Today You Are Four

Dear Punky,

I can hardly believe that title.  Four.  It's amazing how quickly time passes.

As I sit here in complete silence, my mind can't help but drift back to your birth and the nineteen long hours of labor leading up to it.  I suppose it's normal to remember those excruciating moments every year on your birthday.  I guess it's what most moms do, no?

Even though I saved my very last vacation day of the year to have today off for your birthday, you went to school.  You wanted to go.  You wanted to bring cupcakes in for the class, and hear them sing to you, and pick a special surprise out of the birthday chest like the other kids all got to do on their birthdays.  That's okay though, I understand.  Plus, your Dad and I had big plans for the day anyway.

After we left you at school, we headed to the toy store to get you the perfect birthday present.  But things began to fall apart before we even arrived, thanks to the ultra-convenient cell phone world we live in now, and quickly spiraled downhill from there.

Your godfather was at the emergency room last night - he has bronchitis. Your Pappy is at the hospital right now - he's very sick, too.  Your godmother is sick.  Your cousins are sick. There's a big winter storm set to hit tonight. And the toy store didn't have the present we wanted in stock.

We had to cancel your birthday party for tomorrow.

I'm so sorry, Punky.  I have to break the news to you after school and I'm dreading it.  You will be so disappointed and heartbroken.  Believe me, I am, too.

But I promise, as soon as the weather breaks and everyone is feeling better, you will have the best birthday party we can manage.  And your Dad is en route right now to another toy store an hour and a half away to get you the present we planned on buying this morning.  By the time you get home from school, he'll be back.

While I have a rare window of quiet time alone, it's the perfect opportunity to write this birthday post.  Three was certainly a challenging age, for both of us, and I'm excited to see what four has in store for this year.

I know I tell you this all the time, but I really am so proud of who you are. You amaze me each and every day.  We are so very different, yet exactly alike in many ways.  I love watching you grow, and change, and laugh, and learn.  Through my eyes, this is who you are at four:

Adventurous, spontaneous, and downright daring at times.  You make my heart stop with your tendency to leap before looking, but there's never a dull moment around here.  You'll try anything once without hesitation, and twice if the first attempt is even remotely successful.  Even at this early age it's clear you'll never be a wallflower.  I admire your bravery, your spunk, and your persistence.

Intelligent, witty, and curious beyond belief.  You have yet to meet a fact you didn't memorize.  A far stretch from the typical kid your age, at your request we end each night with a series of questions before bed.  Addition, subtraction, spelling, and science are your favorite categories these days. You told me you want to know everything, and that you will when you're one hundred years old.  There's no doubt in my mind you'll get there.  I hope you always approach learning with the same hunger you have now.  You might just change the world some day.

Silly, funny, and a total giggle machine.  You love to laugh, and you love to make others laugh even more.  Our house is filled with the sweet sound of little girl giggles and the hiccups that follow shortly afterward.  I love how one tiny chuckle can totally change my mood and brighten my day instantly.  I love your silly, playful side.  I love that you can never brush your teeth without racing us to the bathroom.  I love that your socks never match your outfit when I let you choose the pair you want.  I love your silly faces, wacky dances, and funny stories.  Keep on laughing and inspiring others to laugh with you.  It sparks friendships, deepens bonds, and creates memories that last a lifetime.

Stubborn, independent, and impatient.  All typical for your age, but frustrating for your parents nonetheless.  Nothing makes you more angry than something you can't master in the first three seconds of trying.  Your independent streak runs deep, and your insistence on doing everything yourself makes us all crazy at times.  You want what you want when you want it, and have no patience when things don't go exactly how you envisioned it.  Unfortunately these traits likely stem from my half of your DNA profile, but hopefully you'll grow out of it.  At least some of it.  Maybe.

Your favorite things haven't changed much over the years.  You still love your blankie and sleep with it faithfully.  You still love macaroni and cheese, apples, pickles, and watermelon, but have recently discovered your love of chocolate (yes, my DNA as well).  Hershey kisses top your list of sweet treats these days, followed closely by candy canes and sweet tarts.  You have finally taken an interest in baby dolls and play with them more than your musical instruments lately.  I'm not sure what to make of this new trend, but the house is a hell of a lot quieter, that's for sure.

And, of course, at four you are still my favorite little girl on the planet.  Being your mom is the toughest job I've ever had, yet the most satisfying bar none.  There's no doubt we'll hit some potholes as we continue our journey down this road together, but I look forward to the bumps just as much as the moments of smooth sailing.  We will continue to learn and grow together. Just take it easy on us - your parents aren't exactly spring chickens, you know.

I love you, Julia Allyn.  

Happy fourth birthday!

Wants, Needs, and Spoiled Brats

Punky is a good kid.  Mostly.  I mean, she's three and often very good at it. She has the occasional tantrum, some typical acts of defiance, the expected exertion of her independence here and there.  But on the whole, she is a sweet, loving, polite, respectful little girl.

Until recently.

Lately she been falling more in the demanding, ungrateful, unappreciative, spoiled brat category.  Just in time for Christmas and her birthday.  And I don't know how to fix it without doing something drastic.

I've always tried to explain to Punky that she is a very lucky girl.  Granted we really don't have much and basically live paycheck to paycheck, but it's still a hell of a lot more than many people have these days.  She has food in her belly, clothes on her back, a cozy home, more than enough toys for one child, and we go places and do things regularly.  Even though she's very young, I've tried to explain the concept of money and how sometimes it's necessary to make decisions about how you spend it based on what's needed and what we can do without.  She made her first purchase with her very own money a few weeks ago, a new baby doll, and so far she treats the doll like gold.

We talk often about kids less fortunate than her.  We talk about how great it was that she participated in a trike-athon at school and raised over a hundred dollars for the sick kids at St. Jude's.  We talk about the importance of sharing with those in need, and she never passes up the opportunity to toss some spare change into a charity collection bucket, whenever I have some in my pocket that is.  

When she asks for something at the store, the answer is often no.  But sometimes it's yes, like when she's been exceptionally good, when I have the extra cash, when she asks for something educational like a book.  Up until recently, the answer didn't matter.  Either way, she was okay with it.  No arguing, no tantrums, no snotty attitude.  Lately we haven't been so lucky.  

When someone gave her something, be it a toy, or clothes, or a book from a yard sale, she would be thrilled and appreciative and always said thank-you without having to be told.  She didn't expect people to give her things, so her surprise always added to the excitement.  The last time she saw her godfather, she asked him right out if he had anything for her, like he always does, before he even had a chance to take off his coat. And I almost went through the roof.

She just started watching TV with commercials in the last few months, and now she wants everything she sees.  The ads opened a whole new world of want for her, and I don't like it one bit.  I mean, I know she's three and all, and it's not really the fact that she wants things, it's more the attitude that accompanies that want.  It's like she feels the world somehow owes her these things, and denying her them, no matter the reason, sets off a pissing, moaning, whining, groaning, stomping, yelling tantrum.  

I'm really at a loss here.  I don't know how to handle it.  I'm always as honest as I can be without burdening her with issues beyond her years.  I don't want her to act like a spoiled rotten little brat, but I don't know what else I can possibly say at this point.  If she were older, I'd drag her to a soup kitchen to help out for a day but three's a bit too young for that.  I'm at my wits end, seriously.

I suppose there's a chance she's acting totally normal for her age, and it's just a phase like the hundreds of others she's endured thus far, and it's simply something she needs to go through and grow out of over time, but I can't help my impatience.  I guess all I can do is keep reinforcing the lessons I've been trying to teach her since birth.  

She knows Christmas and her birthday are right around the corner.  And I know, as I have every year, about the wall of stuff about to hit our house and a part of me is dreading it.  I obviously want her to be happy, and I love seeing her little face light up when she gets something she's really wanted, but this time of the year is overkill on presents.  I'm not exactly sure how I'll respond if she reacts poorly to any gift she's given, or if she carries on because she didn't get something she wants, or if she doesn't like something and has the audacity to say so.  Mommy's likely to lose her shit.

This parenting stuff is hard sometimes.  It's a never-ending chain of crises and dilemmas, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.  Seems like every time I think I have it all figured out, a new problem comes out of nowhere and punches me in the gut. This one in particular really has my panties in a bunch, and even more so now since we found out today that her dad is laid off from work, effective immediately.  He thought he would be safe until after the holidays but we weren't that lucky, as usual.  Things are going to get ugly quick come January, so I suppose I should just let Punky enjoy all the spoiling she gets in the next few weeks.  We have some extremely rough months ahead of us.

November in a Nutshell

You know I suck, so I don't even have to draw attention to the fact, but I did anyway.

Here's the rest of November in a nutshell.  Well, maybe not exactly a nutshell as that implies something small and simple, and this post is destined to be my usual rambling drivel, covering seventy-five different things in a single paragraph, and qualifying me for a worst-blogger nomination.  Oh well, it is what it is.

Attitude on wheels...

So, when we left off weeks ago, I was curled up on the living room floor in anticipation of another round of Punky's projectile vomiting.  I'm happy to say it never happened, and we made the drive down state the next afternoon with no sudden eruptions from either end in the car.  My nephew's birthday party was a blast, and this experience on roller skates was much better than our first attempt a year and a half ago.  Punky was able to get around okay using the kiddie skates, and I was able to actually skate without my body feeling like I was in a car wreck the next morning.  I found out there is a tiny roller rink not far from us and we plan to spend some time there this winter when there's nothing to do but watch the snow fall.

The following weekend, Punky and I spent hours sorting through all her toys as we've done every November thus far.  There just isn't enough room to keep everything, and saving things she hardly plays with is a complete waste of space.  We managed to weed out most of the remaining baby toys quite easily, and then we turned our attention to the massive collection of stuffed animals taking over our house.

Punky calls them her "guys" and, quite honestly, she does play with each and every one of them.  But some much more than others, and those others needed to go.  I started by offering her two at a time and asking her to pick which one she would like to keep.  I tried to make it easy on her by pairing one of her favorites with one that resides at the bottom of her toy box most of the time.  Using this method we successfully lowered her stuffed animal count by almost half, and that made for a very happy mommy.  Mostly.  I lost it a bit when Punky insisted that we both kiss each one goodbye as we stuffed them in a bag to donate.  As she told every dust magnet how much she loves him, and how much she'll miss him, and how much she hopes he finds a new home, my eyes filled with tears again and again.  And I couldn't be more proud of my little girl.

After the toy sort, we focused on cleaning the house from top to bottom. For one, it really needed it, but the fact that we decided to host Thanksgiving dinner here really motivated us into action.  My family made the drive up Thursday morning, and Punky's brothers also came with their girlfriends.  In all we had twelve people for dinner which was ready only a half hour later than planned.  Not bad for our first attempt at preparing the feast.  In typical holiday fashion, I ate way too much and gained over three pounds that weekend.  We're still not sure if we will see my family for Christmas this year, so it was nice to spend Thanksgiving together since we haven't done so in years.  Everyone left before six that evening, and the three of us were in bed and asleep by nine-thirty.  Aside from being exhausted from the whole holiday experience, we needed to get up at the crack of dawn on Friday.

Merry Christmas!

No, not for shopping.  Only crazy people brave the stores on Black Friday. We needed to be up and out early so Punky could make her parade debut. My company asked if she and I would be interested in riding on their float in the annual holiday parade in the city, and I knew Punky would be super-excited about it.  We wore matching fleeces, scarves, and Santa hats, and spent the morning waving to the crowds as our float made its way through the streets.  It was really cold and Punky's attention span lapsed about half way through the route, but it was still a fun way to spend the morning and kick off the holiday season.

Once we managed to bring our core temperatures back up to normal at home, it was time to tackle the decorating.  We spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening trimming the tree and decking the halls.  Punky's godfather came up that night and helped us with the window lights and setting up my huge snowman collection, and on Saturday we hit the stores to tackle more Christmas shopping.

Our tree

That night I finished all the wrapping.  Santa isn't taking any chances with a sneaky three-year-old in the house.  I wanted it all wrapped so that if by chance she manages to get into the spare closet and catch glimpse, I could say they are the presents we bought for her cousins and hopefully the explanation will suffice.  Punky's smart.  Really, really smart.  And I can say without a doubt the whole Santa thing isn't going to last much longer.  I think will get through this year by dodging some questions and/or lying through our teeth, but I bet the jig will be up next year when she's about to turn five.  I was over Santa by that age, too.  It simply wasn't logical to me.  There were too many conflicting stories.  And no one was going to tell me any man was squeezing through our tiny Franklin fireplace with a bag full of presents. Screw magic, I wasn't buying it.  And then, of course, I filled my little sister in on it.

So now, we wait.  December is looking like an extremely busy month so time will go quickly.  I'd say I'm ninety-five percent done shopping.  We will be making a trip home mid-month for my family's annual Pollyanna Christmas party, and I'm excited to go since I miss it most years because it's held where people have dogs and cats in the house.  This is only the second time in five years that we will be attending.  Oh, and the night before I am going to my sister's company Christmas party.  She asked me to go and I'm looking forward to a night out.  I never get those.  Ever.  It sounds like it will be a blast, and I already anticipate a bit of a hangover the next morning.  I haven't had one of those in years either, and with all the stress life's tossed my way as of late, I think the headache will be totally worth it.

Waiting and Watching

Punky is on the right side of the couch, peacefully asleep for now.

I'm on vomit watch for the next few hours.

In round one she managed to get the carpet in one long, nasty streak from the living room, up the hallway, and into the bathroom.  After dozing off for about an hour, she soaked the left side of the couch in round two, right through the towels I stockpiled under her.

So, I suppose I have some time to kill while I enjoy my Lysol high and wait for the inevitable round three.  And for the washer full of puke towels to stop so I can get them into the dryer.

I'm always whining that I never have time to write, so I may as well take this opportunity to bombard you with random tidbits of shit I would've written about in the last few weeks if I had the tiniest ounce of self-discipline and determination.

Let's see, where to start?

The election?  Meh.  Politics aren't usually my thing but what the hell.

Truth is, I really don't have many positive things to say about either candidate.  One is a financial disaster, the other a social disaster.  In my opinion, the lesser of the two evils won in the end.  As I explained it to Punky, my uterus is happy but my piggy bank is scared.

All I know is this: if we stand any chance at fixing this country and healing all that ails it, politicians need to spend less time worrying about gay marriage and what women do with their reproductive systems.  Their beliefs on such issues are rooted in the teachings of their religions and therefore have no place for debate in a country that was founded on the very principle of separation of church and state.  And one way or another, everyone deserves to have health insurance.  Period.

Sandy?  Wow.  She packed quite a punch.  We weren't really affected here, aside from some strong winds and rain for a few days, but the devastation on the coast is horrific.  While I am in no way, shape, or form a beach person, I do love the boardwalks of the Jersey coast, especially Atlantic City. My sister inherited my mom's taste for a nightly glass of wine; I inherited her love of an occasional jaunt to a casino.  In the last few years I haven't really had the time or the finances to indulge much, but I have some great memories of the yearly trips we used to make to AC on Black Friday.  We gambled while the rest of the country shopped.  It was our thing and I really miss those trips.  I wish all the devastated areas a speedy recovery.

My weight?  Holding steady.  I bounce between 133 and 138 and haven't really had any issues with maintenance.  I try to stay on the lower end of calorie intake during the week, and then eat what I want on the weekends. So, the scale reading tends to be the highest on Monday morning, and the lowest on Friday.  It's a great balance and really works for me.

My back?  On the whole, much better.  But it's still not quite right.  I haven't returned to the chiropractor since that last painful rib-muscle-stretching visit. I was sore for weeks afterward.  I haven't started working out again, and I've decided to wait until after the holidays.  I'm thinking the beginning of February.  It will give my back a bit more time to heal but still leave me plenty of time to get in shape for summer.

Finances?  Yuck.  A sore topic around here.  The switch in Punky's dad's schedule has impacted us just like I thought it would.  Things are tight, but we are getting by and making ends meet for the most part.  This Christmas will pale in comparison to last year, that's for sure.  Since my whole family is in the same boat, we've agreed to focus on the kids and skip the gift exchange between the adults.  I've already finished my niece and nephew, and we're about 90% done with Punky.  I even wrapped about half of what I've bought thus far.  So, I think we'll weather the holidays okay.  The most important thing is that the kids have a great Christmas.  But it's going to get even uglier come January.

Unfortunately Punky's dad is facing a massive layoff after the holidays. Company wide, the "safe" date has been rolled back to a hire date in 1984. It's very likely he'll be off for an extended period of time, and we'll be forced to make some extremely hard decisions.  Should we sell the camper we only used twice and enjoyed so very much this summer?  Should we break our contract and pull Punky out of school?  There's no way we'll afford it with him on unemployment, but it will be a great disservice to Punky.  She's so smart, so advanced, and she absolutely loves school in the pre-K class this year. Should one or both of us look into picking up a second job now instead of waiting until we we hit rock bottom?  We're rolling with the punches for now. My stomach turns just thinking about it.

There, the washer has stopped and the puke towels are clean and in the dryer.

This week was rough for Punky in terms of illness.  We've really been luck this fall, so I guess we were due for some shit.  She woke up with a low fever on Saturday, and as the day progressed it climbed higher and took her cranky meter with it.  After eating a banana as a snack before bed, she told me her throat hurt when she swallowed.  I grabbed a flashlight and was horrified by the puss bubbles lining the back of her throat.

Thankfully our pedi office has weekend hours in case of emergency.  I was convinced she had strep so we made a Sunday morning jaunt to the doctor. The rapid strep test came back negative and she told us that most of the puss-filled sore throats they've been seeing are viral in nature and it simply needed to run its course.  She was still too sick to go to school on Monday, so her dad stayed with her in the morning and then I came home after lunch so he could go to work.

She was still slightly feverish on Tuesday but otherwise fine so we sent her to school.  Come Wednesday I missed another half day of work because they decided to close the daycare at one o'clock.  All the teachers were sick and they didn't legally have enough available staff left to stay open.  When I took her to school this morning, the daycare director told me most of the teachers had respiratory things, possibly even the flu, but she had the stomach flu and spent twenty-four hours with diarrhea and vomiting.

Guess which one Punky picked up?  I suppose it's the better of the possibilities.  It's the messier one, that's for sure, but it's over relatively quickly with very little chance of major complications or hospitalization.

I am so relieved that I already have a vacation day scheduled for tomorrow because otherwise I'd be calling off again, but the reason I'm off is because we are headed down state for my nephew's birthday party this weekend. Punky and I both have an appointment for desperately needed haircuts tomorrow evening, so were were planning on hitting the road relatively early tomorrow morning.

All I can do now is wait to see how she is tomorrow.  There's no way I'm making a two and a half our drive with a pukey kid who has the potential for explosive diarrhea at any moment.  She's still asleep and I don't dare move her.  I'm not stirring up her remaining stomach contents, if there's even anything left in her tiny belly.  I guess I'm looking at a night spent sleeping on the living room floor.  My back won't appreciate it, but I won't leave her alone in case she vomits in her sleep again like last round.

It's been over two hours since that last bout and I suppose I should try to get some rest while the getting is good.  Here's to hoping her dad and I escape catching this crap, and that this is the end of pukefest 2012.

Halloween Shortcake

When I glance at the number of posts I've actually managed to complete this year, it's terribly disappointing.  But, on the bright side, my lack of time and diligence means you are spared some of the yearly bitching and moaning about things like the upcoming cold winter and my utter hatred of Halloween. So, with that in mind, I'll keep it short(cake) and sweet.

By mid-September, I started pushing Punky to decide what she wanted to be for Halloween.  I wanted to avoid the last-minute, desperate search we had last year.  If it were up to me we'd skip celebrating the holiday entirely, but being a good mommy means sucking it up and pretending to be excited about costumes, pumpkins, ghosts, and going to strangers' homes begging for miniature candy bars.  Okay, I actually enjoy that last one.  The chocolate, not the strangers.

Her first choice for a costume was a mouse.  Not Minnie.  Not Mickey.  Not even Jerry or Mighty.  Just a plain, ordinary mouse.  Why, you ask?  I have no clue.  She has no mice stuffed animals.  She never talks about mice.  We haven't had mice in the house.  I have no idea how she came up with the idea but it sounded simple enough.  Surely I could find a mouse costume somewhere, right?  Easy-peasy.

Wrong.  I spent hours web surfing every costume site I could find and came out empty-handed.  Most didn't have any mice, and the ones that did were sold out already.  Apparently rodents were very popular this year.  If you have an inkling as to why, please fill me in 'cause I definitely feel like I missed something.

Punky was disappointed but she quickly forgot the mouse idea when she saw a witch costume at the store.  She truly had no interest in being a witch for the sake of being a witch.  I mean, witches are scary and she doesn't like scary, but this particular witch costume had lights sewn into the fabric and she was captivated by their twinkle.  In hindsight I should have bought it and been done with it, but I wanted to think on it a bit.  When I returned to the store a week later, it was gone.  And so, I had to disappoint my child once again.

Choice number three left me just baffled as the first two: a pig.  She wanted to be a pig.  Again, not Miss Piggy, not Olivia, and not even Peppa.  Just a plain, ordinary pig.  I found myself back on the internet in search of the perfect pig costume but, as it turns out, pigs are almost as elusive as mice.  I found plenty of adorable pig costumes for babies, but only two for kids Punky's age and they were just about the ugliest pigs I have ever seen.  How could I put my beautiful, little girl in an ugly pig costume?  It just didn't seem right.

When I broke the bad news about her third choice, I seriously think she wanted to punch me.  I wanted to punch something, too.  I was beyond frustrated and I needed to put an end to it once and for all.  For the next hour she sat with me in front of the computer as I bounced from site to site showing her the options.  There was no giving up.  I was determined to order her a costume.  Something.  Anything.  I think I would've agreed to a cardboard box at that point.  I just wanted it done so I didn't have to spend any more time and energy on the great costume hunt of 2012.

We managed to find a handful of really cute costumes, but getting her to make a final decision was like pulling teeth.  All of a sudden she morphed into a shopping diva and my patience was running dangerously low.  She was getting tired, hungry, and bored, and I had to pee so bad I was about to explode, but nobody was moving until I had something in the cart, dammit. It was a battle of wills, I tell you, and mommy wasn't caving.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we had a winner:

Despite the itchy wig and freezing temperatures, she had a blast hitting the town and collecting her treats.  She was thrilled with her costume and, if I have to say so myself, she was the cutest Strawberry Shortcake ever.  The real kicker is that she isn't even into Strawberry Shortcake, at least no more than mice, witches, and pigs.  She simply baffles me sometimes, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

Somewhere around the middle of May, when I was deep into my kickboxing workout videos, I heard a distinct pop in my pelvis.  Over the next few weeks, kicking with my right leg caused a clicking sound in my hip.  Because I'm not always so bright, I solved the problem by easing up on the kickboxing and switching to strength/cardio workouts instead.  No clicking, no issues.

By mid-June I started having some mild back discomfort.  Some days were worse than others, but I never had any extreme pain.  Just an annoying twinge here and there, usually more noticeable in the morning after spending seven hours sleeping on my right side.  Not about to let anything derail my mission, I continued to ignore it and went about my business.

I stopped working out in the middle of August.  When my mom came to visit with my niece and nephew for a few days, I reached to catch one of kids coming down the slide at the pool and felt a sharp burning pain under my right shoulder blade.  Even though it was a one time thing, I figured I better give my back a break and stop the strenuous workouts.  As the weeks passed, it was no better but also no worse.  I would be really achy when I first got out of bed, but once I got moving it was okay and I'd feel the occasional twinge throughout the day.  I was finally smart enough to find a new chiropractor in the middle of September.

Years ago, when I couldn't even stand up straight because of the knot in the middle of my back, my previous employer forced me to see a chiropractor.  The mere thought made me want to vomit.  I couldn't handle the sound of my own knuckles cracking, and the idea of someone else popping and snapping my bones into place simply scared the shit out of me.  But, as long as I live, I'll never forget the way I felt after that first visit with Dr. Poole.

I suppose I was a bit hard on my body.  Years of gymnastics and cheerleading surely took a toll.  Then pile on years of working in front of a computer with far less than perfect posture.  My whole body tingled after my first visit with Dr. Poole.  I no longer felt like someone was stabbing me in the back when I tried to stand up straight.  I felt completely different.  Taller, even.  Strange, but true.  I saw her regularly for a few weeks until she was sure all my bones were staying in place, and then every three months on average I would return for a tune up when I started to feel a bit off.

About six months after Punky's birth, I went in for my first realignment post-pregnancy.  She warned that carrying a baby around would probably lead to more frequent visits, but that was fine with me.  I was no longer afraid of the cracking and popping, and I always felt brand new afterward.  

Then something terrible happened a few weeks later.  Dr. Poole was walking her dogs one evening after work and suffered a massive heart attack.  She passed away almost instantly on the sidewalk in her neighborhood before anyone could even try to help.  And so ended my regular chiropractor visits.  I trusted her, and only her, and I wasn't in the least bit interested in finding a replacement.  

Over the last few years, I've gone from lugging a ten-pound infant around to toting a thirty-pound three-year-old.  Our terrible mattress had gotten progressively worse.  I've continued to work forty hours a week in front of a computer.  My February brainstorm to lose weight and get fit by literally working my ass, and belly, off with Jillian Micheals videos was apparently the straw that broke the camel's back.  

I like the new guy.  He's surely no Dr. Poole, but he's nice enough and I'm not terrified to go there.  His initial assessment revealed exactly what I thought: my hips were completely out of alignment.  The muscles running up the right side of my spine were all scrunched up and pulling the intercostal muscles between my ribs.  As a result, two of my ribs managed to twist which exposed their sharp bottom edges and led to the discomfort I was feeling.  Sounds logical, right?

It took four visits to get my hips to stay where they are supposed to be, and a fifth visit to confirm they hadn't moved.  That was almost two weeks ago, but I had to go back today for visit number six.  He tapped my ribs into place a few times, but he didn't corrected them once my pelvis finally settled and my back was still bothering me.  He thought it would get better on its own, but that wasn't the case.  So today, he attempted to stretch the muscles between my ribs before getting his spring-loaded metal mallet thingy and untwisting the bones.  It was extremely painful and I know I will be incredibly sore for days.

But here's the thing:  I'm scared.  Really scared.  It's just not getting better.  I still don't have any extreme pain, but something isn't right.  And I'm terrified at the possibilities.  I haven't been sleeping.  I haven't been eating.  And I haven't been all too pleasant to be around lately.  I know if this doesn't work, x-rays are the next step.  My stomach turns when I think about the things they may reveal.

I want to feel better.  I want to get back to being active.  I want to continue my journey to a healthier me.

Here's to hoping things return to normal soon.  The worst case scenario is all I can think about, and I'm driving myself crazy.

Bewildering Blues

If nothing else, this post will demonstrate both my utter lack of fashion and just how far out of the loop I've been for at least a decade.

When the warm, summer days bid farewell few weeks ago, I found myself in a bit of a predicament.  All it took was one rainy, fifty-something degree Saturday for me to realize I was in trouble and facing the chilly autumn season naked from the waist down.  Over the past few months I managed to give away every single pair of jeans I owned because none of them fit, and I had yet to replace them.  I had a choice of either freezing in shorts or being over-dressed in work clothes for my trip to the grocery store that day. Given that regular leg shaving tends to directly correlate with the average outside temperature, my decision was obvious.  Plus I hate to be cold.

The time had finally come to face the inevitable: jeans shopping.  Since my August post I lost an additional four pounds, bringing the grand total to forty-two.  I'm not exactly sure how I managed to pull that off since I haven't worked out the last eight weeks (more on that in the next post), but I officially reached my goal weight and I was ready to face the dressing room mirror.  In fact, that turned out to be the easy part.

I stood in front of the massive jeans display like I just landed on foreign soil and didn't speak the language.  When the hell did buying a pair of jeans get so complicated?  I tried so hard to remember the last time I bought some and slowly arrived at the conclusion it had probably been roughly ten years. Pathetic, eh?  All I know is that last purchase, whenever it was, was a simple transaction: grab correct size off the rack, head to cashier, go home.  Jeans were simply, well, jeans.  

I stared at the full wall of denim before me and tried to make sense of it all. The display was designed like a giant spreadsheet, with banner headers announcing styles/cuts at the top and size ranges/rise ranges/length ranges filling the cells below.  To my dismay, none of the signs read plain, old jeans. I had no clue where to even start.  What the hell is a bootcut skinny mid-rise. Or a straight average low-rise?  Or a classic-rise skinny boyfriend?  That last one made me giggle.  But seriously, last time I bought jeans the size wasn't preceded by six other adjectives.  It made my head spin.

So, I did what I imagine any old, clueless, fashion-ignorant woman would do: I grabbed as many pairs as I could carry and headed to the dressing room. With all the different styles available, I wasn't even sure what size would fit.  I decided on an analytical approach and got busy trying on pair after pair.  I pulled a small tablet from my purse and took notes as I worked through the various options, checking off what I liked and scratching what I didn't, just hoping to end up with the formula for the perfect pair of jeans.

This should probably go without saying, but as lost as I was in this new-world jeans experience I dared to attempt it: c-section rolls and low-rise jeans do not mix.  It was downright embarrassing.  Even if I stood perfectly still, the roll slowly inched its way upward and right out the top.  It was ugly.  And I have to say, even without the mommy pouch I have no clue how any woman can wear them without constantly feeling like they will slide right down at any second.  

Start to finish, it took just under an hour to reach the checkout line with two pairs of jeans that were the right size, right style, right length, right rise, and right color for me, and I learned a ton of new vocabulary in the process.  I left feeling both educated and exhausted, but smugly satisfied with my size eight jeans in tow.  

Punky's Houseguest

When I arrived at school to pick Punky up last Monday, she was across the room playing with her friends.  I headed to her cubby to get her crap together and found a backpack in it that didn't belong to us.  Just as I turned to tell a teacher about it, Punky came zipping across the room at top speed.

"Mommy! Mommy! I get to go first! I'm the first one that gets to take Sloppy Joe home! Look, Mommy! Look at his backpack!"

I stood there dumbfounded as her teachers tried to contain their laughter and fill me in on the joke.  I obviously missed something.

Finally, Miss Jackie said, "His name is Jungle Joe, not Sloppy Joe, and he's all yours for the next week.  He's in the backpack with all his things.  Just remember to write in his journal before bringing him back next Monday!"

Punky was dying to open the backpack and show me Jungle Joe, but I made her wait until we got home.  The backpack weighed a ton.  I couldn't imagine what the hell was stuffed in there.  I really hoped Jungle Joe was not a living, breathing animal of some sort.

As soon as we got in the door, Punky dumped the entire contents of Jungle Joe's backpack out on the couch.  I was relieved to see that J.J. was just a little stuffed bear in a safari outfit, and boy did he have the stuff.  A flashlight, cellphone, blanket, story books, toothbrush, and extra outfits were just some of the things crammed in the backpack, but most of the weight came from the journals stuffed in the bottom of the bag.

As it turns out, the pre-K class at the daycare has been taking J.J. home for years, and all of his visits and adventures have been documented by the parents.  Some wrote daily diary-like entries; others wrote only once at the end of his visit.  Some included photos of their kids with J.J.; others had the kids draw a picture of him.  Some were neat and well-written; some were sloppy and rushed.  But as I started reading back through years past, I was amazed at all the places the stuffed animal has been and the sheer number of kids that had the experience of taking him home.  

While I lost myself in reading the adventures of Jungle Joe, Punky showed him the ropes.  She gave him the grand tour of our tiny house.  She showed him both bathrooms in case he needed to pee during his week-long stay. She showed him the pantry so he knew where to get a snack if he got hungry. She showed him nearly all of her toys, one by one, so he could find things to play with if he got bored.  

For the next seven days, she toted him everywhere.  He was within arms reach at all times.  Whatever she did, he did, too.  She brushed his teeth every morning and night.  She snuggled him close at bedtime and made sure he had his special blanket to sleep.  She talked to him, sang to him, and told him stories.  They watched cartoons, colored pictures, and played musical instruments.  He even accompanied us on a trip down state this weekend to visit family.  And, when we sat down last night to write the story of their week together in his journal, she cried because she didn't want to take him back to school today.

"But I'll miss him so much, Mommy!" she muttered through her sobs.  "I won't be able to play with him anymore!  I'm so sad, I can't stop crying, Mommy!"

From reading his journals, I was able to offer her a bit of comfort.  It seemed like every kid had two turns to take J.J. home each school year, so I assured her that he would visit us again soon but she needed to wait until it was her turn again.  Once she finally stopped crying, I finished the journal entry and taped a picture of them in the book.  After she fell asleep with Jungle Joe last night, I packed all his things in his backpack and set in next to her school bag.  
When she first brought him home last week, I wasn't exactly sure what, if anything, she was supposed to learn from the experience, but now I can easily list about ten lessons that can be learned and/or reinforced through a week with Jungle Joe.  What a clever idea.  The little fuzz ball and his two-ton backpack are welcome here anytime.  Punky's already looking forward to his next visit.

Three and Three Quarters

Punky started her pre-K class the beginning of this month.  So far, she is doing really well.  She is so proud to be one of the big kids, and I love hearing her daily report on all the fun things they do in class.  She has her own tool box stocked with crayons, pencils, glue, scissors, and other miscellaneous craft supplies.  She has learned to write her name on all her papers.  She absolutely beams when she gets to be the line leader or the one who passes out papers to the class.  

There's no doubt in my mind that we made the right choice by letting her move to this class a year ahead of schedule.  She's definitely holding her own with the older kids, in fact the teacher told me Punky is currently helping her teach the others the letter sounds.  Even though there are only eleven kids in the class, they added another teacher in the room which really allows for individual attention.  It's especially great news for Punky because a teacher has time to take a lesson a step further for her since she already knows much of the core material.  And, as always, she's soaking it all up like a sponge.

Punky is now at the age where she's asking to do things, and the hardest decision for us will be deciding what, where, and how we can even pull it off. She wants to take karate.  She wants to take dance lessons.  She wants to be a gymnast.  She wants to learn how to really play too many instruments to type.  She wants to go to friends' houses and have them visit ours.  All of those things take time and/or money, neither of which we have very much of these days.

Enrolling her in any activities will be especially challenging given where we live. We are at least twenty minutes away from anything, and most of those activities would require a good half-hour drive.  On weeknights, I'm lucky to be home by five-thirty.  Getting her to a dance class that starts at six will be nearly impossible.  Not to mention that we're heading into winter and bad roads will only further complicate things.  I told her to wait until after her birthday in December, and then she can pick one activity to try.  I think karate will be her first choice.  We'll see come January.

There is another new phenomenon in her world: TV commercials.  Ninety-nine percent of her television experience thus far has been commercial-free kids channels, but now she's getting into shows on other networks that don't have the same policy.  Plus, her favorite channel of all has recently abandoned its pledge and now suddenly allows advertisements.  What this means to Punky is an eyeful of toys and games she never knew existed, and a Christmas list a mile long with months yet to go.  I guess it was bound to happen sooner of later, and I guess it's good for us to have an idea of what she's thinking so we aren't speechless like last year when it's time to write her letter to Santa.  

We managed to sneak in one final trip to Knoebel's two weeks ago.  I found an envelope full of ride tickets, and my sister brought a cooler full of food, so it didn't cost us much beyond the gas to get there.  Punky was so surprised, especially since I told her the park was closed for the season.  It wasn't a lie, honest.  I really thought it closed after Labor Day.  She was thrilled to have one more day at an amusement park before winter arrives.  She's a ride junkie, no doubt about it.  I really hope she's tall enough to do some of the bigger rides next year.  She's dying to tackle a real roller coaster.  That's my girl.

Sometimes I look at her and simply can't believe how fast the time has gone. She seems so grown up, so independent, so damn smart.  Like she hardly even needs me anymore.  She can feed herself, dress herself, wipe herself, and entertain herself.  When she wants a drink, she gets it.  When she's tired of TV, she turns it off.  When she's bored she bounces from one activity to another, destroying the house and leaving a trail of toys in her wake.  But eventually something happens and she wants or needs my help, and all seems right with the world again.  

Spontaneous Combustion

Without a doubt, the worst class I had in college was Sociology 101.  Yes, it was even more painful than the public speaking course required for all majors.  It wouldn't have been so bad if I had gotten the memo about Dr. Armstrong.  Apparently most students knew better and avoided his classes like the plague, hence the mounds of seats still available when I was finally able to schedule my classes for that semester.  I thought I was just lucky.

Dr. Armstrong was obnoxious, intimidating, and in some respects he conducted his class like an elementary school teacher.  He closed, and locked, the classroom door at exactly 8:00.  If you were late, you were shit out of luck and marked absent for the day.  After all, he was a very important man and he would not tolerate any interruptions once he began speaking.  There was no eating or drinking allowed in his class, and gum chewers faced the humiliation of wearing it on their nose, a consequence I hadn't encountered since the sixth grade.  There was no chatting, no slouching, and no looking anywhere but directly at him while he lectured for ninety minutes straight with barely a pause to breathe.  Unless, of course, someone broke one of his rules.  Then his usual condescending tone became even more so as he went out of his way to make a fool of the offender.

He assigned a new chapter at the end of each Tuesday's class, and then every Thursday we faced a brutal quiz: one essay question from a 50-60 page textbook chapter before any of the material was even discussed in class.  He graded them on a scale from one to ten, but he never gave tens because nobody's perfect.  And nines were next to perfect so no one got those either.  By midterm, I was dangerously close to failing the course. Between the fives and sixes I was averaging on the quizzes and the shocking C I managed to score on the midterm exam, I was in big trouble.  I needed a new plan.  A different approach.  A way to beat this all-knowing professor at his own game.

I bought a tape recorder.

Go ahead and laugh, but it was a long time ago and students weren't carrying laptops to class back then.  I used the only technology available at the time, and it paid off big time.  For the rest of the semester, I diligently recorded his classes from start to finish.  Even though I continued to pull mediocre quiz scores, my sights were set on the big picture.  I was going to ace the final exam come hell or high water - partly because I really didn't want a D on my record, but mostly because it was the ultimate way to shut up Dr. Almighty.

The format of the exam was four essay questions, of which we had to answer three.  I was determined to figure out what the questions would be. The week leading up to the final, I spent every night in the basement of my dorm, all alone in the dark, listening to the tapes of his lectures over and over again.  What did he stress?  What was he most passionate about?  What did he talk about the longest?  I settled on four potential questions with the hope of having three actually show up on the test, and then wrote my answers out ahead of time and committed them to memory.

I couldn't help the tiny squeal the escaped my throat when my eyes first saw the exam.  All four of my prepared questions were on the test, so I was able to eliminate the one I liked least.  I spent the next two hours spitting his words back to him verbatim, just as he said them in class.  Just as I heard them over and over again on the tapes.  Just as I had written them out the night before.

As I walked to his class for the last time, I practiced my argument in my head.  There was no way I was settling for less than an A on the exam and I was fully prepared to challenge him, even if it meant playing my class tapes for the Dean.  In true Armstrong style, he launched into a half-hour lecture before finally passing out the test scores, and with each passing moment my heart rose further into my throat.  His lecture that day was all about how only one person in the entire class managed to understand a damn word he said all semester.  One golden student who paid attention and digested the material.  The class simply wasn't worth the time for the other students. Nothing landed in their heads.  He wasted his breath on the lectures.  He normally doesn't give A's because nobody's perfect, but one student's essays were so far above the rest that he had to make an exception this semester. And he thought it only fair to acknowledge that student in front of the rest of the class.

So I got an A on the final exam, with a side of public humiliation at no extra charge, and I ended up with a B as my final grade for the class.  As a student that normally got A's with little effort , I have to say I'm more proud of that B than any A I ever got.  I walked away from Dr. Armstrong's class with the satisfaction of knocking him down a peg, if only for a brief moment, and I learned to ask around about professors before blindly scheduling future semesters.

In terms of actual subject material, almost twenty years later there is only one thing I remember from his class.  For whatever reason, I took one particular lesson to heart and it stuck with me all these years.  According to the infallible Dr. Armstrong, the difference between blue-collar and white-collar parenting can be summed up in one four-word phase:  Because I said so.

He claimed it perfectly illustrated the difference in mentality in the approach to child-rearing found between those with and without higher education.  Blue-collar parents think their children should respect them simply because they are the parents and saying 'no' requires no further explanation.  White-collar parents, on the other hand, teach their children to think about the consequences of their actions by providing explanations beyond 'because I said so.'

While I'm sure his assessment isn't one hundred percent accurate, I found it close when I applied it to the various families I've been exposed to over the years.  I'm from a 'because I said so' family myself, with an occasional scare tactic thrown in for good measure.  When I got my period for the first time at the ripe old age of eleven, and sat on the edge of the bed in tears because there was blood gushing from somewhere deep inside my body and exiting through a hole I never really knew existed and it felt like someone was stabbing my abdomen with a rusty butcher knife and I would surely be dead by morning, my mom's explanation went something along the lines of  "This means you can now get pregnant, and if you get pregnant before you're married, your father and I will disown you."  It would've helped if she explained exactly how that could happen.  When I had my first real kiss nearly two years later, I cried for two weeks because I thought I was pregnant and soon to be homeless.  I even packed a few things just in case.

I'm not saying my parents were bad parents, they just parented the way their parents did before them, but Dr. Armstrong's lecture on child-rearing stuck a deep chord with me long before I even considered having a child of my own.  I don't want Punky to avoid situations because she's scared, I want her to avoid them because she understands what can happen if she doesn't. I don't want her to stop doing something simply because I told her to stop and my word is the be all and end all of her world, I want her to ask why so I can explain the reasons behind my words.  I want to earn her respect instead of demanding it simply because I'm her mother.  I want to guide her to make good decisions in life by educating her, not by demanding her obedience because I'm the parent and I said so.

I've made a conscious effort over the last three and a half years to try and explain why I tell her the things I do.  I can't say I've never slipped and spewed a 'because I said so' ever, I mean, I'm not perfect and some days she's as challenging as all hell.  But, I try my best to always provide at least one simple statement as to why I feel the way I do, and I try to be as honest as possible without painting her a horrific picture of blood, guts, and gore.

So, now I can finally get to the point of this entire long-winded post.

While I have to admit she is doing surprisingly well with the switch to a five-day school week that starts each morning at six-thirty, Punky was being particularly difficult this morning.  She was supposed to be eating her waffle while I was getting dressed, but I returned to the kitchen to find a mere two bites gone.  I told her she only had a few minutes left to eat, or she will have to wait until they serve breakfast as school.  I headed to the bathroom once again, and called her a few minutes later to come and get ready for school. And again a minute later.  And again a minute later.  And again a minute later.

Once she finally arrived in the bathroom to make her morning pee, I went back to the kitchen to get my lunch ready for work.  When I returned to the bathroom two minutes later, she was gone.  She was hiding in my bed, under the covers, giggling her little tush off.  She hadn't even peed yet.  This time I supervised her toilet time, and we headed to her room to get dressed.

By the time we both got back to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair, we had exactly three minutes until we needed to pull out of the driveway.  Of course, she arrived without her pants, the ones I just put on her thirty seconds earlier, so we lost another minute on the re-do.  When I finally handed her the toothbrush, she dropped it and left a hot-pink blob of bubble gum toothpaste on my light green bathroom rug.  As I knelt to clean it up, my eyes caught a glimpse of the clock.  I was now likely to be late for work, and my patience was just about shot.

By no means did I yell, but my tone was surely stern as I began to rant about the morning's events.  

"Punky, I let you sleep as long as I can in the morning.  That means when it's time to get up, you need to get moving.  There is no time for messing around.  You need to eat your breakfast and get ready for school when I say so, or else I need to start waking you up even earlier if you insist on goofing off.  This schedule is already hard on the both of us, let's not make it even worse.  Mommy can't be late for work every day because you don't listen to me.  My boss would be really mad.  I might even get fired and we certainly can't afford that right now."

She immediately burst into tears.  I mean real waterworks.  Crying so hard I could barely understand what she was saying.  I was in complete shock.  I had no idea what I said to upset her so much.  Finally I managed to calm her down enough to decipher her words.

"Mommy? If you're late for work, will I be on fire, too?"

Apparently she thought I would burst into flames if I walked into work a minute late, and she might as well by default since I blatantly blamed her for my tardiness.

Needless to say, it took me another ten minutes to calm her down and get out the door.  I spent the five-minute drive to school apologizing profusely and explaining the definition of the word 'fired' in the context of employment. In the end, I was twenty minutes late for work but, lucky for me, my boss got a big kick out of Punky's theory of spontaneous combustion.

Summer's End

Well, I suppose it's over.  The hot, fun days of summer are gone and we're left to dread the dark, cold months ahead.  Okay, I'll spare you the total rant and rave post this year but you're welcome to go back and re-read previous ones, you know, in case you've forgotten how much I absolutely adore this time of year.

Our final camping trip of the year was a success, meaning we got there and back without losing the camper at 60 mph on the highway.  Incident free, just the way I like it.  No major boo-boos, no gross insects inside the camper, and no ticks found on Punky this trip.  We got one on her at the campground in June but thankfully it hadn't embedded itself yet.  I spent that night itching and scratching, tossing and turning, and dowsing every inch of our bodies and belongings with bug repellent.

Rockin' Out!

The weather was perfect on Friday and Saturday, which gave Punky some much desired pool time.  She enjoyed swimming so much this summer and I know she'll really miss it in the months ahead.  I'm going to miss it, too.  We also spent some time at the playground, her second favorite spot at the campground.  She loves it there and already can't wait to go back next summer.

The owners hosted plenty of activities for the Labor Day weekend crowd.  On Saturday morning we spent over an hour painting ceramics and I was painfully reminded of just how much I truly suck at anything remotely artistic. The kids had paint everywhere, globs of it, but they had a blast.  We missed the t-shirt dying event in the afternoon because we opted for swimming instead, but we went to the cash bingo later that evening.  I thought Punky's attention span would last a bit longer than it did because she knows her numbers and could play her own card with help, but she quickly became discouraged when she wasn't winning.

On Sunday we left the campground to go to the annual family corn roast for a few hours.  As always, there was great food, good conversations, and lots of laughter.  But this year there was also a somber undertone as people shared memories of my uncle who passed away a few months ago.  It was his farm, the place he grew up, and it just wasn't the same without him.  His family planned to scatter his ashes there the next morning.  I swear I heard his laugh in the wind.

The kids pounced on their annual opportunity to beat the crap out of my Uncle Mark's drum set.  As usual, it was the absolute highlight of Punky's day. She looks forward to it every year.  I still think we'll end up with one in the house at some point; of all the various instruments out there, drums are still her favorite.  That's okay, I guess.  She can be both a doctor and a drummer.  And earplugs are cheap.

We left the corn roast early because we were anxious to get back to the campground for the big Chinese auction they were having that evening.  They had so much stuff that it took about two and a half hours to call all the winning tickets.  We won three times, plus someone gave Punky an additional winning ticket for her to pick another prize.  She chose a garden gnome dressed in military garb with a sign that read "Support our troops" and she gave it to her Pappy.  Sometimes her sweetness simply makes my heart melt.

Then came Monday.  Rain, rain, rain.  From the moment we got up, till the moment we went to bed, it poured.  All damn day.  My mom and I left Punky to the care of her dad and pap while we hit the casino for a few hours in the afternoon.  I played the entire time on twenty dollars, which was about all I could afford to lose anyway.  I was winning like crazy but eventually put it all back.  I can't complain though, five hours of entertainment for twenty bucks was a great deal.  Plus we had a good lunch, and it got us out of the rain and into a space larger than an eighteen-foot box on wheels for a while.

To our dismay, it was still raining Tuesday morning which meant packing up wet gear for the trip home.  It also meant that Punky missed out on one last jaunt to the campground playground and she was far less than happy about it.  Although our trip ended on a very soggy note, it was still a fun weekend. I enjoyed my early morning walks just as much as last time but I somehow managed to gain over two pounds.

Before we set out on Friday morning, I had reached the forty-pound loss mark and I was thrilled.  I celebrated by enjoying bagels, chocolate cake, and a huge piece of lemon meringue pie over the weekend, so those two pounds were well worth it.  And besides, I hadn't seen most of my relatives at the corn roast in a year, and not a single one of them noticed my weight loss so maybe losing forty pounds isn't a noticeable as I thought?  At any rate, I'm happy to report that my digestive system was a bit more cooperative this trip.  I didn't even have to open the bottle of Pepto, the baggie of Tums, or the box of baking soda I took along as a precaution.

So, farewell to the summer of 2012.  We had plenty of great weather, fun trips, and lazy days at the pool.  We made lots of memories, had lots of laughs, and got lots of exercise.  Here's to hoping that the summer of 2013 doesn't take forever to arrive.  I'm ready for it now and it's still technically not even autumn yet.

Make Lemonade

Yesterday I rambled about all the reasons why this summer has been a bit rough and challenging, so today it's only fair to present the other side of the argument.  All problems aside, we did have a fun summer overall.

Before I actually start making lemonade, I do need to add two additional lemons to the pile.  The first is an update: they let his truck pass inspection yesterday, but he has to take it back on Thursday to get the brakes done.  It turns out I misunderstood him on the phone.  It's not just the front brakes, he needs rear ones, too.  And the second lemon I simply forgot to mention: my laptop sounds like a jet engine and will probably blow up before I finish this post.  Given our current situation, I may be facing a few months without a computer and quite honestly I'll go crazy. 

Now, let's start juicing these little suckers before I lose my mojo.  Or my laptop bursts into flames.

We managed to make it to Knobel's twice this summer and that's one of Punky's favorite places.  Memorial Day weekend we went with my sister and her family, and even though it ended on a rough note when a sudden torrential downpour left us stranded on back roads for three hours on the ride home, the kids still had a great day.  Then, a few weeks later on the way home from visiting my dad when he was in the hospital, Punky and I stopped and spent the day at the park.  Just the two of us.  And I have to say I think it was my favorite day of the summer.  It's really important to me to have one on one time with her once in a while, and she loves our girl time.  We also spent a day at a local park where we had a picnic, played at the playground, went swimming for a few hours, played miniature golf, had ice cream, and she rode the handful of kiddie rides they have over and over again.  She's already lined up a bunch of things she wants to do next summer for our special days, as she calls them.

I took a day off a few weeks ago to go with Punky's school on a field trip to the county fair like I did last year.  Her dad joined us after work so we spent the whole evening there as well.  I sneezed my face off as we made trip after trip through the barns to see the cows, horses, sheep, goats, chickens, pigs, and rabbits.  We watched a gross reptile show with far too many snakes for my taste.  Punky participated in sack races, relay races, and other events that were set up for family day at the fair.  She did a 4H project where they made seed balls to take home and throw in the yard to make fall flowers grow.  And, of course, we rode the rides, played games, and ate far too much greasy, fattening fair food.

We spent a day at Dutch Wonderland in Lancaster with my mom, sister, niece, nephew, my sister's new beau, Punky's godfather, my aunt, my cousin, her husband, and their daughter.  The park is really targeted for little kids and they all had a blast.  My nephew, niece, and Punky are all seasoned riders, they've been visiting amusement parks since before they could even walk, but my cousin's little girl had never been on any rides before and they were a bit nervous about how she'd handle it.  We were all amazed to see not even an ounce of hesitation as she tackled ride after ride.  From the carousel, to the whip, the kiddie roller coaster, log flume, tilt-a-whirl, and even bigger, faster, spinning rides, she enthusiastically rode them all and couldn't get enough.  My cousin's not a rider whatsoever, so her daughter obviously got her dad's genes in that department. 

Our trip to Dutch Wonderland also brought a milestone moment for my six year old nephew: he rode his very first grown-up roller coaster.  My sister was egging him on all day, but he was too scared and refused all our attempts at bribery.  Then, after four trips in a row on the kiddie coaster, he quietly mumbled, "Mom, I want to ride the big one."  In a mere seven seconds flat we dumped the other kids with my mom and literally ran with him as fast as we could to the big coaster.  We weren't taking any chances on him changing his mind.  Thankfully the line was short and we boarded almost immediately.  He did great!  He absolutely loved it and rode several more times that day.  We were all so proud of him and happy to add yet another roller coaster junkie to the family!

My sister and her family came up to visit one weekend where we just hung out at here, drank wine, played stupid dice games, and watched the kids destroy the house.  Then, they came up again a few weeks ago and we took another day trip to an amusement park in Rochester.  It was another park aimed more at younger kids, but they had a water park as well and the kids had a blast riding the slides, shooting people with water canons, and standing under huge buckets of water just waiting for them to dump gallons on everyone below.  Given that it was a balmy ninety-nine degrees in Rochester that day, the adults enjoyed the soak zone just as much as the kids.  Punky has already chosen this water park as a destination for one of our special days next year.  It was definitely her favorite experience of the summer.

My mom came up last Thursday and brought my niece and nephew along for five days.  We went to one of Punky's favorite playgrounds one night, and swimming the next afternoon.  Then, that evening, we went to a parade and carnival in the next town over.  They had a great time gathering handfuls of candy thrown at them during the parade and they ended up with an entire shopping bag full by the time it was over.  We had a relaxing Sunday at home before they left on Monday.  It was nice having them here; I don't get to spend nearly enough time with them.  The kids bounced back and forth between playing nicely and trying to tear each others ears off.  My niece got the worst of it.  She's the youngest and you know what they say about shit rolling downhill.  And Punky isn't really good with other kids touching her stuff because the opportunity doesn't happen that often.  She was trying to watch a show Sunday evening and, after repeated interruptions by her cousins, she turned to me and as serious as a heart attack she said, "Mommy, I'm ready for my house to be back to normal now."  

I can't wait till they all get over this "first" stage.  The fights over who gets to do something first, who was playing with what first, who said something first, who finished their food first, who gets to take a bath first, and so on.  It was endless.  I was waiting to see which one of them ended up tied to a tree first when Grammy lost it a bit on Sunday night and threatened to bang their heads together.  There were intense moments, messy moments, loud moments, and crying moments, but ultimately I'm so glad they came up for a few days.  And I'm also glad I stopped at one kid.

We had our first camping trip in June with the new camper and we have another one planned for Labor Day weekend.  We had to cancel two others we hoped to take due to all the crap tossed our way, and we almost cancelled this one coming but ultimately decided it is the last hurrah of summer and we'll find a way to pull it off.  Plus, the annual family corn roast is on Sunday that weekend so we would be traveling that way anyway.  We leave on Friday morning and won't be back until Tuesday.  Five days of fresh air, camping food, and relaxation.  I can't wait.  I know what lies on the other size of labor day; it's all downhill from there.  I plan to enjoy every single minute of this trip before we're stuck in the house for months until spring finally breaks next year.  

And in between all these fun summer activities, we spent a lot of time at the local community pool.  I can't believe I didn't even know it existed until almost the end of June.  It's a great place and Punky loves it there.  It isn't very crowded which truly surprises me because it's very clean and it has a great kiddie pool.  It's about 12 ft. x 12 ft. and only eighteen inches deep in the center, but it has a tube slide and water fountain going into it.  The slide is her favorite part, of course.  At first we had to catch her every time, but then she learned to go down herself with a tube around her and then eventually without the floaty thing.  She can do it for hours straight, I've seen her.  One side of the big pool is about 4 ft. and she loves coming in with us.  She got really good at keeping herself upright with the tube around her, and she learned how to get where she wants to go by kicking her feet.  Her favorite part of the big pool is jumping in off the side.  She learned to do it herself with the floaty on and hold her breath while she briefly dips under the water.  Her dad and I take turns watching her while the other gets to actually swim for a while.  And in the process, I rediscovered my love of swimming.

I spent summer after summer in my grandmother's pool as a kid, but I could probably count on my fingers the number of times I've actually gone swimming since college.  I'm not even counting all the swim classes I took Punky to because I didn't actually get to swim; I just spent an hour holding her up in the water.  But this summer I actually had the chance to really swim and enjoy it.  It's such great exercise, too.  Talk about a total body workout.  We enjoyed it so much that we've added a pool to the list of things we are looking for in a house if/when we're ever in a position to make a move.  We actually found a great house, at a great price, in a great location, with an awesome in-ground pool, and it's killing us that we can't do anything about it right now.

So, as you can see, this summer will remembered for all the fun we did manage to have, even if we had more than our fair share of lemons along the way.  I'm old enough to know that over time, the sour fades from memory while the sweet seems to linger forever.  My goal now is to get us back on track so next summer can be even better than this one.  I'll keep making lemonade until we're sick of drinking it, and then I'll just resort to zinging the lemons at random people on the street.  That will be just as satisfying, maybe even more so.