Blythe, my sweet angel child, has always been what I like to call quirky.
I have no problem with quirky – I mean, we all have our eccentricities. She does seem to be adding to the list pretty rapidly lately, but, hey. Terrible two’s, anyone?
Recently, though, when I took Blythe to work with me and she ended up randomly freaking out *understatement*, one of the other preschool teachers asked if she has sensory integration issues.
My immediate response was, “No,” but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that some of her peculiarities might actually be signs of something more serious.
Some of them include:
She ONLY sleeps through the night when her bed is made with her pink microfiber sheet.
She HAS to wear full-bodied, cotton, footed pajamas. With a zipper. It’s that, or be nu.de.
She potty trained herself because she doesn’t like diapers (certainly not complaining, there)
She needs bottles. NEEDS. They comfort her like nothing else.
She is terrified of costumes: especially wigs and feather boas. TERRIFIED.
She HATES certain colors. Asking her to touch them is like asking her to eat poop and like it.
I called our child psychologist, on a Saturday, no less and set up an appointment to get Blythe evaluated. I wonder if she regrets giving me her cell phone number, yet?
Today, we have some good news. She doesn’t think Blythe has sensory integration problems.
The tentative diagnosis? Obsessive Compulsive Disorder – OCD.
Feckity feck feck feck. ~Hey Kia, I hope you know I’m going to be all up in your grill now that both of our kids have been diagnosed. Stealing your signature “feck” is just the beginning.~
Fortunately, we already have a great relationship with our psych because of the amazing work she’s done with Alison, so I think we’re already a step ahead.
Even so, a part of me is just screaming inside, because: DUDE! Like this kid needs more issues to deal with! Aren’t the severe food allergies and the compromised immune system and the asthma and all the other things that go along with those ENOUGH, already?
*Deep breath*
It’s going to be OK. Just another bump in the road.
She’s going to be her own little version of fine.
Yes, she will. We will.
Author: Dre
*Oops, I forgot to publish this on Tuesday. See? What a day.*
Three day weekends are great and all, but if Tuesday mornings end up being like this, I’d rather just skip the holiday, thank you very much.
Warning! Bitch session begins in 3…2…1:
Last night I had a little crying bout, probably because I *ahem* went off my meds without permission and felt the need to keep Jeremy up until midnight talking about my emotional issues. He was great about it, truly. And when he started snoring I stopped talking. Eventually.
This morning my alarm *somehow* got shut off and I slept, all cozy and warm, until 15 minutes after the kids were supposed to be up. Why is it they’re up at 5 am on Saturday, but they sleep in on weekdays when I need them to get me out of bed on time?
I put in a movie and threw food at them so that I could hop in the shower. Of course I had to shave because it’s a teaching day for me, which means a skirt. And no, I won’t go hairy just because they’re preschoolers. They have a knack for not only noticing things like hairy legs and armpits, but also for asking questions about them.
Imagine this: “Hey Teacha? Why you legs got prickles? My mommy doesn’t got those, but my daddy does. Teacha, are you a boy?” Only 20 times and with a lot more snot.
Finally washed and shaved, I was getting dressed when Alison announced that Blythe pooped. She’s potty trained, so I wasn’t too worried until Blythe came in with her little sad face and said, “I had uh assident, mommy” and pointed at the poop all down her leg.
Clean clean clean… wipe wipe wipe.
And where did she poop? On the floor of her room, naturally. Glance at the clock. Holy crap, cleancleanclean-wipewipewipe.
Alison wanted her hair pink today, so I coated her ponytail with that spray on stuff for Halloween, because I am just the coolest mom on the planet. Of course once we arrived at school, Alison realized other kids were going to *gasp* notice! And talk to her! Because she had pink hair!
So I had to clean it off, and it’s not like we were early or even on time at that point.
I arrived at work only a couple of minutes late, and only a little bedraggled, and ready to face the day. Until now I’ve somehow avoided having to take the entire 2 year old class to the bathroom for a potty break, but, hey! today was as good a day as any to break me in.
Let me just say, dealing with my own kids’ poop is one thing – but other kids? I seriously had a hard time not gagging. Multiple wet pants, lots of hand washing, and I accidentally left one kid behind when we went back to class.
All three of my classes today were out of freaking control. What is it about 3 day weekends that makes kids act like complete maniacs?
Hmmmm. Maybe it’s because their mom put on a movie and threw random food at them this morning, so that she could take a shower….
One day, you’re dreaming the dream.
You’re in college, with your entire future ahead of you. You and your best friend talk about one day living in a scarcely decorated studio apartment in The City, working for some big corporation and eating sushi and escargot. The world is your oyster, and damn it tastes good.
Before you know it, you’re living the dream.
Married, driving an SUV, 2.5 kids (the .5 being your niece, whose mom is in prison for who the hell knows how long), dogs, cats, mortgage payments. You know the drill.
