Grease is the Word

About two months ago on one of our long trips home, Punky managed to stay awake and grew increasingly fussy with each passing moment about an hour into the ride.  Knowing she loves music, and drums, and horns, I hit the play button on the CD player in the hope of distracting and amusing her if only for a few minutes. 

Because I'm such a young, hip, cool mom, the loaded CD was the soundtrack to the movie Grease.  I quickly found the theme song and pointed out the sound of the horns blaring, the rhythm of the drum beat, and sang a few of the lyrics to her.  She stopped fussing and listened intently to the music.  When the song ended, she asked to hear it again.

I was more than happy to play it again if it meant keeping her quiet and calm for a bit.  Besides, I love the movie and soundtrack.  It was a quick, easy, enjoyable fix for her fussing.  Score one for Mommy!

By about the seventh or eighth time, I had about enough of that song so I suggested we listen to other songs on the CD.  Whenever I started to play something different, she'd cry and whine until I played the theme song again.  By the time we reached our destination, we listened to it about thirteen times and I had my fill of Grease for awhile. 

The weekend passed and all was well until we embarked on our journey back home.  About ten minutes into the two and a half hour trip, she asked to hear "the horn song with the horns."  At first I had absolutely no clue what the hell she was talking about, but after a few minutes I realized what she meant.  "Only one time," I told her as I hit the play button. 

One turned into two, then three and four and five.  I managed to distract her for a few minutes here and there, but eventually she'd ask to hear it again.  I lost count on the number of times I played it that trip, but she was able to sing most of the words by the time we got home. 

No big deal.  She'll eventually tire of it, I thought.  Or she'll simply forget about it.  I'll  find other songs to amuse her in the car.  But it hasn't worked out that way.

Any time we're in the car, or walking toward the car, or planning to go in the car later that day, she asks to hear the horn song with the horns.  I took the CD out of the car for a few days at one point, but eventually caved and returned it after her relentless requests to hear it.  Guess which CD will not be accompanying us on our trip to Florida? 

Speaking of grease...

Last weekend I woke up early...a whole two hours before Punky...so I occupied myself with some much needed housework.  Laundry always tops the list come Saturday.  I washed one load, put it in the dryer, and washed a second load.  When the dryer stopped an hour later, I started folding load number one only to discover lovely black greasy streaks over all the clothes.  I hadn't transfered load number two to the dryer at that point so I ran to the washer to check it.  Ditto on the streaks.  Dammit.

Actually, dammit plus a string of other colorful four letter words.  The first load was mostly Punky's clothes...many of which were brand new outfits for our vacation.  The second load was all the new shorts and shirts I bought for vacation.  I wanted to cry.  Not only did I ruin two loads of clothes, we also had to spend money on a new washer just two weeks before our trip.  

Grease is the word I don't care to hear for quite a while.

Daycare Dilemma

Punky's daycare has announced its first "real" field trip since she's been enrolled.  They take the kids on walking trips often: to the park, to the library, and even to the bank and post office.  These jaunts make me a tad bit nervous.  After all, my kid's easy to lose.  She's a runner, she's damn fast, and she's tiny to boot.  It's not hard for her to disappear (hence the purchase of the kiddie leash disguised as an adorable monkey backpack for our upcoming trip to meet the mouse).

Anyway, this field trip is to a campground about fifteen miles away.  We actually camped there when Punky was six months old.  It's really a great place to camp with small children.  They have a train ride through the woods around the campground, a beautifully restored carousel, a pool, an enormous sand pit full of toys, a playground with all the usual equipment plus extras like a pirate ship, a ball pit, huge boat swings, carnival type games that are free to play, and more.  It sounds like it will be a fun day for the kids.  But...

(Of course there's one, or the title wouldn't contain the word dilemma...)

The school is asking parents to help provide transportation and chaperon duty, and the timing couldn't be worse.  The field trip is scheduled for the day before we leave for vacation.  Punky's dad and I both have the following ten days off, and there is no way for either of us to extend our approved vacation time by another day.  Neither of us is able to go.  Period.  

