had to get some exercise first. Two minutes later she sailed by me, wearing snow boots with her capris, and right out the back door. She ran laps around the yard for almost 15 minutes. Still not worn out, she begged me to play tag with her. It's not that I don't like tag, it's that every step I take lately involves shooting pain down my left leg - still, it turns out I can almost out-run a pre-schooler. Almost.
Tag lasted long enough for Pebbles to wake up from her nap, at which point she demanded to go "Ow-sigh" (outside) with "Gee Gee" (the name which Woodstock has instructed Pebbles to use). Of course, Pebbles is not the most stable on her feet, particularly on uneven ground when wearing shoes.
Blood. Curdling. Scream.
And then the dreaded silence that lets you know all is not well.
Pebbles had lost her footing and tumbled chin-first onto the patio. I picked her up - her chin was scraped up and blood was coming from somewhere.
Woodstock raced over and calmly asked what was going on. I said, "Pebbles fell. Her mouth is bleeding, so I need to take her in and look at her."
Absolute hysteria ensued. Woodstock - the unharmed older sister, dissolved into hysterics. "Mom!" She yelled (even though I was standing right next to her) "Pebbles is BLEEDING. Call an amb-lee-ance (ambulance). We hafta go to the hospital." At which point she raced by me and into the house.
I scooped up Pebbles and took her into the bathroom - only to discover the light source was too poor to ascertain exactly where on her face the blood was coming from. I grabbed some sterile gauze pads, the hydrogen peroxide and relocated to Pebbles to the dining room table (under our bright-as-noonday new light fixture - hooray for energy-sucking light sources).
That, apparently, was bad news for Woodstock who, no longer crying, yelled in a panicky voice, "Mom! You're not a doctor! She's BLEEDING!" Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious.
**I should note here again that blood is the one bodily fluid that neither grosses me out nor makes me panicky. I may be high-strung but am a very useful person to have around in emergencies or when someone is bleeding.**
After taking a look around (as well as one could while wrestling a 23-pound crying, squirmy child with razor-sharp teeth poised to chomp down immediately on whatever dared venture near the rapidly swelling lip), I phoned Himself to get his opinion on my assessment. (Himself has a knack for missing nearly every dramatic moment that happens - he was at work yesterday). We agreed that watching it and icing it was the best course. If it stopped bleeding, fabulous. If not, well, a visit to the doctor was in order - sans the ambulance Woodstock was still insisting we needed.
Of course, a 19-month-old, a mouth injury and ice do not go well together, so we determined a Popsicle would be the best remedy for both the crying and the swelling. I got off the phone.
"Dad says she needs a Popsicle," I remarked to Woodstock - hoping she'd give Himself more credit than she was giving me. After all, he's not a doctor either.
"A Popsicle?" Her panicky voice vanished. She sounded downright hopeful.
Then, her sister's ailments and her rallying cry for an amb-lee-ance forgotten, Woodstock asked, "Can I have one too?"
Funny how suddenly her sister's still bleeding lip took the backseat to the mention of frozen sugary ice water.
As it turns out, Popsicles cure more than just bleeding lips. They also cure hysterical pre-schoolers.
Lesson learned - keep the freezer stocked. (And don't let Pebbles near concrete).
(Thank heaven for little girls).
In fact, until Saturday, we had not had a single incident that involved blood. The ONE bodily fluid that doesn't make my toes curl and it doesn't make an appearance in Life as a Parent for almost 4 years.
We've now been initiated.
It wasn't a beautiful day on Saturday, but it was warm, so when Woodstock asked to watch a movie after General Conference was over, I told her she had to get some exercise first. Two minutes later she sailed by me, wearing snow boots with her capris, and right out the back door. She ran laps around the yard for almost 15 minutes. Still not worn out, she begged me to play tag with her. It's not that I don't like tag, it's that every step I take lately involves shooting pain down my left leg - still, it turns out I can almost out-run a pre-schooler. Almost.
