The Town Crier

I got pulled over last night.  Its been about seventeen years since my last traffic violation.  I suppose I was due.

As much as I hate doing anything on a work night, there were a few things we absolutely needed from the store.  When I picked Punky up at school, we grabbed some dinner at a restaurant before tackling the grocery shopping.  I knew if we came home to eat, there was no chance in hell I would venture back out that night.  Given the fact that we live miles from anything, and doing things with a three-year-old in tow takes way longer than they should, it was almost eight o'clock till we left the store and headed home.

As I started to drive, Punky entered whine mode.  After being gone the whole day, she was anxious to jump on her trampoline, scatter toys around the living room, and rule the TV for an hour before bed. 

"Mommy, I want to get home now!" she yelled from the back seat as I got on the highway.

"I'm going as fast as I can.  If I drive any faster, the police will pull me over."  Believe me, by that point I was just as ready to be home as she was.

"What does that mean, Mommy?" she asked.

Even though we discussed it several times in the past, I launched into a brief explanation of speed limits and pointed out the signs with the numbers on them.  "If I go over that number, the police will make me stop the car.  Then he will come up to the window and tell me I broke the rules.  He might even make me pay piggy money!  And we have much better things to spend our money on at the moment."

"That wouldn't be good, Mommy."  It seemed she understood my explanation and agreed with my reasoning.

Twenty seconds later I passed a cop who was sitting just around a bend on a dark section of highway.  I didn't see him until I was ten feet from him.

"Did you see that, Punky?  We just passed a policeman!  If Mommy was driving too fast, I'd be in big trouble!"

She didn't see him.  And I wasn't worried.  I had the cruise control set at a comfortable sixty-eight and all my lights are in working order.  I exited the highway six miles later and turned onto the rural road that leads to our house. 

As I pondered how long it would take me to carry all the bags in the house and put the groceries away, a car came up behind me and was clinging to my bumper.  I have a talent for accurately identifying cars by their headlights at night - a little trick an ex-boyfriend taught me years ago - and I was 99.9% sure it was a cop.

But why the hell was he tailgating me?  He was making me nervous.  I kept staring in my rear-view mirror as he followed me like that for nearly a mile.  I was about to pull over and let him pass when the red and blue lights started flashing.  And Punky immediately freaked the hell out when I stopped the car and told her what was happening.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"  I stared at the obviously-rookie cop like he was from another planet.  I swear he didn't look a day over fifteen with his Justin Bieber bangs jutting out from under his ski cap and completely obstructing his vision.  Yes, I said ski cap.  Apparently he didn't pay attention in the class that informed him he needed to be in full uniform when conducting a traffic stop, which includes the traditional state trooper wide-brimmed hat, or any ticket he issues will be null and void.

"I haven't a fucking clue," I said.  In my head.

"No, I know I wasn't speeding."  I said.  Aloud.

"When you exited the highway and reached the stop sign at the bottom of the ramp..." he began.  

"I stopped at that stop sign.  I know I did."

"...you failed to use your turn signal.  I wasn't going to stop you, but once I got behind you I saw you cross the fog line several times."

I then realized he was questioning my sobriety.  

"I truly mean no disrespect here, but if I crossed the fog line it was because I was staring in my rear-view mirror trying to figure out why a cop would be riding a mere two feet off my bumper.  If I so much as tapped the brakes, you would've been in my trunk."

As I handed over my license and registration, I realized that probably wasn't the smartest observation to make at that moment.

While he took his sweet time doing whatever it is cops do while you sit there and ponder your fate, I tried my best to console Punky.  She was scared, and crying, and making an already difficult situation even worse.  I don't want her to be scared of the police.  I want her to see them as safe heroes she can run to if she's ever in trouble and can't find us.  The picture I've worked so hard to paint was erased with a single traffic stop. 

When he finally came back to the window, he handed me my warning.  Maybe he realized he forgot his hat.

"Can you do me a favor and talk to her for a minute so she sees that you are not scary?" I asked as I rolled down the back window.  Punky immediately stopped crying and chatted him up like a long lost friend.

"Mommy? Did he make you pay piggy money?" she asked as we got back on the road.

"No, not this time, sweetie," I answered.

"Good!" she chirped.  After a ten second pause, she added, "I can't wait to tell Daddy!"

She didn't forget come morning.  It was the first thing out of her mouth when he woke her up for school today.  And, as I discovered when I picked her up this evening, it was her favorite topic all day.

The daycare director greeted me with a grin and then looked down at the floor as she said, "We heard about what happened last night."  Then she burst out laughing, along with the two other teachers still present.  They told me all about how Punky went from teacher to teacher and filled them all in on the news: "Mommy got pulled over last night!" 

I, of course, felt obligated to then explain what happened because I'm sure Punky's rendition of the story left gaping holes and made me look like an unfit mother in one way or another.  

It makes me wonder what other news she may have over-shared with the entire school.  Apparently we're living with the town crier.

Hear No Evil, See No Evil...

Murphy has a nasty habit of sneaking up on me and biting me on the ass, which is exactly where he should shove that law.  Up his, not mine, just to be clear.

Thursday night, on the heels of Punky's well visit, we celebrated the fact that it was so wonderful to go months without a single trip to the doctor.  We toasted to the hope of another record-breaking stretch, and joked about the likelihood that she picked something up while there and that she'll probably have another ear infection next week.

We made a big bowl of popcorn, popped in a classic cartoon DVD, and snuggled up on the couch for some quality family time.  Just the three of us.  All happy, healthy, and in the same place at the same time.  Hey, it doesn't happen often.  Not nearly as often as it should.

An hour later the popcorn was about gone, her dad was about two seconds from snoring on the couch, and Punky's attention span had about reached its limit.  It was bedtime anyway.  And then, it happened.

"Mommy, I can't get this out of here."

The instant I looked her way, I knew exactly what she did and that bedtime would be delayed for hours. 

"Please tell me you didn't put a popcorn kernel in your ear!"

She did.

I will spare you the yelling that immediately followed this discovery.  Poor kid.  Mommy and Daddy were not a bit amused to say the least.  We made it through the infant/toddler stage when kids don't know any better; I truly thought we were in the clear.

For the next half hour, we tried everything we could think of to safely remove the kernel and spare us a trip to the ER that late at night.  We tried tweezers.  We tried toothpaste on a Q-tip thinking it would stick to it long enough to pull it out.  We even put the vacuum hose up to her ear and tried to suck it out.  But our efforts were all in vain.  It was stuck, pointy end down, and we were afraid we would bust her eardrum if we kept poking around in there.  So, a forty minute ride to the hospital it was. 