Given that fact, we are left with two choices and they are equally shitty in my book.

The field trip is only for kids over two years old, so the daycare will still be open that day for the babies.  The director told me that Punky will be able to stay at the school if we'd rather she not participate, but I can't seem to make a decision.

Punky is only two, but she's sharp.  She will definitely hear the kids and teachers talking about it the day before the trip.  She will definitely notice all the excitement that morning as they get ready to go.  She will definitely be upset when the rest of her class leaves and she's not allowed to go along.  She'll be bored all day at school while confined to the baby room without the classes, toys, teachers, and friends that are normally part of her day.  And, come the following morning, she will definitely feel like she missed out on something fun as the kids yap about the great time they had on the field trip. 

The flip side?  We let her go. 

In a stranger's car.  With a parent we don't know.  On a 65 mph highway without knowing the condition of the vehicle or the safety-consciousness of the driver.  And once at the campground, there's the chaperon thing.  Who will be watching my child?  A parent who knows nothing about her aside from her name?  Will they hold her tightly on the carousel, and sit beside her on the train, and monitor how high she climbs at the playground?  Given the chance, Punky would jump off the moving train to chase a squirrel she spots in the woods, try to stand up on the back of the carousel horse, and be all the way on top of the monkey bars in an instant.  I know my child.

And to be quite honest, if I were in charge of watching a group of three or four kids on a field trip, I know I would pay closer attention to the care, wants, and needs of my own.  I don't think that makes me a bad person; I think it makes me a mom.

So, do I deny her the opportunity and feel like the worst mother on the planet?  Or do I suck it up and trust a stranger with my precious little girl, and spend the day in a constant state of worry, and then feel like the worst mother on the planet if something bad happens?  Either way, I lose.  

Until now, I felt confident with all the decisions I've made for Punky.  I knew where I stood, listened to my gut, and I have no regrets.  I am firmly stuck on the fence with this one.  Am I being way over-protective and paranoid?  Do I need to lighten up a bit?  Or should I follow my gut and choose her safety over her pleasure?  She'd get over it, right?  Probably quickly with us heading to Disney the very next night.

I welcome your opinions but I don't expect them.  I've come to terms with having the quietest group of readers in the blogosphere.  I can see you, you know.  I'll let you know which way the cookie crumbles, but with my blogging habits as of late, Punky may be seven till you know the outcome. 

Twenty-Nine Months

Punky can be a handful these days.  She really learned how to push the limits and challenge us every chance she gets.  And the worst part is that she seems to push me more than her dad.  Me.  The one she clings to, the one she wants to do everything with, the one she begs to sleep with, the one with the two-year-old stuck to her butt cheek at all times.  Me.  I just don't get it.

I can tell her a thousand times to stop doing something she's not supposed to be doing...and she ignores me no matter my tone of voice.  Her dad shouts, "Knock it off!" from another room and she stops immediately.  Go figure.  By no means do I want her to be afraid of me, but I want her to listen when I talk.  It's almost like she tunes me out just to see what I'll do about it...how I'll handle it...what it will take to make Mommy lose it.  It's making me crazy. 

Her mouth is in constant motion and she comes off with some real doozies.  She counts everything these days...how many bites of cereal she eats, how many toys she can carry at one time, how many cars we see on the way home from school, how many times she can jump off the stool before we tell her to stop.  And at some point this month she learned to count backwards which usually ends with a "Blastoff!" and accompanying jump.

She is still so interested in music, instruments, and singing.  She sings her head off while playing random notes on her little keyboard.  A harmonica, tambourine, or drum is always within reach.  At least once a day we have a music parade where we walk laps around the house while singing and playing instruments.  The neighbors must think we're nuts.  Punky is too short to see if someone glances in the window, so her dad and I must look like idiots marching in circles with Mickey Mouse maracas and light-up drumsticks. One thing I noticed this month is that she is really starting to sing in key.  Her favorite song this month?  The Beer Barrel Polka.  Yes, seriously. 

