Take your 4-year-old along.

Saturday, although I had many, many errands to run, we elected to spend the first half of the day at home. Bun, newly diagnosed with an ear infection, was crabby and clingy. Plus she had ropes of wet, yellow mucous running out of her nose (sorry). It is amazing to me that such a little head can hold so much of that stuff. Well, obviously it couldn’t hold all of that stuff, hence the endless nose wiping Saturday morning.

I was scheduled for a massage at 4 p.m., the result of a gift card DearDR had bought me last Christmas. Personally, if I am going to a spa, my druthers would be to get a spa pedicure (and manicure) or a facial. Massages are not my favorite spa treatment. But they don’t suck, either.

After the massage, I had every intention of running several errands — notably grocery shopping — and going to church. I know that “running errands” is antithetical to “getting a massage”, but such is a mother’s life.

The massage was very pleasant, and energizing for about the first hour afterwards. Walking into the mall to exchange some pants Monkey had received for her birthday, I walked through a department store where EVERYTHING was on sale. For very reasonable prices. So I decided on my way back out to look around, maybe purchase one or two things, and then go to the grocery store.

This did not happen.

I found two wonderful sweaters, two sweaters that had RPM already written on their tags, two sweaters that were more than 50% off. I tried them on with pants, skirts, turtlenecks, crew necks, you name it. Aside from the sweaters — my sweaters, I’m telling you — nothing else fit right. The skirts made me look downright dumpy. Nevertheless, an hour and a half later, I was standing in line with one of the sweaters, and a couple of things that I thought were “close enough”, when I came to my senses and put everything back.

It wasn’t about the money, it was about the close enough. I hate when my clothes don’t fit right. Because then they don’t look right, and I’m self-conscious and uncomfortable for the rest of the day.

It hurt to put the gray sweater back.

At this time, it was 8:30 on Saturday. DearDR had had to take the children next door at 4 p.m. to sit with Nanny while Bella and Tadone went out to dinner and a movie for Bella’s birthday (Happy Birthday, Bella!) I knew that bringing them home to get them settled in bed and waiting for me to come home so that he could go back next door to Nanny-sit would be stressful for him. Plus, they have cable next door!

So I ditched grocery shopping (I had already missed Mass) and went home. I relieved DearDR so he could go back on Nanny duty, sang Monkey a couple of lullabies (”Where were you, Mommy?” she asks me) and finished my novel. DearDR and Nanny watched Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

The next day, the morning was a flurry of church-going and grocery shopping (Bun stayed home with DearDR), cleaning, laundry, and a coupon in my mailbox from that department store that still had my sweaters. (Forgot to get the mail on Saturday.) Also, I was making dinner to take over to the in-laws.

But that coupon and the fact that Monkey had not been out the day before (going to Bella’s doesn’t count as out) were… fomenting.

“I could get those sweaters,” I was thinking. “For even less than they were yesterday. And Monkey could play at the kid mall.” DearDR was in a cleaning frenzy, which he is best left to by himself, and Bun was napping.

We went. Although I did not find pants or a turtleneck for the first of my sweaters, I did find pants (they were NOT THERE the night before, and I am willing to bet Monkey’s lip balm on that) for the second sweater. Plus earrings and a belt. And a scarf and gloves that will look great with the coat I have to ransom from the dry cleaners.

Monkey was an angel. She had been close to perfect all day. (Her least perfect behavior had taken place in church, of course, but even there she hadn’t been a nightmare.) She helped me pick out my scarf and gloves; we tried on hats; she picked out cereal-flavored lip balm (think Fruit Loops and Frosted Flakes); and she was patient while I tried on pants. She had fun at the kid mall and did not ask for candy or ice cream.

Then we went home and treated my in-laws and Nanny to dinner (new recipe!), got the kids in bed, and finished cleaning the house and folding laundry. It would have been a perfect weekend if Bun had been feeling better. And if she hadn’t woken up at 5:20 this morning. That hurt.

But my sweaters are ready-to-wear. Now I just have to find brown boots. Wonder what Monkey is up to this weekend?

Note to ClumberKim: T is for Tomorrow!

Monkey, you were such a little peanut when you were born.

