Potty Training and Droopy Boobs

Happy Hump Day, people!

Thanksgiving is just 8 days away and Christmas is..... well, it's coming soon.  I don't want to even check the number because it just completely freaks me out that Christmas is coming and I haven't shopped.  I'm still in the brainstorming phase.  There is a list and there are plans, but there's no money, so we are going to put in a little more time brainstorming.

To those of you who are done holiday shopping, I have two things to say.....
#1 - I am sincerely impressed and jealous of your ability to plan, execute and complete a yearly task that, for most people, evokes the desire to get hammered instead.
#2 - Also, f**k you.  I say that with love.

On to other things....

About a year ago we started the potty training process.  Again, we were in the brainstorming phase.  (We seem to spend an inordinate amount of time doing that.)  Potties were purchased, research was done, books were brought home for Allie, pull up diapers were bought, stuff was happening.  I spoke with parents and got advice and took notes.

One thing that I kept hearing and reading was, "She will do it when she's ready."  But did I believe that?  Nooooo.

After all, I was hearing stories about parents who were able to potty train their kids in a week or a weekend or even overnight.  These kids just caught right on and did it.   Poised and precise pee-ers and poopers.

But many of them were doing it because they couldn't send their kids to preschool unless they were out of diapers or they were just tired of changing diapers and felt their kids were ready.  I was really sympathetic to the first group, since a lot of people don't have a choice.  They need to send their kids to school and have no choice but to give a crash course in potty protocol.

Allie was intrigued by the whole process, but she wasn't committed to this new way of life.  If you've been reading this blog, you've seen how seriously she has been taking this so far.  (See It's My Potty And I'll Try If I Want To )  That potty seat spent more time on her head than under her tushy.  It was both entertaining and discouraging.

However, through it all, I kept going back to that one statement. "She will do it when she's ready."

And she did!

Yeeeee haw!!!

Mind you, she hasn't quite mastered it yet, but she's super close.

Out of nowhere she started telling us she was going to use the bathroom.  She even began asking for "Privacy please" as she shut the door in our faces.  Every day she spent more and more time in her "big girl underpants".  I don't know what motivated her, but I'm not going to question it.  I don't want to jinx it again.  We were thisclose to being potty trained in May and she totally regressed, so I know first hand that anything can happen!

I'm so proud of her.  I never thought I could be so thrilled about someone using a toilet, but I am.  There's practically a parade going through my house every time it happens.

Before I go, I have to get something else off my chest.  (Pun totally intended.)

My boobs are falling.

Yes, you read that right.  And I hate to be a downer bringing this up, but I need support right now (again, pun intended).

I know this has been a work in progress for a few years now, but it only really hit me today.  And I'm shocked, to be honest.   I thought I was cheating the system.

WRONGO.

As a teenager, I slept with a bra on because I never wanted droopy boobs.  As an adult, I spent a fortune on bras.  The past few years, I've bought top of the line sports bras to wear while I'm working.  And what do I get in return?  Floppy breasts.  Gee, thanks.

The moral of this story?  You can't beat nature.  The aging process stops for no one.  Not even Joan Rivers or Lara Flynn Boyle.  They THINK they are winning, but we all see how damn scary they actually look while trying to look "young".  Wrinkle free does not mean ageless, peeps!

If you are young and have big breasts, your boobies will be sagging too one day.  So enjoy them while you can.  And start saving for quality lingerie.  Because you're going to need it if you want to make it look like they're still perky at 40.  Or you can get "breast augmentation surgery".  Either way, start saving your dollars.

Enjoy the second half of your week, friends!

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I Think It's Diphtheria

I'm sick.  Again.  I think it's diphtheria.

Okay, maybe diphtheria is a little extreme.  After all, only 56 people in the US have had it in the past 30 years, but maybe I'm part of the 1.866666 people who will get it this year.

I really hope I'm the "1" in that statistic.  I'd hate to be considered only .866666 of a person, although some would say that I lost my mind awhile ago, so that would account for the .133334 that could be missing.

It's round three with the same damn thing that started at the end of September.  I'm sure it's just a virus, but as I was self-diagnosing myself on the internet, I found that my symptoms matched diphtheria.  It's a good think I'm not a hypochondriac.  I'd be freaking.

Allie has been sick since October 4th.  She and my mom both got sick at the same time.  My mom got over it, but Allie has been coughing and sneezing and congested since then.  Justin has been sick twice since this lovely bug showed up.  And the damn thing clearly has some sort of vendetta as far as I'm concerned.  Three times???  Have some mercy!