Also new this month...nightmares.  At least I think she's having nightmares.  She screams in her sleep often and it scares the hell out of me.  I go running only to find her sound asleep.  And suddenly everything under the sun scares her, or so she says.  The TV, my pink robe, her pillow, the fan, a rock, and even her toothbrush made the list of things that are now scary.  Although it's mostly silly stuff, in the moment she seems genuinely afraid.  Thankfully it passes in an instant...or we'd have an empty house.  

She's really into shapes lately and what things are made out of, like wood, plastic, glass, etc.  She'll look around the room and point out everything she sees that's a certain shape.  "See that clock, Mommy?  It's round.  It's a circle.  It's made out of plastic and glass.  See that door, Mommy?  It's a rectangle.  It has four sides.  It's made out of wood."  She has a fondness for wood.  In the midst of a bedtime story, she'll interrupt me and say, "Let's talk about wood!"  And then we discuss everything in her room that's made out of wood, where wood comes from, how you can get splinters from wood... I have a very odd child.  

She is so excited about our upcoming vacation.  When we booked the trip months ago, I was worried she'd be too young to really understand it or enjoy it but I have no doubts now.  She'll have a blast.  Every night she asks if we're going on vacation tomorrow, and I tell her how many days are left till we go.  It's getting close; we're in the final countdown.  Look out, Mickey Mouse, here we come!  Okay, Mommy's a bit excited, too!

And I can't end this month's update without sharing some fantastic news.  Punky had a doctor appointment on Thursday...a follow-up visit to check her ears...and for the first time since January we left without a prescription for antibiotics.  No ear infection.  All clear.  Phew.  Maybe that nightmare is finally over.

Blue Skidoo

I've always been a dreamer.  Not in the wish and hope sense, I mean a real dreamer.  I lost a bit once adulthood set in and life's realities squashed the innocence of my imagination, but as a child my dreams were like big screen productions and I actually looked forward to bedtime. 

Every night vivid stories would play like movies in my head.  I had my fair share of nightmares, but most of the time they were happy dreams full of vibrant colors, amazing feats, and lots of laughter.  Surfing in tidal waves in my parents front yard, riding a toy train on the railroad tracks behind the house, climbing the tallest tree in the world and looking at all the ant-size people below... My dreams were adventurous.  My dreams were fun.  My dreams were an escape from being the shy kid with her nose in a book.  

And they seemed so real. 

I remember being excited to fall asleep some nights.  If I had a particularly amusing dream the night before, many times it would continue the next night...right where it left off...and I couldn't wait to see the rest of the story.  Several of my favorite dreams repeated often and the images are burned in my brain to this day.  

In one dream, I was able to fly.  It always started the same way: I was playing with my dolls in the front yard.  I would run really fast and jump straight up in the sky.  I would float above the treetops and use swimming strokes to propel myself through the air.  From roof to roof, tree to tree, all across town.  I would simply jump back down whenever I wanted to land.  It seemed so natural, so easy, and so normal.

This was my favorite dream of all.  It repeated so often it apparently blurred the line between reality and dreamland in my mind.  One afternoon while playing in the front yard, without giving it an ounce of conscious thought, I ran as fast as I could and jumped with all my might.  When my feet quickly landed right back on the grass, I was stunned.  Completely dumbfounded.  It took a minute for the confusion to pass and the realization to set in: I couldn't really fly.  It was only a dream.  And I was pissed.

I've thought of that incident many times over the years.  For whatever reason, it left a lasting impression and I've always wondered about the look on my face at the time.  I could only imagine how painfully lost I appeared.  But on Sunday, I saw that face and recognized it in an instant.  

Punky and I were sitting on the floor in her room.  It's her favorite spot when she wants to read...right in front of the book shelves overflowing with every kids' story imaginable.  Not like she cares about the vast array of titles to choose from...she has her handful of favorites and it's like pulling teeth to get her to read a new one.  Once in a while she breaks routine, and I'm thrilled to read something new for a change.  I know so many of her books by heart, no need to even look at the pages.  

Anyway, after a few of the usuals, she told me she wanted to read the playground story and I had no clue which book she meant.  She started pulling them off the shelves one by one and flipping through the pages until she found the book with the picture she had in mind.  "Great!" I said...a new one..."Bring it here and we'll read that book!"

She stood up but left the book on the floor, still open to a colorful picture of kids playing at the playground.  She mumbled something... and then jumped on it.   

At first, I didn't quite catch what she said.  But when I saw the look on her face, the look...my look, I instantly realized what happened.  She tried to skidoo...like Blue...and was so confused when she ended up simply standing on a book on her bedroom floor.  She expected to jump into the story and play with the kids at the playground.  

For those who don't spend their evenings surfing PBS, Sprout, Nickelodeon, and the Disney Chanel, this is in reference to Blue's Clues, a show about a little, blue dog and his owner who sometimes "skidoo" into story books.  "Blue skidoo...We can, too!" is what she mumbled before taking her giant jump onto the playground picture.  

It broke my heart to tell her she couldn't really skidoo into a book.  She had the same disappointed/pissed off look I had when I realized I couldn't really fly.  I guess all the rainy weather we've been having here (seriously, we're like three days away from building an ark) has finally gotten to her.  She's been dying to get to the playground and apparently had a novel idea on how to get there.  I felt her pain when it didn't work.  

And I still wish I could fly.

Pisspot Periwinkle

No, not the child.  Me.  Although she does have her moments.

I don't know what the hell my problem is lately but my general mood has moved beyond cranky to pissed off at the world.  Sudden bursts of anger come out of nowhere over the tiniest things.  It's like I just snap, and it's happening more and more often.

It's been a rough couple of months.  Since Punky started daycare in January, it's been all downhill.  Between her being sick all the time, me being sick, her dad being sick, missing time from work constantly, juggling finances, work stresses, traveling, family problems, and all the other bullshit of daily life, I think I've simply cracked.  These little bursts of anger are like a desperately needed release valve, otherwise my head may literally explode. 

And the more stressed I get, the more Punky's dad's annoying habits get under my skin, so home life has been quite rocky as well.  People generally learn to overlook the small stuff in a relationship.  You have to, otherwise you risk stabbing your significant other between the eyes with a steak knife.  But when times are tough, and your sanity seems to be hanging by a thread, all that previously overlooked small stuff shines through tauntingly.  And lately I've been taking the bait.  There's been plenty of eye rolling, mumbling, bitching, yelling, and not-so-subtle glares at the wooden knife block on the kitchen counter. 

Another major player in this piss-a-thon is my thyroid.  I was doing so well keeping it in check, but I fell off the wagon over the course of the last few weeks.  Weekend trips home plus oversleeping most mornings lately have put a kink in my usual routine.  I'm supposed to skip one a week...I think it's been more like three or four lately.  I'm sure part of my irritability can be blamed on the resulting hormone imbalance, but not all of it.  

Part of the credit also goes to a bout of insomnia like I haven't experienced in years.  I have an occasional bad night here or there, but I haven't had a stretch like this for years.  No matter what I do, I can't seem to get to sleep before two at the earliest, and the alarm rings at six.  I've been averaging two to four hours a night now for weeks.  And it shows.  Most days I feel like someone punched me in both eyes.  

So, what came first?  The chicken or the egg?  I have no clue.  Maybe the stress is causing the insomnia, which led to the oversleeping, which contributed to the thyroid mess up, which in turn is fueling the irritability.  Or maybe the insomnia has left me so utterly exhausted that I can't even cope with everyday life, thus causing me to feel so incredibly stressed and unable to focus on such mundane things like swallowing that damn little pill in the morning, which again is contributing to the piss fest.  Or maybe my utter lack of discipline in taking the meds started the ball rolling and the resulting bad mood is fueling the overwhelmed, stressed, life spinning out of control feeling that is in turn causing a severe bout of insomnia.  Ah, who the hell knows. 

All I know is that I seem to have a bone to pick with everybody these days.  People are pissing me off left and right.  I'm having trouble dealing with everyone's attitudes, and I'm tired of feeling like I'm on the bottom of everyone's list.  And, as usual, I've been quietly taking it all in for months, trying to keep the peace, family harmony, and all that other shit. 

Punky and I went home again last weekend for a bunch of things...dentist appointment, hair cuts for both of us, my niece's first birthday party, and an anniversary party for my aunt and uncle.  Because the last one was held even farther south, we faced a four hour drive home on Sunday.  We almost didn't make it.  It took everything I had to steer toward home.  I wanted to drive somewhere, anywhere far away, and just start over.  Knowing no one.  Having nothing but the clothes we packed for the weekend and the cash in my checkbook.  Thirty-eight years old and I want to run away.  Can you believe it? 

So, needless to say, this funk has cut into my will to write.  It's taking me a week to finish one post lately.  I hope this storm passes quickly but for now no end is in sight.  I keep telling myself I just need to hang in there until vacation; maybe it will do me some good and help turn this mood around.  It's still a month away and it seems like an eternity.  

Who knows?  Maybe the world will end on Saturday and none of this will matter anymore.  Now there's a group deserving of a steak knife reality check.  Idiots.

Mudder's Day

I wasn't in the door from work ten seconds on Friday when Punky ran to me and let the cat out of the bag.

"I got you flowers today, Mommy, at the store! Beautiful flowers! For Mudder's Day, Mommy!"

While I chuckled at her adorable pronunciation of the word 'mother', her dad shot her a disapproving look. "You weren't supposed to tell her! It was supposed to be a surprise for Mother's Day!  I told you it was a secret!  How many times did we talk about this today?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she mumbled and turned back to me.  "I got you a card, too, Mommy!" 

So, I got my flowers a few days early but the card waited until Sunday.  Apparently her dad also had a talk with her about being a good girl for me all weekend, and to my surprise it worked.  We've been dealing with some ongoing behavior issues lately, but she was a perfect angel this weekend. 

We went out to dinner on Friday because her dad had to start third shift that night.  In other words, he'd be sleeping most of Saturday and Sunday so it was our only opportunity. 

Saturday was a lazy day.  Well, lazy in the sense that we didn't leave the house or even get out of jammies all day, but I still did dishes, and laundry, and cleaned the bedroom.  While Punky's dad was awake for a few hours in the afternoon, I managed to take a long, relaxing shower.  Alone.  I can't get my ass out of bed early enough before work to swing anything but a five-minute quickie, so shaving is like a present each and every weekend when I can sneak a shower without Punky demanding to join me.  Summer's coming; I'll need to adjust my razor routine. 

Anyway, in between chores and my super shower, Punky and I spent our free time playing.  We colored.  We read books.  We had a picnic on her bunny blanket on the living room floor.  We watching home videos from last year when she was an even smaller runt.  She laughed; I cried a bit.  I spent the day enjoying my amazing little girl, remembering what was, pondering what's to come, and loving her to pieces.  She slept with me that night and we snuggled, and giggled, and told stories.  It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. 

Sunday dawned and everything was fine.  I got a beautiful Mother's Day card from my little peanut and we chatted through breakfast.  Her dad only took a short nap that morning and was awake by eleven.  He figured he'd sleep more later on since he had to stay awake and watch Punky all day today while I worked.  He headed up to see him mom for Mother's Day and gave me the best present of all: he took Punky with him.  I had about two hours of free time.  Me time.  To relax and do whatever I wanted to do without anyone interrupting me for milk in a big girl cup, a pickle, to play play-doh, or whatever other thing Punky desperately needs every other minute.  Me time is a rarity; I've learned to take it when I can get it. 

By the time they came home, the silence in the house was verging on disturbing and I had run out of things to do.  Sad, isn't it?  Of course, I couldn't let her dad think I was bored so I continued to putter around while he fixed her lunch.  I had to step back into my mommy role when her gave her spaghetti while she was wearing a white shirt and new, light purple pants.  He took her pants off, secured a bib, and stuck around long enough to clean her up when she finished.  As he headed back to bed, I returned to duty and decided to start with a much needed diaper change. 

When I picked her up, her bare legs felt warm.  I could feel the heat from her stomach against my side as I carried her into her room.  I touched my cheek to her head and let out a little scream.  She was on fire!  Absolutely burning up!  I put her on the changing table a grabbed a thermometer.  Just over 102.  She never had a fever that high before.  And, of course, she just finished the last dose of antibiotics from her last ear infection only twenty four hours earlier.  I swear, it's like we have a black cloud lingering over this house. 

Other than the fever, she seemed fine.  She was playing, eating, and drinking.  She wasn't cranky or whiny.  I kept asking her if anything hurt and she repeatedly told me no.  So, we spent the rest of the day alternating motrin and tylenol to keep the fever under control and watching cartoons on TV.  She took every opportunity she had to run around, but I kept insisting she sit and relax.  It was rough for her.  She normally doesn't sit for more than thirty seconds at a time. 

I took her into bed with me again last night, and her fever finally seemed to break around eleven.  She was sweating like crazy and her pillow was soaked.  I woke up every hour or so to check her throughout the night.  Needless to say, I was exhausted today.  When I took her temperature before I left for work, it was over 103.  Her dad resumed the motrin/tylenol cycle which continued all day.  Before bed tonight, she was still 102.  I'm expecting another rough night with no sleep, and a phone call to the doc in the morning.  My poor little girl.  It's been one thing after another for months.  She just can't catch a break.  None of us can. 

I Survived

One year ago today I was tossed haphazardly into my current position at work.  Hard to believe it's been that long already.  Apparently, I've survived.

A year ago I had my doubts.  I was stressed, overwhelmed, and struggling to learn everything I needed to know as quickly as possible.  Whenever I find myself in a particularly uncomfortable situation, I always wish I could fast forward a year to sneak a glimpse of how things will work out, you know, to see if there is a light at the end of the tunnel or if the current situation will end in disaster.  It's the same annoying trait that causes me to read the last page of a novel before I even start the first chapter.  I just feel better knowing what direction things are headed.  As I've stated before, spontaneity and surprises aren't my cup of tea.  

Now my job is, well, a job.  It pays the bills but I wouldn't say I love it.  Some parts I enjoy, others not so much.  It still has the power to stress me out, but most of the time it's rather...dull.  I hate to admit that my old boss was right.  She predicted I'd be bored in a year in this position.  It's just very confining.  I mean, there is so much that can be accomplished in my job, so many ways to improve and save the company tons of money, but their family-owned "no one can sneeze without seven meetings, fifteen signatures, and a change of seasons" mentality has left me to twiddle my thumbs and wait for my boss to eventually pull my ideas to the top of his thousand-page pile of things he needs to run by the family before I can take any action.  It's simply frustrating.

Even more frustrating is knowing that I'm doing a good job, yet still make less than my predecessor.  How I know that isn't important, but the fact that I do stings every time I think about it.  And I can't help but help but think about it.  I know what that office was like when it was dumped on me; I'm still cleaning up the mess a year later. 

Given the economic state of the company right now, there is no opportunity to move to another position.  I'm stuck.  Lately I've been looking around to see what other opportunities exist in the world.  It's just not as easy as it was pre-Punky.  There is so much more to consider than before.  And I hate the thought of starting over yet again.  So I guess I'll wait it out a bit longer, at least through the summer since our vacation is planned.  Hopefully the economy will improve by fall and there will be more options available.  I've gone nowhere but backwards in this company; it may be time to cut my losses and move on.