Tag lasted long enough for Pebbles to wake up from her nap, at which point she demanded to go "Ow-sigh" (outside) with "Gee Gee" (the name which Woodstock has instructed Pebbles to use). Of course, Pebbles is not the most stable on her feet, particularly on uneven ground when wearing shoes.
Blood. Curdling. Scream.
And then the dreaded silence that lets you know all is not well.
Pebbles had lost her footing and tumbled chin-first onto the patio. I picked her up - her chin was scraped up and blood was coming from somewhere.
Woodstock raced over and calmly asked what was going on. I said, "Pebbles fell. Her mouth is bleeding, so I need to take her in and look at her."
Absolute hysteria ensued. Woodstock - the unharmed older sister, dissolved into hysterics. "Mom!" She yelled (even though I was standing right next to her) "Pebbles is BLEEDING. Call an amb-lee-ance (ambulance). We hafta go to the hospital." At which point she raced by me and into the house.
I scooped up Pebbles and took her into the bathroom - only to discover the light source was too poor to ascertain exactly where on her face the blood was coming from. I grabbed some sterile gauze pads, the hydrogen peroxide and relocated to Pebbles to the dining room table (under our bright-as-noonday new light fixture - hooray for energy-sucking light sources).
That, apparently, was bad news for Woodstock who, no longer crying, yelled in a panicky voice, "Mom! You're not a doctor! She's BLEEDING!" Thank you for stating the blatantly obvious.
**I should note here again that blood is the one bodily fluid that neither grosses me out nor makes me panicky. I may be high-strung but am a very useful person to have around in emergencies or when someone is bleeding.**
After taking a look around (as well as one could while wrestling a 23-pound crying, squirmy child with razor-sharp teeth poised to chomp down immediately on whatever dared venture near the rapidly swelling lip), I phoned Himself to get his opinion on my assessment. (Himself has a knack for missing nearly every dramatic moment that happens - he was at work yesterday). We agreed that watching it and icing it was the best course. If it stopped bleeding, fabulous. If not, well, a visit to the doctor was in order - sans the ambulance Woodstock was still insisting we needed.
Of course, a 19-month-old, a mouth injury and ice do not go well together, so we determined a Popsicle would be the best remedy for both the crying and the swelling. I got off the phone.
"Dad says she needs a Popsicle," I remarked to Woodstock - hoping she'd give Himself more credit than she was giving me. After all, he's not a doctor either.
"A Popsicle?" Her panicky voice vanished. She sounded downright hopeful.
Then, her sister's ailments and her rallying cry for an amb-lee-ance forgotten, Woodstock asked, "Can I have one too?"
Funny how suddenly her sister's still bleeding lip took the backseat to the mention of frozen sugary ice water.
As it turns out, Popsicles cure more than just bleeding lips. They also cure hysterical pre-schoolers.
Lesson learned - keep the freezer stocked. (And don't let Pebbles near concrete).
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Necessary and Absurd: Things I never knew I'd have to say.
There are things I swore I'd never say as a mother (most of which have come back to haunt me in the mere 43 months since giving birth the first time) - then there are things which, never in a million years, would I have dreamed would come out of my mouth.
Things like:
No wonder childless adults think we've all lost our marbles.
Things like:
- Please stop trying to ride your sister like a horse.
- No, the fact that you licked all the ketchup off your plate and left everything else does not mean you ate most of your food (uttered just today).
- You may not wear your flip flops with your snow pants.
- You may only play outside if you promise not to go visit the neighbors and/or ask them for fruit snacks (the joys of sharing a backyard).
- It is not a good idea to invite strange men home to play with you (Woodstock can - and does - make friends with everyone - for this reason alone, I refuse to teach her our address and am grateful I have an out-of-state cell number)
- Please put your belly button away
- Do your really have to use the bathroom or are you just interested in seeing what this one looks like? (after realizing Woodstock always has to potty the second we enter a new establishment)
- Just because daddy shaves his chin doesn't mean it was a good idea to try it yourself
- Try not to drown your sister
- If you are going to drive backwards, please slow down in the kitchen.
- Your diaper is not a pocket - or a purse
No wonder childless adults think we've all lost our marbles.
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