The nurses at the front desk had a good chuckle when we arrived.  While doing the routine paperwork, they entertained us with stories of other things they had seen lodged in kids' holes over the years.  And since we were hardly an emergency case, many more nurses, doctors, and even the janitor had ample time to hear the news and pop into our room to add their own something-stuck-in-an-orifice stories while we waited almost two hours for someone to remove the kernel. 

It took two tries to flood her ear with a syringe of warm water and safely wash it out, and thankfully there was no damage to her eardrum.  It was almost one in the morning when we got home, and I was awake until almost three.  

I felt like a zombie at work yesterday.  I've been lucky in the sleep department lately, no insomnia bouts for a while, so I was out of practice functioning on only three hours of sleep.  But not to worry, Murphy stepped in again to wake me up after lunch.

I was in the file room, minding my own business, making photocopies, and chatting with a co-worker.  Hardly a dangerous scenario, no?  I grabbed my copies from the paper tray and somehow they managed to slip through my fingers.  One single sheet spiraled through the air and got me.  A paper cut.  In my eye.

Yes, I said IN MY EYE.  

My eye instantly swelled and turned the color of a cherry tomato.  I returned to my office and watched a small lake form on my desk as my eye put its tear duct in overdrive in an attempt to flush out the intruder.  And since it was an actual cut on my eyeball, and not a loose, foreign object, the tears flowed frantically for hours.  Of course I was required to report it as an accident, so I got to look like an idiot while person after person, my boss included, paraded through my office to look at my bulging ball of fire.  

They offered to send me to a doctor but I decided to wait it out.  The only incident I had for comparison was when Punky poked me with the sidewalk chalk and, truth be told, that one hurt much worse.  By the end of the day my eye returned to its normal color, aside from the bright red line of the cut itself.  It was uncomfortable to blink, but not excruciating pain or anything.  From what I read, the only danger is if bacteria gets in and the eye gets infected.  I guess I'll know if my eye turns green and puss starts oozing.

Before Punky's dad left for work on third shift last night, I warned him to watch his holes.  We're having some serious orifice issues in this house.  I told him if he managed to knock a tooth out, he would be the third monkey.  Our injury collection would be complete: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

I'm happy to report he survived the night without incident.

How to Impress a Three-Year-Old

Put water in a plastic cup.

Let her take a sip.

Put the cup in the freezer.

Refrain from losing your shit when you spend the rest of the evening saying, "No, it's not done yet" a hundred times.  

Just before bedtime, remove cup from the freezer and hand it to her.

Tell her to take a sip. 

Smile when she says, "Mommy, the water is stuck in there!"

Tell her to stick her hand in and touch it.  Let her squeeze the cup to see how hard it is.  Watch as the chunk of ice pops out of the cup and smashes to pieces all over the kitchen floor.

Let her hold a piece and watch it melt in her hands.

"Wow, Mommy! That's amazing! It's turning into water again! I can't believe it!  It was water first, then it froze like a rock, and now it's water again!  How cool! Let's do it again!"

Tuck her into bed.

Return to the kitchen and collect the remaining ice chips on the floor.  Clean up all the little puddles of water.

All this because she asked what ice is and glared at me like I was a big, fat liar when I told her it's only really, really cold water.

Totally worth it though.  She thinks I'm magic now.

Santa Is So Screwed

And by Santa, of course, I mean us. 

Tonight we sat with Punky and wrote her very first letter to Santa.  We started with the usual stuff, my name is... I've been a good girl this year... do you have cable at the North Pole, and then moved on to the meat and potatoes of every Christmas letter: the list.

Over the past few weeks, we've discussed it many times.  We told her to think hard about the stuff she'd really like to have most, because Santa can only bring her a few things.  He has to make sure that every kid in the world gets something for Christmas.  It wouldn't be fair to ask him for everything under the sun.  (Parental translation: our house is small, we have too much crap the way it is, and we simply can't afford to go crazy buying presents.)  She listened to our speeches, and our suggestions of things we think she would like, but apparently she had her own ideas brewing.  And she kept them a secret until tonight when she blindsided us with her list.

"Okay, sweetie, now we get to tell Santa the things you'd really like to have for Christmas.  I know you've been thinking about it for a while, so let's start with the thing you want most.  That should go first on the list."  Green crayon in hand, I was poised to write what I expected her to say.

"A trampoline, Mommy! I want a trampoline! You jump on it and it goes like this: Boingy! Boingy! Boingy!" Her little fingers were like a miniature pair of legs bouncing up and down on the kitchen counter.

"A trampoline?" I asked as I scribbled out the "D" I had written in anticipation.  She launched into another rendition of bouncy fingers and boings while her dad and I had an entire conversation with only our eyes and facial expressions.

Where the hell did she get that idea? I have no clue. Where would we put a goddamn trampoline? I have no clue. Aren't those things expensive? Yes. And dangerous? Very. Did you ever hear her talk about a trampoline before? Nope. She's never even been on one, has she? Not that I know of.  What the f**k happened to the drum set?

"Are you sure, sweetie? That's what you want more than anything?"

"Yes! I want a trampoline!"  She stared at the paper like she was waiting for me to write it down. 

"Okay, a trampoline," I said and wrote with a sigh.  "What else would you like Santa to bring you?" 

"A ping ball set!" she chirped, just as enthusiastically as she said trampoline.

"A what?" Her dad and I exchanged a confused glance.

"A ping ball set!"

"Do you mean a pin ball machine where you shoot the little balls and they bounce off all the stuff inside?" her dad asked, grasping at straws.

"No! The one with the tennis rackets where you hit the ball like this!" Punky replied as she swung her arm back and forth.

"A ping pong table?" I asked, hoping I misinterpreted her motions.

"Yes, Mommy! That's what I want!" 

Where the hell did she get that idea? I have no clue. Where would we put a goddamn ping pong table? I have no clue. Could she even see over the top of one? Barely. Did you ever hear her talk about a ping pong table before? Nope. She's never even seen one, has she? Not that I know of.  What the f**k happened to the drum set?

I struggled to maintain an air of enthusiasm as I wrote down her second request and hesitantly asked, "What else should we put on your list?" 

"A drum set!" she said, still smiling from ear to ear.  Finally the thing we were expecting her to say.  She drummed on the counter while I added it to the list.