Over the past weekend, we were sitting in bed watching a Bar Rescue marathon, when Justin started hacking and I sneezed a few times.  He looked at me and with complete seriousness he stated, "We are going to be sick until she graduates from high, school aren't we?"

Justin is convinced that Allie brought this illness home, courtesy of her preschool chums.  We were warned that Allie would probably get sick many times during her first year at any school since she wasn't really subjected to groups of kids for her first three years. She had only had a cold once, and that started New Year's Eve 2010.  We all got sick and within a week, we were fine.  Otherwise, no germies.

I have no idea how the teachers manage to avoid it.  I'm sure they have incredible immune systems, but considering where preschoolers put their hands and mouths, it's a damn miracle that they are so healthy.  They are like anti-viral/bacterial super-heroes.  I think they must have some magical medical force surrounding them, because I can't survive the germs that ONE toddler carries around, let alone the germs of 15!

As for this evening, I'm going to try to control my snifflingsneezingcoughingachingstuffyheadwithoutrest situation by rendering myself unconscious as I scarf down some nighttime medication.

I hope you all are healthy.....may the "Pre-school Teacher Force" be with you!

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You're Too Nice!

Three little words that have confused me for a very long time: You're too nice.

I would like to know exactly when being nice became a problem of excess.  When did being nice become a no-no?  Where exactly is that line between "just enough nice" and "too nice"?  Someone help me with this please!


There is the 
"you're nice to the point of being a moron
" judgement, as well as the 
"you're nice to the point of being suspicious and you must have alterior motives
" problem.
I may be the first one, but the second one pisses me off and 
I hear it more than anything.  
Personally, 
I dont think 
I'm excessively amicable, and many days my husband would be standing behind me, nodding his head like crazy.

Soooooooo....

Before I continue, I would like to put my meanie-pants on and bitch slap you just so I can be like the cool kids and have the appropriate amount of nasty going on while we talk here.  Cuz I'm not really sure what I'm doing in this "bad girl territory", so I figure that's a good place to start.

I'm a mid-western girl.  My parents moved to the east coast when I was 13.  I was traumatized because the month before we moved, my father had travelled to Aruba to look at a restaurant, so I thought that if we were moving that we would be heading to that "One Happy Island".

Nay, nay.

Instead of working on a tan and gettin' my island groove on, I found myself being analyzed and torn apart by my peers who were kind of harsh.  I dressed wrong, I spoke wrong, I carried myself wrong, and I was "too nice", which was an undesirable trait.  So, yes, I've been confused since I was 13.

But I'm not alone!  My mother, also born and raised as a mid-west girl, has been hearing the same judgement since we got here.  She's just as confused as I am about this one.  However, a few weeks ago,  she uttered those dreadful words to me, and my response was, "When did it become wrong to be nice?  Either I'm nice or I'm stupid.  But there is no "too nice".  Maybe they're just too f*cking bitchy???"

I listen to Howard Stern on satellite and when you hear people talk about his wife, Beth, they always marvel about how nice she is and how she's such "an angel".  Well, I hate to break it to you all, but I grew up in the same place that she did, and I'm the same age that she is, and her behavior seems entirely appropriate and normal to me.  It's no big shocker.  In fact, I have a boatload of cousins who are just like her!  If you got us all together in one room and filmed it, apparently they could promote it as a science fiction series or some other oddity.  An observation of a herd of Too Nicers?   Ooooooo!  Scary stuff.  (oh, puh-leez)

My husband says part of why he married me because of my morality.  When he mentions behavior here that I find mean spirited or selfish, I'm always shocked.  And when I'm shocked, he's surprised.  To him, it's all normal.  It's normal for people close to you take advantage of you, or to turn their backs on you, or abandon you for an extended period of time, or blatantly lie to you, or to say shitty things and expect you to get over it because they "feel better after venting".  I'll stop there.  I'm sure you get it.

Justin is dying to go to where I grew up just so he can see if there actually ARE more people like my mother, my brother and me.  Like we are some kind of Holier Than Thou side show freaks in his world? While I'd love to think we are special, the fact is that people who live further away from big metropolitan areas are different, and there are tons more like us. 

When I have to explain my "level of niceness" in a discussion, it usually starts with, "You know me....the happy idiot!"  I say it with a smile, but I know it's what many people think.  I know because I have good hearing and they talk too loud.

Here's my drama.  I want my daughter to think and live her life more like my family and less like "the local status quo".

Don't get me wrong, I love the extra bit of self confidence and outspoken tendencies of the people from here.  I like that they have a thicker skin and are a little less sensitive.  And I think it's awesome that they will get in your face and tell you that you're an asshole when you really deserve it!  However, I can't seem to figure out how to make "bad ass" and "too nice" merge.  At some point they start to work against each other.