Mommy

On Saturday, Monkey and I finally got our hairs cut. We had needed an appointment for quite some time, but my stylist was traveling in Hong Kong for three weeks. More than a cut, I really needed color — my hair was especially dry, for one thing; the grays were creeping back, for another; and for a third, I was losing my fondness for being a redhead. And DearDR wanted a trim, too.

Here’s a little photo essay.
Before the Cuts:

Leopard Sisters:

Quote from Monkey, “Are you taking out the white, Mommy?” I didn’t think my gray hair was quite that noticeable. Thank you, Monkey.

Quote from my stylist, to Monkey, “Don’t worry, you can give her some more in just a minute.”

After, Monkey:

You can finally see her eyes again! I like the length on the sides and in the back, too.

Monkey has very pretty hair, straight, shiny, and soft (we use conditioner). On her last visit, my mom commented on how pretty her hair was. Then added, “Your hair was never that nice.”

Gee, thanks, Mom.

“No, but it wasn’t,” she said defensively. “You always had a kink or a wave in it. It just didn’t lay nice.”

Hence, short hair for me. Since about eighth grade.

Mommy, After I:

My stylist overruled you all. Sorry. When I showed him the blog post, he laughed heartily (and my stylist has a seriously hearty laugh — he’s about 6′5″) and said, “Like this is a democracy.” He pointed to 3. “That’s what we’re doing.” I said that most everyone who had commented really liked 2. “I know I need to grow it –” I started.

My stylist interjected: “Look, that is a great cut for you. But Monkey and Bun will be in college before your hair is that long.” (I think he was exaggerating.) “We’re going to start here [# 3] so you can eventually get there [# 2].”

Mommy, After II:

This is how it looks after my stylist does my hair. I may ask to go darker next time.

And, yes, that is my kitchen and dining room. My stylist comes to my house.

Mommy, After III:

The Zoolander pose. Does my nose look big?

This is what it looks like after I style my hair myself.

And finally, Mommy, After IV:

Thought to myself, “At least smile a little, woman!” It’s hard taking pictures in a mirror.

Yeah, it was a busy, busy weekend, and it’s going to be a week of stress and late nights. Steelers, election, preparing for a 4-year-old’s birthday party, happy hour with people from work. Plus, the daily.

But I do have a couple of things I want to post about.

Obviously, I made the decision to not NaBloPoMo. I mean, we’re three days in, and here’s my first post of November. I’m bummed about it, because it is a good thing for me to do in terms of site traffic and my own writing. But I also know it’s the right decision, because, as the short list above illustrates, I gotta whole lot o’ lotta going on. As much as I love the challenge and exercise of posting every day, this year, I have to give myself a break.

On the other hand, I am seriously considering, come Jan. 1, to attempt Blog365.

And besides, there is always Plurk. Which I completely missed this weekend, and I have a lot to catch up on there.

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Two conversations overheard in Costco this weekend:

A hippie dad saying to his two children, explaining the vaccination poster by the ladies’ room: “Well, that’s about doctors, who really shouldn’t be trusted. They give unnecessary shots to kids, and they don’t do what’s best for their patients.”

What??!

It took a lot of self control to not stop on the spot and confront him. I understand distrust of the medical community, especially for people of my generation, but I think the answer, rather than indoctrinating our kids against doctors is to actually teach them to be stewards of their own care. Ask questions, get information, participate in your health. And while I agree that the vaccination schedule for children is overly aggressive, I think the answer is to work with your pediatrician to spread out the shots. I think not vaccinating your children at all is very, very risky.

Later, a mom to her 2- or 3-year-old son, who was obviously getting upset at not getting to eat Costco pizza (I heartily empathize): “Oh, look. I think I see the police outside. You better not cry or disobey mommy or they’ll come take you away.”

What??!

Threatening your children with the police? What kind of message is that?

Monkey is learning about police and firefighters at her preschool. The basic message, which I try to reinforce when she asks questions, is: These people are here to help you. You can trust them. I wouldn’t dream of telling her that the police are going to take her away for being bad.

To top it off, the mother gave into her child’s demands, and instead of going to a restaurant, they ate at Costco. Parenting FAIL!