 "I think we should give Santa a couple more ideas," I said, praying for some realistic suggestions.  Three items in, we had squat.  "Is there anything else you would like?"

"Yes, Mommy, paints! Like they have at the resource center with the big paper and paint brushes!"

"But you already have paints," her dad said, pointing to the tray on the kitchen window sill.

"No, honey, she's not talking watercolors." He's never been to the resource center so I had to explain the big easels, the endless supply of giant paper, the cups full of paint, and the paintbrushes of all sizes.  

"Well that sounds kind of messy," he replied.

"You think?" I shot him a sarcastic look as I wrote it on her list.  

Don't look at me in that tone of voice. It's not my fault she's asking for all these crazy things. I know, but what the hell are we going to get her for Christmas? I have no clue. With the way this is going, do we dare ask her for more ideas? I don't think we have a choice. She needs to get something from Santa that she actually asks for, or we may as well tell her he's fake right now! 

"Okay, sweetie. You have some great things on your list, but how about we give Santa some smaller ideas, you know, in case he can't fit all of these big things in his sleigh," I said, fingers crossed.

"Like what, Mommy?"  Her dad and I enjoyed a mutual eye roll.  How about something that can actually fit inside our house?

With some prompting, we managed to add new crayons, new books, and new clothes to her list.  She also asked Santa for a new ladder for Daddy, and new clothes for Mommy, and she colored a picture of a Christmas tree to send with the letter.

When she ran off to play, her dad and I discussed the list. She's obviously too little for a trampoline and we're technically not allowed to have one where we live.  She's obviously too little for a ping pong table and we would need to buy a new house to fit one.  The drum set was expected, and we already decided to buy her one, but we planned to save it for her birthday just three days after Christmas.  We thought Santa would have plenty of other ideas to choose from, and although she may be a bit disappointed at the time, she would be that much more excited to get one for her birthday.  We really didn't want Santa to steal our thunder on that gift, as selfish as it sounds.  And the paints?  Just think about it for a second.  No further explanation is needed.  

Of course, we already bought the new crayons, new books, and new clothes.

Can someone please remind my child that she's two?

Santa is so screwed.

Priority at the Pole

Determined to keep the ball rolling, I tackled more Christmas shopping yesterday.  Before hitting the stores, Punky and I went for lunch and chatted about the holidays.

She keeps asking for one specific toy and I keep putting her off, partly because both Christmas and her birthday are coming up quickly, partly because I don't want her to expect a toy every time we go shopping, and partly because the toy is extremely loud and annoying and I'd rather not listen to it for the next two weeks straight until the batteries suddenly die (meaning one of us removes the damn things because we can't stand it any longer). 

So, when she mentioned the toy again over lunch, it was the perfect opportunity to tell her all about making a list for Santa.  I explained how we'll write a letter to tell him she's been a good girl this year, and that in the letter she can tell Santa a couple wishes she has for Christmas.

"Christmas is still two months away," I told her, "but we need to get started on your letter soon.  It will take a long time to get to where Santa lives."  In other words, we need time to shop.  

"Can we mail it to him?" she asked.

"Yes, that's exactly what we'll do.  When we finish the letter, you can put a stamp on it and we'll take it to the post office.  You can put it in the mailbox all by yourself."  

 

"Wow!"  That peaked her interest.  "But how will it get to Santa?" she asked.

"I'm not sure, sweetie.  Santa lives so far away, the letter may travel by truck, boat, train, and plane to get all the way to the top of the world.  But don't worry, Santa will get it in time for Christmas."  

Her blank stare told me I needed to elaborate a bit more.  She has a ball with a globe printed on it.  Many times we've talked about where we live, where we went on vacation, where China is, etc.  I thought it may be a good reference.

"Think about your earth ball," I said.  "When you look at the globe, Santa lives all the way at the tippy-top of the world at the North pole, so your letter has a long way to travel to Santa's house."

I could see the wheels spinning as she thought for a minute.  I waited patiently to hear what questions she would have about the North Pole and Santa's house.  And once again, my child managed to leave me speechless.

"Mommy?" she asked, "Does he get cable?"

So, either I'm the proud mom of an extremely smart two-year-old who thinks way outside the box for her age, or I've failed miserably as a parent by allowing her far too much time in front of the idiot box.  Think what you will, but I'm going with the first one.

Well, That's a First

We got an early start today for a Saturday morning.  We were expecting company at nine so we had to get moving.  As usual, I didn't get nearly as much sleep as I needed so the snooze alarm was used heavily.  Eventually I managed to drag myself out of bed but I fought the yawns all morning.

A friend of mine from work was coming over with her little girl for a play date.  The girls are only seven months apart and they've finally reached a stage where the age gap is narrowing.  In another year, it will hardly be noticeable.  She is expecting another baby in the spring and has decided to leave work and take a stab at being a stay-at-home-mom.  On one hand, I am so envious...yet on the other hand, I don't know if I could do it.  I know I would absolutely love it at first, but in the long run I think I would find it actually harder than going to work.

Anyway, they were delayed due to a slight mishap that involved a call to poison control.  I heard you're not a real mom until you've done that at least once.  The culprit?  Liquid dishwasher detergent.  She saw it happen and quickly jumped into action.  Thankfully her daughter is fine and it doesn't appear that she swallowed any of it.

She was able to laugh and joke about it after the fact, but I'm sure she had that moment of sheer panic that all moms have when accidents happen.  I've had it many times...when I cracked Punky's head off the wooden arm of the rocking chair at a few weeks old, let her fall of the bed at six months old, thought she swallowed a bloody band-aid at nine months, etc.  I'll admit, it's really quite a list (as I hang my head in shame).

After they left, Punky's dad and I ended up on the topic of preggo-brain, probably since I joked that my friend has that perfect excuse to blame for the morning's events.  Of course, being a guy and all, he totally dismisses the idea that such an animal exists.  But anyone who's ever experienced pregnancy can attest to it.

I reminded him of some of the stupid things I did while pregnant, and told him how I think I still suffer sometimes.  Seriously.  I read a lot about the chemical changes that take place in the brain during pregnancy, and how sometimes the effects are permanent.  All I know is that since Punky came along, my brain gets...fuzzy.

I posted before about the brain freeze I experience once in a while at work.  My mind gets stuck looping around the same circle for a few minutes while I struggle to get on with my next thought...like a skipping 45 just begging for someone to bump the needle.  It makes me feel so...confused, almost dazed at times, but thankfully it only lasts a minute or two and then things clear up again.