Meanwhile, your best friend has moved to New York City, doing all the things you stayed up all night talking about. You’re so damn happy for her, but a little part of you, the part with all the rebellious piercings, feels left behind.
Life is so vanilla bean good and sweet and everything you never knew you wanted.
And then, another day comes along and you’re filling out forms for your kid’s school and suddenly you catch yourself thinking that joining the PTO might be fun, and you realize that maybe you need a tattoo.
Or possibly, maybe, your husband could teach you to drive his motorcycle.
Something, anything, to make you feel like the girl who someday planned to take a big city by storm.
And then, your baby girl climbs into your lap and snuggles into your chest. She tells you, in her cute little toddler voice, that she loves you. Her hair smells like fruit fresh from the vine. Her chubby fingers caress your neck and as you kiss her cheek, you realize: there is no comparison to this life.
It may not be what you dreamed of. You may not be taking anything but piles of laundry by storm.
But oh, what a life it is.
And anyway, your best friend would always welcome a visit.
It’s happened again.
I’ve been roped into taking care of -and selling – another litter of AKC Lab puppies.
Oh, the cuteness.
Oh, the sweetness.
Oh the… poop. Right.
We started out with 9, and now we’re down to 4. We should be down to 3, because a lady called this morning and said she wanted to drive up from the Bay Area, Today! To get a Puppy! And could I please see her, Today! So she could get a puppy! Today!
She was so eager that I agreed, even though my parents took the kids all day so that I could help Jeremy work on a house that needs to be finished. By Tuesday. As in, two days from now, Tuesday.
“I’ll leave right now,” she said, “so I can be there by noon.”
“Ok, I can do that” I said, because, I do have some work to catch up on in the office.
People? It is 4 in the frackin afternoon.
She has not called.
She is not answering her phone.
I have left two messages.
What to do, what to do? I can’t just leave. She could be a puppy-napper.
And those are my cute, sweet, poopin’ puppies!
Categories
Neurotic Dishwashing: A Tutorial
I can’t just wash a dish and let it be, because I am a special brand of crazy.
It’s why I’d rather pick hay out of my husbands socks every day for the rest of my life than wash dishes. Why I’d prefer to scrub the diarrhea out of my child’s underwear than wash dishes. Why I’d rather pick up trash on the side of the highway than wash dishes.
Well, that might actually be going a little far.
So, people? The dosage of my meds just isn’t high enough to battle a broken dishwasher, especially not for a whole damn week. The planet, my family, and my sanity need me to have a dishwasher.
Here’s a little peek into my neurotic dish washing. Welcome to my world.
First of all: don’t even think about using a germ infested, disgusting sponge: washable dishcloths or paper towels only.
To get started, the dirty dishes must be rinsed and wiped off with a paper towel before being stacked on the counter to the right of the sink in an orderly fashion. Which means, front to back and top to bottom, with littlest items on top. First bottles, then glasses, then cups, then bowls, plates, left-over containers, pots, pans, and finally, silver wear.
After everything has been rinsed, wiped and stacked, both sinks and the counter to the left of the sink must be scrubbed until they sparkle and shine.
Next, plug up the right hand sink and fill it with scalding hot water. If you’ve got kids, you’ve probably turned your water heater down, so you’ll have to remember to crank that baby up about an hour before you do the dishes. Don’t forget to turn it back down later!
Pump in two squirts of dish soap, and start dropping in the baby’s toddler’s bottles.
While they soak for exactly five minutes, put a large towel on the left hand counter.
Thoroughly scrub the baby’s toddler’s bottles – don’t forget the bottle brush! Drop them into the sparkling clean left hand sink.
Put the next set of items into the soapy water to soak. You guessed it, for exactly five minutes.
Rinse each of the baby’s toddler’s bottles with scalding hot water exactly five times. Hang them to try on the bottle drying rack.
Continue through the rest of the groups of dishes, replacing paper towel/washable dishcloth and the lukewarm, suds-less dishwater with fresh, scalding hot, soapy water after every 2-3 groups, depending on how large they are.
Add extra hot water and a dash of earth-friendly bleach to the last group, silver wear, and let them soak for a full ten minutes before washing.
When finished, scrub the counter to the right of the sink until it sparkles and shines. Wipe out the sinks.
Pour yourself a stiff drink and liberally apply moisturizer to your scaly, wrinkly, peeling, red hands while you let the dishes air dry for a few minutes. Don’t let them sit too long, though, or some dust may land on them and you will consider them dirty.
Put your feet up, you deserve it! And hey, pretty soon it’s time to make lunch! or dinner! or snack! and then you can start the whole process over again.
If you’re lucky, your husband will pick up on your crazy pretty quickly and, since he doesn’t do it right and you won’t let him help you, he’ll offer to get a brand new dishwasher and install it himself that very day.
He is so getting lucky later. As if being married to you doesn’t make him lucky enough!