Also, I did end up having a very pleasant conversation with the hippie dad and his wife as we were all eating our pizza. Their two children, a boy and a girl, were adorable, and Monkey was clearly fascinated by the whole family, notably the father’s beard which was much longer than her daddy’s neatly trimmed facial hair. I did not bring up what I overheard him saying about doctors though. No need to throw down at the local warehouse shopping club.

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Monkey is showing a great awareness of driving rules. She always reminds me to stay on “this side” of the lines. “Because then cars will crash into you, if you drive on the other side.” I’ve been explaining, in very basic terms, double yellow lines, broken white lines, and solid white lines. Sunday, I introduced the concept of the shoulder. I pointed out the solid white line to the right, and said, “I can’t cross that white line either. That’s the shoulder of the road, and you shouldn’t drive on the shoulder. It’s for emergencies.”

As we were driving back home, I took an exit ramp off of route 60. “Mommy, don’t forget,” Monkey piped up, “don’t drive on the elbow.”

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Lastly, and I am shocked — shocked — to report this: I started my Christmas shopping this weekend. I’ve got three nephews and my niece crossed off the list already. It helps that Costco has great prices on some pretty neat things, and also other retailers are offering rock-bottom prices, plus $10 gift cards for spending a certain amount of money. I’ve got $20 to blow in two stores before the holidays! Shopping WIN!

Not the real house, unfortunately.

Here are a few things to clear off my blogging table.

First of all, the very sweet Allison at Allison Says gave me not one, but TWO blogging awards, and said nice things about me, too (uh, I can’t seem to link to the images of the awards. Advice welcome. In the meantime, you can see them at her place). Allison is the mother of Alex, a baby that apparently everyone loves to touch, which bugs his mama. But I’m telling you, that boy is so adorable, I want to grab him and gobble him up every time I see him.

Allison already gave these awards to some of my other favorite bloggers, so I will pass them along to only one, my buddy now hailing from Nashville, Tenn., Misfit Hausfrau. She is completely irreverent, the mom of two girls, and a Lost lover. I especially value her blog because it makes it easy to check in with a friend who moved away. We still get to see each other once or twice a year, but I can always be up-to-date on what’s happening. And she’s funny, too.

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Secondly, I recently signed up at Freepeats.org, and things have been flying out of my house. I have given away about three boxes of toys and a box of maternity clothes. And it’s so easy: just post what you have to give away, or check the Wanted forum. The people who want what you have will come pick ‘em up. I feel better about doing this than giving stuff randomly to Salvation Army or Goodwill. You know that what you are giving away is needed and is going to be used.

So if you, too, need to do the Great Toy Purge of 2008, I heartily recommend Freepeats. I did not have enough toys to give away to the takers!

Now, I still need a good home for the girls’ old stuffed animals. Still no takers there. They may just hit the curb, although if i do that, they will haunt me. I just know it.

Of course, if I manage to unload everything I want to, and I do manage to have baby number four (technically) (and not that we’re actually ‘trying’) I will be looking to get it all back. If I stay with Freepeats, though, I don’t think that will be a problem.

I actually have a bunch of stuff I am trying to get to moms I know. If they decide they don’t want them, I’ll just post them to Freepeats. Also, my sister-in-law WonderSIL is expecting another baby in March. If it’s a girl, I want to pass on clothes. If, on the other hand, she has another boy — her fourth — she is well provisioned.

Well, maybe she’ll need a little more wine.

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Thirdly: Happy Halloween.

I know there is a lot of confusion (or people are confuzzled) about when and why Halloween is scheduled in Pittsburgh. I can understand the frustration. I’m of the opinion that Holidays should be celebrated on the day they occur. (Anyone else remember when Pittsburgh celebrated July 4th on July 3?)

I like that they have set hours, I will admit. I can expect people to come between 6 and 8 p.m.; the earlier time is great for little kids because there is still daylight. In my neighborhood they had trick-or-treating on Thursday because of the high school football game. Since DearDR couldn’t be home, we just handed out candy, and the girls are trick-or-treating tonight in an adjoining neighborhood with friends. So it worked out well for us this year.