And my memory...geez...that surely isn't what it used to be.  Mentally I was the epitome of organization.  Lists of all sorts tucked safely away in the corners of my mind that could be referenced when needed.  I don't recall ever feeling absent-minded pre-pregnancy, but now I have a bad habit of forgetting things.  Little things usually, like to stop for milk on the way home from work.  Stuff like that.  And it's worse the busier I am.  Seems like my mind now only has room for a certain number of things at one time...it does an auto-sort and dumps the rest at will.  Again, usually the trivial stuff.

So, I wrote all of this to preface what happened later that afternoon...

During Punky's short nap, I wasted no time running around the house like a maniac trying to accomplish as much as I could without her "helping" me every step of the way.  It's a fun stage, and she's adorable, but damn...it takes forever to do just about anything.   By the time she woke up, I had fifty things going on at once which meant something was destined to get bounced right out of my head.

She asked for some juice and played for a few minutes before telling me she needed a diaper change.  I dismissed it for a bit while I tried to finish up a couple of things, but when I finally got around to it I wished I hadn't.  It was a stinky diaper and my lallygagging gave her ample opportunity to really mush it around and make a mess.  Sixteen wipes or so later, I finally finished the job on auto-pilot as my mind focused on getting back to the other things I was trying to accomplish.

I stopped for a pee break myself about fifteen minutes later, and Punky came into the bathroom walking like she just got off a horse.  She told me diaper change again, and I said no way...until I saw that she was completely soaked. 

"What the hell?" I mumbled as I pulled her pants off right there in the bathroom.  To my surprise, I was greeted by a totally bare hiney.

Apparently I forgot to put another diaper on my child after that messy diaper change.  I'm not exactly new at this.  I couldn't even begin to guess at the number of diaper changes I've done in the last two years.  How the hell did I manage to pull her pants up and never even notice the diaper was missing?  

And geez, she is almost two.  It had to feel different not having that puffy, crinkly-sounding thing on under her pants.  For all the yapping she does these days, she could've told me that I forgot it.  If dinner is two minutes late she carries on like she hasn't eaten in weeks.  At least I'll never forget to feed her.

Punky's Impeccable Timing

We decided to grab a quick dinner at the local diner tonight and Punky had a shining moment in the process: she embarrassed both of her parents, at the same time, in public...and she's not even two.  I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later...

We've all been sick for what seems like forever, but that's another post entirely and believe me it's coming...one extremely long, rant and rave, bitch and moan, grunt and groan post will follow in the days to come.  Just warning you.  Anyway, like all kids eventually do, Punky recently discovered nose picking.  I suppose being sick and stuffed up presented the perfect opportunity to learn the skill.  She has almost perfected it to an art form.  She can do just about anything one-handed while the other digs for gold.  And once in a while, she strikes some.

There we were, sitting in the restaurant, and just as the waitress headed over to take our order...Punky's finger took the plunge.  That in itself would have been embarrassing enough, but it turned out to be a lucky pick and her finger reappeared with a little something gross on the end of it.  Just to add insult to injury, Punky felt the need to hold her finger up and announce to everyone in earshot what she had.

"Boogie! Mommy! Boogie! Daddy! Boogie! Finger!" she yelled as she swung her finger back and forth between us to show off her treasure.

Punky's dad and I locked eyes for a split second and shared in the horror of the moment.  I could hear the muffled chuckles in the background as complete strangers enjoyed our humiliation.  The teenage waitress stood there patiently while I scrambled for a napkin and cleaned the tip of Punky's finger, but the look on her face seemed to score one for abstinence.

I know, it's only the beginning...

Lights! Broken!

Punky and I went home for my nephew's fifth birthday party two weeks ago.  We drove down Friday and stayed until Tuesday.  We hadn't been home since Labor Day weekend so I took a few days off work so we could visit a bit longer.

My nephew's party went off just as you'd expect any five year old's birthday to go.  Screaming kids running around the house in circles, a mound of presents ripped open in five minutes flat, and little faces all sticky from cake and ice cream.  

The birthday boy insisted on a Batman party, complete with Batman balloons, decorations, and of course a Batman cake.  He also hoped all of his presents were Batman-related which is no easy task these days.  It seems like Batman has taken a back seat to Spiderman and Iron Man.  Their stuff is all over the place; Batman toys require much more searching.  Anyway, he did get a lot of Batman things, from pajamas to hats, toys and video games, activity books and t-shirts.  He was happy.

Thankfully most party guests were gone by about 4:30...because at 5:00 the power went out.  And stayed out for just over two hours.  At first, Punky was very confused.

We had a few power outages at our house this summer, but they all happened during daylight hours and only lasted a short time.  So, Punky really didn't notice.  It wasn't a big deal.  There was no need for explanation and she probably wouldn't have understood anyway.

This time was different.  We were all suddenly sitting in the dark.  My sister's boyfriend hunted for flashlights and scrambled to put a fire in the fire place for both light and heat.  After a few minutes, Punky looked at me with an expression I clearly read as, "What the hell, Mama?"  

I told her the lights were broken.  The lights were off, and we couldn't turn them on until the power man came to fix them.  She thought about it for a few seconds then flashed me an "I get it!" smile. 

Then she proceeded to explain it to everyone else.  Repeatedly.  For the next forty-five minutes or so.  Non stop.  Like the town crier in the old days.

"Mama?"

"What, honey..."

"Lights!" she'd yell while simultaneously throwing her arm up and pointing at the ceiling fan.

"What about the lights, sweetie..."

"Broken..." she'd say in the saddest tone you can imagine, complete with an accompanying pout.

Then she'd move on to the next person.

"Grammy?"  And the whole conversation would repeat itself.

By the time she was on her third trip around the room, we couldn't hold back the laughter.  It was almost like she had a true Eureka! moment and felt she needed to bring the rest of us into the know.  She was relentless.  And there was no ignoring her.  My nephew was the first to try it but she just stood next to him and yelled his name over and over until he finally caved and yelled, "What?"

She eventually got over it...possibly because we were all laughing too hard to answer her anymore...but she still hasn't forgotten it.  Any time I mention my nephew's party or my sister's name, she reminds me that the lights were broken.  It left a lasting impression on her, that's for sure.  It was big news in her little world.  I'm sure we'll end up in the dark at some point this winter and she'll explain it to me again.  And to everyone else who cares to listen.