This made me think of some of my prior employers..... especially at one "driven" company 

If I had my druthers, Allie would be kind and loving to people, but speak up when she's being treated in a way she doesn't like.  I want her to stick up for herself and for others who deserve it, but in a way that is respectful and intelligent.  She should be too nice, but only to people who deserve it.  And when people use her pleasant and good natured demeanor against her and criticize her for it, I hope it doesn't deter her from being a good person in the future (insert kick in the shin here).

I must clarify that everyone here isn't a bigfatjerkface.  There are many awesome people sprinkled around this area.  Granted, some of them are from out of town as well, but there are just as many that were born and raised here.  And you know what they tell me?  They say that people always tell them that they are "too nice".

Really, people?  How did something so good become so wrong?

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Morbidity, Mortality and Tattoos

I feel like I've been writing a lot about death lately.  That kind of freaks me out a bit.  It's been a haunting topic the past few weeks.  Most of it kind of funny.  But for some reason, it's been touching my life a bit more seriously.  And I'm speaking beyond the death of Mr. Mouse and my husband traveling with dead people.

About eight  years ago, I had a large spurt of loss going on around me.  Friends died, my neighbor died, my friends' pets were dying and, oddly enough, I was taking a course called Death And Dying at school.  It seemed to be taking over my world.

There was a photo at the start of my class' textbook that I was drawn to.  I had been wanting to get another tattoo for a few years but I wanted to wait until something meaningful came along.  When I realized how often I looked at the photo, that's when I knew it was time.  I found my last tattoo.

These are photos from the day I had it done.  Keep in mind that it's the same tattoo.  If you look at it one way, it says Death and if you turn your head, it says Life.  If you don't believe me, just flip yourself....or your screen, which would probably be easier.  I took all of the hard work out of it for you and just flipped the camera.  I'm nice like that.

I love this tattoo.  It really represents something to me.  Life and death are so interchangeable, inescapable, and you can't have one without the other. 

Little did I know that it's also pretty popular amongst the prison population, but I'm okay with that.  Coincidentally, I was in school with the intention of becoming a prison psychologist.  Sometimes the strangest crap happens to me.

So, this Tuesday I woke up to find a text from one of my customers saying that one of her two dogs had died suddenly during the night.  I have been seeing these two boxers almost every Monday thru Friday for nearly five years and when I tell you that this boxer was the most excitable ball of energy I've ever seen, I'm not kidding.  He was in non-stop play mode.  

Sweet Jameson was only seven when he died.  He had an undetected brain tumor and got very sick over the course of 12 hours and the animal hospital was unable to save him.  His humans don't have human children so the dogs are their babies.  As you can imagine, they are just devastated by the loss.

Allie heard me talking to Jameson's "mom" on the phone that morning and on the way to school, she asked me what happened to him.  I can't even remember the answer I gave her.  I know it was sucky because even I wasn't sure what I was talking about.  

Then we passed a cemetery.  "What are those rocks," Allie asked, referring to the headstones.

What are the chances that after passing that cemetery nearly every day for her entire life, that she would suddenly notice the headstones right as we are discussing death?  Apparently, they are odds are pretty good.

"Those are headstones or grave markers.  They put them over the graves of people after they are buried."

"WHAT????!!"  I looked in my rearview mirror and saw that her eyes were the size of dinner plates.  "Buried??  In the ground??!"

Shit, shit, SHIT!  This was not the best conversation to start during a ten minute ride to preschool first thing in the morning.  And I was entirely unprepared to explain death and burial to a child already.  After all, I hadn't done all of the neurotic necessary research that tends to accompany serious child related issues.  Why wasn't I one of those parents who could come up with just the right thing to say about stuff like this without totally freaking her out?  I could come up with a fake bedtime story with no problem, but a REAL answer about an important topic was a stumper for me.

"When people die..."

"What do you mean die?" she interrupted.

"When people go to sleep for a long time...."  Already I was screwing up.  I remembered that I had read awhile ago that you never compare death to sleeping when explaining death to a child.  They might be afraid to fall asleep after that.

Just then, the car in front of me slammed on the breaks as the light turned red.  What a freakin' blessing THAT was!  

"Mommy, red means stop."  Allie has the attention span of a goldfish sometimes.

I'm no fool.  I was NOT prepared for this parental death test and I saw an out. "That is exactly right!  Red means stop!  And do you know what green and yellow mean?"  I was very enthusiastic about this new conversation regarding traffic signage.  I was grabbing the opportunity to dodge the death discussion and hanging on for dear life.

I don't know if there is a proper age to explain death to a child when it doesn't accompany a personal experience.  I will have to obsessively research this one.  However, if you have any good information to share, I'd love to hear it.  

Have a good weekend, my dear bleeps!  (blog peeps)

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Open Letter to Our Teeny Houseguest

Dear Mister Mouse,

I would like to apologize about how our first meeting wrapped up.  It was not at all how I intended for it to end.  But then again, it was not on my agenda to meet in the first place, so I was really kind of winging it.  You should've had your people call my people to schedule a visit.

Let me applaud you on your elusive methods of getting our attention.   We were thisclose to thinking we were losing our minds.  Every time we heard the strange commotion, we would shut off the television and sit quietly to try to locate where the noise was coming from.  But you were far more experienced at this game than we were and you would clam up the minute we got quiet.  We spent a good portion of the evening playing "freeze and look suspicious" in order to narrow down your location.  I believe I could hear my heartbeat at one point.  And my need to breathe really pissed me off because I was sure that it was inhibiting my ability to hear clearly.

I have no idea when the cat got involved.  To be honest, she's really a chunky, furry, lazy-ass, so I'm surprised she chose to poke her nose in your business at all.   The first question I asked my husband when I forced him to look in that laundry room while I huddled in a ball on the couch was, "Is that cat in there?!" You can't imagine my surprise when I discovered she was with you.  "Yup.  She's here."  She may have intervened, but she kept the action to a minimum, didn't she?  I didn't hear any feline sounds coming from that room.  You could've kicked her ass with no problem.

Even thought I was completely freaked out about you running around our condo, I'm not heartless.  I really just wanted you to vacate the premises.  There's oodles of forrest land around this complex.  You looked like an industrious fella so I bet you would conquer the mouse territories with no problem.  Surely you would have been more comfortable in the wild than in our house.  We're on a diet.  There's slim pickins here.  No good eats.

I am as shocked as you probably were when Justin tried to trap you with that jumbo cat feeder (now you know why she's fat.... key word is "JUMBO")  When I heard the "uh-oh", my fear of a rodent encounter was instantly replaced with a fear for your life.  We don't have much mouse trapping experience so "we" reached for the first thing we could find.  How did we know that you would try to flee as the hollow bottomed feeder came slamming down?

I can best explain my thoughts and feelings by sharing a text conversation I had with my mother during the last moments of your life:

ME: There is something in our laundry room !!! A bat or mouse or something!!!
MOM: OH NO
(pause)
ME: It's a mouse.
ME: We have it cornered.  The cat alerted us but didn't do her job.  Of course.
MOM: I think we have a trap of you need one.
ME: Kill trap??
MOM: I think so.  ____ gave it to us.  You definitely want to get it out of your house before it gets into your kitchen and leaves little droppings.
(pause)
(this is the sad part)
ME: He is no longer with us.
ME: Accidentally murdered.
ME: Deceased
ME: Moment of silence please
ME: No poopers will be left behind now.  The poop maker is gone.
MOM: NOW.....just how did this happen????
ME: Yes, now
ME: Justin killed him by accident trying to trap him under something
(pause)
ME: I think I'm mourning  a little bit
ME: Oh jeez.  Justin just flung him toward ______'s place.  Not even a respectable burial!
(where were the condolences?)
ME: Hello?
MOM:  Oh no.....my poor granddaughter!
ME: Why???
MOM: No reason....just a crazy mother, that's all.
ME: Gee thanks. I can't imagine where I get it from
MOM: Your father, of course!

In conclusion, I'm sorry that you're dead.  I suppose it was better that you were accidentally killed by the cat feeder.  Considering the speed at which Lucky does things, it would have been a slow, torturous death if left up to the cat.  If anyone comes looking for you, I'll let them know that it was quick and painless.  I hope you're in the Great Cheese Factory in the sky, chomping away on a big fat piece of gouda or pecorino romano......or perhaps Brie if you were a fancy mouse.

Fondly,
Vicki

p.s. I'd really appreciate it if we kept it to ourselves that I was hiding behind my three year old during this experience.  She's a brave little soul, isn't she?  Totally badass.


Dear Cat,

Sorry for the slanderous statements.  There was some truth to your inactivity and lack of hunting skills.   And keep in mind that you only started liking me during the past year.  I'm really not obligated to say super nice things about you.   I'm still a little suspicious of your motives, but you're cute so I'm willing to work it out.  Next time maybe you could take care of business though?

Love (With Caution),
The female human

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