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Monkey had a Halloween party at her preschool yesterday. They sang little songs and everything. Bella went in my stead (thank you, Bella!). She called me later at work to tell me how cute Monkey was.

“Some of the parents brought treats,” she mentioned. “I put them in a bag for Monkey.”

Okay, I thought, so she’s already got some stuff. Cool.

Turns out that “some parents” means “almost all of the parents in Monkey’s class” and “treats” means “treat bags with fun stuff, cookies, candy and personal notes.”

I win clueless mother of the year award. I better get my sh*t together for Christmas time.

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And lastly: I am getting my hairs cut tomorrow (as is the bang queen, Monkey). Please help me pick a real style. The color will be a brown closer to my natural color. It’s time to go away from the red. Thanks.

1:

2:

3:

4:

5:

6:

Much thanks to Classmate’s Mom who was sweet enough to take these pictures, and awesome enough to remember to email them to me.

This is from last Friday.

We had a lot of fun here:

Our First Hayride!

Reporting Direct from the Pumpkin Patch.

The Giant Slide was a Big Hit.

It was a little chilly, but we had a good time. I think Monkey really enjoyed seeing her classmates in a different setting. And it is clear that she just loves her teachers — she couldn’t stop asking about them, or running up to them to say hi and chat a bit. I think school is really good for her. Makes me happy to know she is doing well.

Knock-Knock

I am sometimes quite amazed at the simple fact that all children move through similar social phases.

As Exhibit A, allow me to present Monkey, who has just discovered knock-knock jokes.

As we were sitting at a local eatery last night, Monkey declared, “I want to tell knock-knock jokes.”

I’m game.

She starts:

Monkey: Knock knock.
Me: Who’s there?
Monkey: Hoosa.
Me (utterly mystified): Hoosa who?
Monkey: Hoosa Mommy!

Now Monkey is quite the one to make up words and names—she still plays Gusk the Dog quite often (a post for a different day). And this is her pattern in knock-knock jokes: Say a word, often a made up one, then say that word with “you” or “mommy” after it.

Cracks herself up.

I know that she is far from understanding what makes a knock-knock joke work (i.e. The Pun), but I throw a couple more sophisticated ones her way (boo who, banana-banana-orange), and she is utterly mystified herself. Her funniest ends, “Banana orange don’t be sad!!” It makes me laugh.

What’s your favorite knock-knock joke? Leave it in the comments. After “boo” and “banana-banana-orange” I’m out of ideas, so I’m looking for some new ones. My favorite, interrupting cow, is FAR above Monkey’s adorable little head. It’s in the goofy (and family-friendly) video below.

Dear Monkey:

If you think I was enjoying myself scrubbing the bathroom instead of playing with you outside on an improbably gorgeous autumn day in October in Pittsburgh, please reconsider.

It’s just that your dad tore up part of the disgusting rug in that bathroom (advice: never, ever, move into a house or apartment with a rug in the bathroom), but only part of it. And I decided to hire a babysitter so I could finish the job.

I’m grateful that you wanted to help me. But between the chemicals I was using to thoroughly disinfect the space and the clear detridus of I don’t know how many years accumulated under and on the edge of said rug, that room was not safe for you. It wasn’t really that safe for me, but my system is stronger.

Plus, “help” in the toddler lexicon is different from “help” in an adult lexicon. For example, on Saturday, you “helped” me clean the dishes by stirring a potful of water (”I’m making an apple cake!”) on one side of our divided sink while on the other I rinsed dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher. You often help me in the kitchen by doing arts and crafts while I put dishes away or cook. I can’t imagine how you were going to help me in the bathroom. Possibly by brushing your teeth and drinking a lot of dixie-cupfuls of water.

So for you to have come in after your walk with the babysitter, come see me covered in crap, and, when I told you to please go back downstairs, say, “You’re breaking my heart” was equal parts exasperating and amusing. I hope you will excuse my reaction.

First of all, where are you learning these things, these emotional words for heartbreak and love? Do Daddy and I say them to you? Are you picking them up from the four-year-olds at day school? Are you sneaking Hannah Montana at Bella’s house?