Peas, Tanks, and Malcolm

I've got an extremely polite child.

I have no idea how the hell that happened.

Punky can be so sweet these days.  She's mastered the proper use of phrases known for getting her what she wants, when she wants it.  She still needs some tweaking in the pronunciation department, but the message comes across loud and clear.

"Punky, would you like some juice?" I say and walk into the kitchen.

"Yes! Peas!" she yells excitedly and runs after me.  "Tanks!" she chirps when I had her the cup.

"You're welcome, sweetie." 

"Malcolm," she repeats after me.  "Mama's Malcolm too!"

Monster Love

Elmo out-ranks us as the object of Punky's affection these days.  That little red monster gets more hugs and kisses in an hour than we manage to squeeze out of her the entire day.

She totes him from room to room.  She talks to him.  She feeds him snacks.  She shares her sippy cup.  She makes him do tumble sets.  She lets him jump on the bed.  She chews on his eyeballs and sucks his nose.  She sleeps with her arm around him.

One night this week, I dared to put her to bed without Elmo.  I had no clue where he was and I didn't think it would be a big deal.  I mean, she had her frog that she's slept with for over a year now.  But apparently the frog no longer cuts it.  She carried on in her crib while I desperately scoured the house in search of where she stuffed him earlier that day.  I finally found him in the cabinet under the TV.

Tonight we sat on the couch with her flashcards.  And Elmo.  About half way through the pile, she paused for a snack break.  She ran to the end table and grabbed two cheese crackers out of her bowl.  One went in her mouth; the other went in Elmo's.

After chewing and swallowing hers, she climbed back up on the couch to continue our game.  It caught her attention that Elmo hadn't eaten his cracker.  Rather than simply taking it like she's done a thousand times, tonight she decided to use her tongue and french kiss it out of his mouth and into hers.  Fuzz and all.

Watch your back, Elmo.  I'm keeping my eye on you.

An Appology is in Order

...for all the parents I laughed at, scoffed at, and snarled at over the years. 

For all the times I wondered what the hell you did wrong to have your children behave like wild animals in a public place, I am so sorry... 

For those that I called horrible parents under my breath while walking past your tantrum-throwing little brats, I am so sorry... 

For all the dirty looks I gave you while you stood by and did nothing to stop the shrill screams emitting from your little darlings, I am so sorry...

And for all the times I had sworn my future children would never act that way, I hang my head in shame.

Punky's dad suggested we get the weekly grocery shopping done tonight...his only day off this week.  I would've have preferred a quiet night at home, but agreed nonetheless.  Punky and I had gone shopping alone the last few weeks because of his work schedule.  Rather than waiting till Saturday and facing that task again, I opted for tonight.

So, with Punky's dad tackling the grocery portion of the store, I thought she would enjoy walking around with me instead of being stuck in the cart like she has been the last several weeks.  We made our way through the baby department, and the shoe department, and electronics without much incident.  She touched a few things, pulled a shirt off the rack, and dropped bottle of baby shampoo.  No harm done.

Then we headed to the toy department.  No shopping trip is complete without at least a quick stop there.  Besides, Santa needs ideas for Christmas.  If something on the shelf caught her attention, I'd have a clue what to put on his list.

We took our time meandering up and down the toy aisles.  We looked at baby dolls, bikes, and tons of musical light-up toys that all basically do the exact same thing as the ones she has now.  She hugged a few stuffed animals and pushed all the buttons on the toys she could reach.  We finally made it to the last aisle and I didn't gain a single idea for Santa.  Sigh.

Anyway, the last aisle was full of Punky's favorite things: books, balls, and bubbles.  I'd no sooner grab one toy out of her little patties, and she'd grab another.  It would've been fine, none of the things we breakable, but lucky for us there were other people shopping in the same aisle.  And Punky found it totally amusing to whiz balls at them.  And she has one hell of an arm.

In defense of my perfect little angel, I have to say they started it.  She dropped a ball and it innocently rolled their direction.  One of them tossed it back...and so the game began.  Of course, Punky didn't understand that they weren't there to play ball with her and she kept lobbing balls at them even after they stopped returning them.  I was left to chase after random balls rolling down the aisle which left her the perfect opportunity to grab and throw more.  With some creative maneuvering, I finally managed to get the situation under control and I told Punky it was time to go find Daddy.  In other words, time for her tiny hiney to sit in the cart for a while.

She apparently got that hidden meaning and immediately threw herself down on the floor.  When I tried to pick her up, she made her little body as stiff as a board and did everything in her power to escape my grasp.  Then she started whining and shaking her head "no" for all she was worth.  Then came the flailing arms and kicking legs.  When I finally managed to pick her up, the tears came.

In reality, the entire tantrum episode probably lasted a mere fifteen seconds.  But it seemed like a lifetime because I knew they were there.  Other people in the store.  Staring at me.  Rolling their eyes.  Giving me that disapproving head shake.  Wondering what I screwed up to have such a little brat.  Thinking I'm a horrible mother.  Swearing they would never have kids that act like that in a store.

I wanted to keep my head down and get the hell out of there but I glanced up just in time to see her.  A mother with a baby in her cart and three other little ones in tow.  Brave woman.  She gave me a been-there-done-that sympathetic smile and a nod that seemed to imply it happens to the best of us.  Then she quickly turned her attention back to her own pack of wild monkeys who were attempting to scale the shelving.

I guess it doesn't matter how good a parent you are, all bets are off the minute the little shits start thinking for themselves.  I'm sure there are many more embarassing public moments to come.  No worries, I can always pay her back when she's a teenager and terrified that I will embarass her in front of her friends.  A certain potty picture comes to mind.

Men and Their Nuts

Not those nuts, geesh.  Mind out of the gutter, people.

I'm talking nuts...as in nuts and bolts, screws, washers, and other tiny, metal pieces that fall into the same category.  And end up scattered all over the house.  Well, my house anyway.  Mine apparently has a problem with his nuts, but I imagine there are other men who suffer from the same disease.

The arrival of my new dresser got me in the spirit of organization.  You know how it goes.  You get something new, something nice, and it prompts you to try to bring all of your old, not-so-nice stuff up to par to match the new addition.  Kind of like nesting while pregnant, same principle really when you think about it.

Anyway, I spent the last few evenings, little by little, cleaning out the closet and filling my new drawers with the items appropriate for dresser storage.  I cleaned all my perfume bottles and lined them up symmetrically in front of the mirror.  I went through the jewelry box and organized all that crap.  When I finished, the dresser looked beautiful.  And so damn out of place in the room.  

So, the aforementioned mood struck and I turned my attention to the rest of the bedroom.  It will still be old, mismatched furniture, but somehow cleaning and organizing it would make it fit better with my shiny new dresser.  I started with his nightstand, the top of which is usually a sea of half-empty diet Pepsi cans and...you guessed it...nuts.

I armed myself with an old baby food jar and collected the tiny pieces that were scattered among the rubble.  If I count the ones that rolled off at some point and ended up on the floor, I had four screws, seven nuts, six washers, and some other unknown tiny piece of metal in my jar.

I moved to the headboard of the bed.  Add two more washers, one screw, and a drill bit.  I hit the jackpot on his chest of drawers where I found four large bolts with anywhere from three to six nuts screwed on each, the largest items in my collection thus far.  I needed a bigger jar.

I headed for the kitchen.  I had already deposited a handful of such items on the counter the day before that I collected from the floor of the closet while cleaning.  A mere foot from my pile, two more washers were shining in the afternoon sun coming in through the skylight.

The kitchen window sill added more pieces, along with his bathroom counter, his computer desk, the entertainment center, the dryer, a glass vase in the dining room, and one lonely screw that I stepped on in the pantry.  Good grief.

His nuts are totally out of control, multiplying and dispersing themselves in every nook and cranny of our living space.  He has a work shed filled to the brim with like items but some apparently feel the need to migrate into our bedroom.  I have no idea why these tiny things need to be scattered all over the house, or what they've come from in the first place.  It's not like they need to be within arms reach at all times.  It's highly unlikely we'll ever have an emergency in the middle of the night that can be resolved with a single washer hanging out on the kitchen counter.  And besides, the tools are all out in the shed.  Go figure.

More Peas, Please

Icky, mushy, stinky baby food peas.  Punky could never get enough of them.  It was surely on her list of favorites, and she never left an ounce in the bowl.

Icky, yucky, stinky real cooked peas.  Punky could never get enough of them.  She'd eat'em by the fistfuls, cramming as much as she could into her mouth at once if I turned my head for so much as a second.  She'd pick'em out of mixed veggies with her fingers so she could eat them first.  She'd ask for more when they were all gone.

Punky loved peas.  Until this week.  And I haven't a clue why.  I'm completely puzzled...

The first time she refused them, I thought perhaps it was the rare occasion when my child wasn't really hungry.  I can count on one hand the number of times that's happened.

The second time, I thought she was just being fussy.  Possibly tired.  Somewhat whiney.  Not in the mood for peas.

Today I stuck two peas on the fork, followed by a hunk of ravioli and then a piece of cooked carrot.  She made a strange face and stared at me.  A few seconds later, her lips opened and out came the two peas.  The ravioli stayed in, the carrot stayed in, but she spit the peas out whole.  Not smushed.  Still perfectly round.  Little shit.

I guess she hates peas now.  Hopefully it's just a phase.

Pie Hole Rules

Punky's dad is gross.  

Not all the time...only in certain respects.  And eating is one of them.

No, he doesn't chew with his mouth open.  He doesn't wipe greasy fingers in his t-shirt.  His clothes are free of permanent ketchup stains.  He cleans up after himself, although I do find pretzel crumbs scratching my ass in bed from time to time.  Grrr...

And it's not that he eats odd things like rattlesnakes or bugs.  He's not into eating cute little furry creatures like baby bunnies.  He's not into any exotic foods at all.  Hell, I can't even get him to eat Chinese.

But the problem does lie in what he eats...and when.  Our fridge could give the fridge in any science lab a run for the money.  Things could be in there weeks...and he eats them.  If there are no visible signs of mold and no overbearing odors, he eats it.  Expiration dates are meaningless... just a gimmick so people throw out perfectly good food and buy more.  He leaves pizza with meat toppings on the counter overnight and eats it for lunch the next day.  He likes it better that way.  

I, on the other hand, tend to obsess about bacteria growing in or on my food.  I check expiration dates every time I reach for something in the fridge.  It doesn't matter that I had a sandwich the day before and used that very same jar of mayo, I still peek at the date before using it.  And I won't eat or drink anything that is even so much as one day past date.  Just the thought makes me gag...it doesn't matter what it is.  I will eat leftovers, within a reasonable time frame of course, but only if they have been properly stored and promptly refrigerated after dinner.  That means sealed containers and an hour after at most, not a loose sheet of aluminum foil four hours later.

So, to co-exist peacefully without me having uncontrollable urges to vomit, we needed some basic ground rules.  I don't eat anything I'm not comfortable with, he doesn't cook anything using ingredients that I wouldn't be comfortable with, and when he feels the need to eat something that falls into the science experiment category I must be in another room or simply not home.  And I agreed not to throw out any of his shit in case he planned on eating it.

Now we have a baby eating real food.  The rules had to be amended to apply to her as well.  He may have a stomach of steel but she surely doesn't.  I don't want her eating anything questionable.  Period.  And she always wants some of whatever we're having, so eating his bacteria-laden food in front of her is not an option.  He respects my wishes, or at least he says he does...

Enter the babysitter.  

One day this week she told me Punky was being particularly fussy at lunch time, refusing veggies and other stuff she normally adores.  So she gave her some leftover pasta and sauce she found in the fridge as well as half of a baloney sandwich.  Yeah, as tiny as she is, my kid eats like a horse.

Anyway, my heart immediately skipped a beat.  That sauce was from a week ago.  The baloney that clearly states "use within seven days of opening" had been open for more like three weeks.  Every bone in my body wanted to take her to the emergency room for food poisoning but I restrained myself and let nature take its course.

Okay, so she didn't appear to get sick, unless you count the pound of multicolored shit that burst through the constraints of her diaper right before bed that night, but otherwise she seemed fine.  Yeah, I realize the extreme crap-isode may have been unrelated and didn't necessarily indicate botchilism, but it was an odd coincidence nonetheless.

The next day I briefed the babysitter on the above highlights and told her not to feed Punky anything from the fridge.  Ever.  Unless we tell her to, of course.  She understood completely since she is married to his brother and apparently the gene for eating spoiled food runs in families.  He's the same way.  Ugh.

Hopefully Punky didn't inherit it.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Stuck on You

"Stuck" is Punky's new favorite word. 

It all started one night when I put her in her crib at bedtime.  On her back with her legs straight up in the air, she struggled to get her feet out from under the blankie.  "Are you stuck?" I casually asked as I helped her get free.  When the scenario repeated itself the very next night, she told me, "Mama... Stuck..." before I even had a chance to ask.  It has since become part of our night time routine.

Around the same time, she began climbing into her toy box.  Sometimes she gets a leg down deep between the toys and needs help getting out of it.  Again, one time I asked her, "Are you stuck?" as I rescued her from the toy quicksand.  Now she tells me she's stuck every time she gets in it...whether she needs help getting out or not.

That made me wonder if she really understood the meaning of the word, or if she was simply repeating what she heard me say in the prior identical situation.  I've gotten my answer many times over this week.

Like when I shut her little finger in the refrigerator door...

I didn't even realize she was actually stuck.  She was standing by me while I opened and closed the door, and I didn't think a thing about it when I walked away and she remained by the fridge.  I thought she was trying to get the door open.  She knows apples are in there and she gives the handle a daily tug in the hope of it opening so she can grab one.

About thirty seconds later, I heard a pitiful, "Mama... Stuck..."

"You're not stuck, baby," I said in that reassuring mama tone as I continued making her dinner.

Another half minute went by and I heard an even more pitiful, "Mama... Stuck..." which was immediately followed by a, "Stuck! Mama!"

So I went over to the fridge and sure enough, one finger was stuck behind the magnetic strip that holds the door closed.  Her tiny little finger was no match for the powerful magnet and she couldn't pull her finger out without opening the door.

My next clue came a night or so later when I was distracted right after dinner.  I unbuckled only one side of her highchair belt and attempted to lift her out of the seat.  Only half her body moved and she quickly told me "Stuck!" before I even fully realized it myself.  

And, as if I needed further evidence, tonight she walked into the bathroom to brush her teeth before bed.  The light switch is on the opposite wall so she is used to it being dark in there for a few seconds until I can get around her to turn it on.  I forgot I left two garbage bags of clothes in there earlier today and she got her leg all tangled up one of the drawstrings.  I hit the lights just as she let out a loud, panicked "Stuck! Stuck! Stuck!" and proceeded to shake her leg violently to escape the tiny strap of plastic around her ankle.  I knelt down to help free and calm her.  

Yep.  Stuck.  She gets it.

You're Gonna Poke Your Eye Out With That Thing

When we got home yesterday after our weekend away, Punky was restless so I thought we'd play outside for a bit.  As soon as you mention it, she runs right to the door.  She definitely her father's daughter.  He's an outside guy, every chance he gets no matter the weather.  Me?  Not so much.  

We took the bubbles and sidewalk chalk out with us.  The first time she saw bubbles she really wasn't impressed but now she enjoys chasing them as they fly away.  Her aunt brought her the chalk and taught her how to make lines all over the pavers.  And of course, picking rocks remains at the top of the list of her outside entertainment favorites.  

I'm not sure how long we were out there, but it was time to come in when I needed to pee.  I held it as long as I could because I knew she would cry when we went back in the house.  To my surprise, she was really cooperative and there were no tears.  My good girl...

I tried to take the chalk out of her hand once we got in the door.  No dice.  Cue the tears.  So, I ran to the bathroom and she was still hanging onto it when I went to take her shoes off a few minutes later.  I bent down to open the velcro on her sneakers and she leaned in toward me.  All of the sudden the world went black.

She must've swung her hand forward with the chalk still clenched in her fist.  It landed dead center in my right eye and dropped me to the floor.  Damn, I've never been poked in the eye like that.  This chalk is about the diameter of a quarter and the end is nicely pointed from drawing on the sidewalk.  And I think she pushed it an inch into my eyeball, or at least that's what it felt like.  

The worst part is that it was my good eye, so I was left to rely on what little I could see through the one with the astigmatism as I fumbled around trying to figure out what to do to stop the blinding pain I was experiencing.  I couldn't even open it at first, and when I did I wished I hadn't.

Blood red.  My entire eye was blood red.  And bulging.  I had a bug eye.  The iris, circular by nature, looked more like a dented oval.  My heart started pounding in my chest.  How the hell was I going to drive myself to the ER when I could only see through one bad eye?  Visine!  Yeah, visine.  It takes the red out.  Big misktake... The red remained and now my eye was on fire to boot.

So...I called my mom.  I don't care how old I get, when I'm hurt or sick I want my mama.  Her advice was a cold compress, which I was already doing, and to get to the ER if it didn't improve.  Two hours of ice later, my eye almost returned to it's normal shape.  The red dulled to a pretty shade of pink and I could stand to keep it open for more than a second at a time.  By the time I went to bed, it was still very sore but about ninety percent better in the shape and color departments so I skipped the ER visit. 

All appeared normal this morning but it felt like I took one hell of a punch to the eye.  If it had to happen, I'm so glad it happened to me and not Punky.  You can bet I'll be keeping a close eye on that chalk in the future, no pun intended.

Slippery When Wet

Despite the fact that we were both sick most of the week, Punky and I felt well enough to make that first swimming class Saturday.  It went as I expected.  She seemed to really enjoy it so I guess we'll continue going for the next nine weeks. 

The class was held in a therapy pool with ninety degree water.  I watched her face as I carried her down the steps and into the nice, warm pool.  She was smiling ear to ear.  She quickly took to splashing just like she does in the bath and giggled as she soaked my face and hair.

The instructor is more like an advisor...only there to answer questions and assist if needed.  So it's basically just an hour of pool playtime with balls and other available toys and that's fine with me.  Punky's only sixteen months and that was her first time in a pool.  There will be plenty of time for real swim lessons; now it's great to just get her used to the water and how her body reacts to it.

Everything was going smoothly...until I dropped her face first into the water.  I stood her up on the steps of the pool and she slipped right out of my hands.  That baby soft skin is darn slippery when wet.  She went under for a second until I was able to get a good grip and pull her out.  A few coughs were followed by a minute of crying...and a few dirty looks for mama.  I felt terrible but thankfully she got over it and we were able to enjoy the rest of the hour.

And I'm happy to report we made it through without a poop incident.  Punky  usually goes like clockwork, and the class falls during her morning poop window.  I wasn't looking forward to peeling a wet bathing suit and dirty diaper off a shivering baby on a bench in a locker room.  I know, I'm speaking too soon.  There are nine more weeks to go; I'm sure she'll get me sooner or later.  And she owes me one after nearly drowning her.

God Bless the Shoe Salesman

We made the trek to the mall on Saturday as planned.  The closest one is almost a forty minute drive.  It's a nice size and there are many additional stores surrounding the mall itself.  All the big names in retail are represented.  I suppose the ride is worth it if you love to shop.  I, on the other hand, would rather get poked in the eye.  Shopping just isn't something I've ever really enjoyed.  My goal is usually to get what I need and get the hell out of there ASAP.  It works for me.

Anyway, my quest for new shoes landed us in many more stores than I care to visit in one day.  I needed practical, business footwear which seemed to be non-existent in most stores.  'Tis the season for sandals, flip flops, and those stupid, plastic-looking things they pass off as shoes.  None of which appeal to me...

I don't do feet.  Seriously.  Feet are yucky.  Often sweaty.  Sometimes obnoxiously fragrant.  While they are designed perfectly to serve a necessary function, feet are simply not attractive.  I rarely even look at my own.  I don't appreciate being forced to see other people's either.  I was definitely in the minority when my office changed its policy on open-toed shoes.  Not having to see almost naked feet, nor hear the annoying clickety-clackety of flip flops in the office, does not break my heart one bit.  At the beach?  Appropriate.  At work?  Highly unprofessional.  And gross.

The only exception, of course, is cute little baby feet.  Those I can stomach, and even kiss when the mood strikes, but I have to admit I don't do that as often now that Punky is running around in sneakers.  Even her adorable little piggies can make me gag when I peel her socks off and her feet are sweaty with globs of sock lint stuck between her toes.  But, living up to my mama duties, I happily contain myself as I pick it all out and wipe her feet down with fresh-smelling baby wipes.  As silly as it sounds, I'd rather a dirty diaper any day.

At any rate, our journey into multiple shoe departments this weekend made me think about what has to be the most awful job in the world: shoe salesman.  I could never do it.  I just... couldn't.  To me, this job is worthy of it's own special on Mike Rowe's Dirty Jobs. 

In one store, I couldn't help but notice a salesman fitting a woman for some dress shoes.  She had three bandaids on the dirty foot she proudly held up for him so he could slip on a shoe.  I think I threw up a little in my mouth.  I don't understand how he didn't.

In another store, a saleswoman struggled to find a pair of sandals to fit an elderly woman comfortably.  After about the sixth try, she was successful in finding something the woman could live with but it allowed me far too many opportunities to see her crooked toes and yellow nails as I shopped along the nearby wall.  No one could pay me enough to touch her foot once, let alone six times.  And why does she want sandals to show those puppies to the world?

One lucky salesman was spared in another store by a big guy who decided to try on new sneakers sans any outside help.  I had the pleasure of being right next to him as he removed his old pair.  What on earth do people do to achieve that level of offensive foot odor?  I don't get it.  Unless you run miles a day, in ninety degree weather, in wool socks, in ten-year-old sneakers, and you haven't heard of the new invention called soap, there is absolutely no excuse for a stench like that.  Not to mention the vast array of foot cremes, powders, and shoe inserts now available in the modern world that specifically target the problem.

I can't imagine the all the horrors a shoe salesman faces on a daily basis.  Aside from the odors, there are corns, blisters, fungi, missing nails and more lurking among the feet of the public.  Blech.  And, for those who actually waste precious life time doing it, painted toe nails do nothing to make feet more attractive; they simply draw even more attention to the ugliest part of the body.

God bless the shoe salesman.  He has far greater strength than I.

A Surprise for Daddy

I still need to write about Easter, but after that last post I need to lighten the mood.  And I have the perfect tale to tell. 

Due to his work schedule, Punky usually has only one full day a week with her dad.  When we're home together she tends to cling more to me, so I'm glad they have that day together alone while I'm at work.  And I'm also glad she pulls her worst stunts on his shift.

Last week he needed to use the bathroom.  You can't ignore nature's calls even when you have to keep an eye on a toddler.  Usually she accompanies me to the potty, but he seems to manage a few minutes of privacy while she plays in another room.  He keeps the door open and will call her when one of those odd silences signal she's up to no good.

After a few minutes he no longer heard the music from the toy she was playing with and needed to know what she was doing.  He called her and she came trotting in the bathroom right away like she usually does.  Only this time, she had a surprise for Daddy.

Two patties full of crap.  Not junk.  Not stuff.  Shit.  The real deal.  Apparently she stuck both hands down the back of her diaper and pulled out two good handfuls, then proudly pranced in the bathroom and held them up for him to see.  So, in addition to cleaning her up of course, he also had to search the living room for anything she may have touched before showing him her treasure.

He he he...

Where Are Your Pants?

I walked in the door after work yesterday and Punky came toddling to greet me with her usual wide, happy smile. 

"Hi baby girl!" I said with excitement to match the look on her face.  "Where are your pants?"

Her dad pokes his head out from the pantry.  "Go ahead, tell her what you did..."   Uh-oh. Someone's in trouble...

Although technically safe by legal standards, our tap water leaves a lot to be desired in the taste department so we frequent a fresh mountain spring not far from the house.  The jugs we fill at the spring are lined up on the floor in the pantry.  Punky likes to play in the pantry.  You can see where this is headed.

Her dad was only a few feet away washing some dishes in the sink.  Once he turned off the running water, he heard a noise that didn't sound quite right so he turned around to see what she was doing.

Somehow, some way, she managed to get the lid off one of the largest jugs in the closet.  I assume it wasn't screwed on as tightly as it should have been.  She then proceeded to tip the jug on its side and create her own bath time on the pantry floor.  I wish I was home to see it.  With how much she loves playing in the water, I bet she was absolutely thrilled until Daddy spoiled her fun! He was mopping up the mess when I got home. 

In addition to her missing pants (which was all he thought to pull off her), her socks were totally soaked, her shirt was far from dry, and her hair looked like it does after her bath.  I cleaned her up and got her in warm, dry clothes while he finished tackling the mess. 

This goes on top of the list as the biggest mess she's made thus far.  But seriously, that floor really needed a mopping so she kind of forced us to finally do what we'd been putting off for weeks.  And it was only water, so no permanent damage done. 

And, the best part of all, it happened on Daddy's watch and he got stuck with the clean up.  I doubt I'd be as amused and calm if the tables were turned. I bet he keeps the pantry door closed from now on...like I do...

Remember that frozen pizza, Daddy?  Payback's a bitch.