Secondly, given a choice, I would have left the bathroom exactly as it was for a couple more weeks, and gone outside, into the sunshine and air with you. But Nonna and Pap-pap are coming to visit, and my lack of effective housekeeping shames me. I had to do something.

Believe me, I want to spend my time on weekends with you and your sister. You are amazing and adorable and sweet and exasperating, and I love you so much it creates an ache sometimes from my throat to my stomach. But part of me loving you is going to work, and cleaning our dirty house, and taking you to the grocery store with me.

Please, don’t break my heart by telling me I’m breaking yours when I can’t come play with you. Time is precious and fleeting. But sometimes, I gotta clean the bathroom. Okay?

Love,
Your Momma

Dear Babysitter,

I understand that you are 14 years old. And texting to a 14 year old is like breathing. But your job, the job for which I am paying you, is to entertain and play with my child. Oh, and also to keep her out of my hair.

I am unsure of how to approach this with you. My kids like you a lot; my husband and I like that you literally live across the street so we can watch you go home at the end of your shift. If I tell you to leave your phone at home, it is likely that you will decline to work for us any longer. I hesitate to tell your parents to ask you to keep the phone at home — you could be texting with your mother for all I know. I would feel like I was tattling on you.

But, honey, it is not acceptable to me that you sit texting on the couch, while my broken-hearted three-year-old plays lackadaisically with her toys. It was nice of you to do arts and crafts with her — at my suggestion. And also to take her for a walk — also at my suggestion. But you’re going to have to do a little bit more if you decide to pursue babysitting as a means of earning cash. At this point, I would hesitate to recommend you for another job. Your two weaknesses are your inability to straighten up when you are done with the kids, and this whole non-stop texting thing while letting my kids entertain themselves. You need to be a teensy bit more engaged with them. I am hoping that when I talk to my husband about this, he will guide me to an effective way of communicating with you. (He’s good like that.)

Or maybe I will just buy you one of these, although such a step seems a tad heavy-handed.

In the meantime, I remain, your sole employer,
red pen mama

One of the things I love about Monkey is her utter lack of self-consciousness. She unrepentantly picks food out of her teeth (usually out of her “triangle teeth” i.e. molars) with her finger at the table. She runs around pulling up her pants (who decided that toddler pants should be low-cut should be cursed to an existence of wearing very-low-riding jeans with granny underpants). She talks to her silverware, her stuffed animals; she decides she is going to be Gusk the dog at the slightest whim.

And I was reminded of these things Sunday, at the very low-key (but not low-riding) picnic at Kim’s house yesterday. Where I also got to see her again, and meet her family, and meet her and her family. It was a nice two hours out of a stressful weekend. And the cupcakes were a big hit.

On the way home, we were listening to the classical music cassette tape that has been DearDr’s choice of late (the CD player is broken). Monkey loves music, and she seems especially attracted to classical. She came in the house the other day to tell me about the nut crack music she liked. As we were driving home yesterday, I was thinking about all the stuff still facing me at home, and Monkey started yammering at me from the back seat.

“The crack nut music, Mommy! This is it. The crack nut, the crack nut!”

I finally realized she was talking about what was playing in the car.

A couple of tracks from the Nutcracker Suite are on the tape. We listened to them four times on the way home. I am thinking there is a matinee ballet in my near future.

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Even though she wasn’t there, I have to link to her site. Because I really like stuff, and this contest looks too good to pass up.

Because I’m too tired for words.

Here are some images Monkey managed to capture before she dropped the camera in the sink. (For the record, the camera works now, but the flash does not.)

I’m going to start calling her Annie Lebowitz. (And just sue me if I spelled that wrong — too tired to look it up, even).

“What’s in here?”

“Cheeeeeezzze” and Chocolate:

I can’t even think of anything clever here. If I had the energy (and the commenters) I would run a contest. What the heck? Name the picture. I’ll figure out something:

Horsey-face Mommy:

A More Reasonable Distance:

The Babysitter’s Shirt:

Is This Thing On?

And now we come to Monkey’s favorite subject: Her sister, Bun.

Bun One:

Bun Back:

Bun Two:

Bun Blur:

Bun Bangs I:

Bun Bangs II: