Thirty-Three Months

It's obvious that this month's crowning achievement has been Punky's complete turn around in potty training.  The rest of the month played out with only one more accident.  She was at school at the time and in a pull-up anyway.  Other than that, she's doing fantastic.  I always said it would be all or nothing with her and that's exactly what happened.  She's even sleeping in big girl undies now, provided she pees right before bed.

Aside from potty training, our trip to the children's hospital, and the head bangs two weeks ago, there isn't all that much to report.  So, I thought I'd use this month's space to document some of the wonderful things we've heard roll off her tongue recently.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.

A sweet moment at the dinner table as she shoveled it in like she hadn't eaten in weeks:

P: "Daddy? What's this stuff called again?"

D: "Goulash, honey."

P: "It is so yummy! Thank-you so much for making this good dinner today, Daddy!"

Her tone was so sincere that my eyes instantly filled with tears.  What a little angel.

While goofing around on the bed one night, my shirt came up a bit so she took the opportunity to stick her finger in my belly button:

P: "Mommy! I'm tickling your belly button! Tickle, tickle, tickle!" as she wiggled her little finger.

M: "Ewww! Don't do that! It doesn't tickle, it just feels yucky!"

P: "Yeah, it feels squishy to me!"

M: "Squishy? What do you mean squishy?"

P: "Like a cow, Mommy!"

Did she just call me fat?  

On the way to her friend's birthday party a few weeks ago:

M: "Now that Victoria had her birthday, you are both two!"

P: "I'm two and a half, Mommy. And on my next birthday, I'll be three!"

M: "I know, sweetie, but for right now you are still technically the same number. Your birthday is months down the road."

P: "Mommy? What number will you be on your next birthday?"

M: "Me? I'll be thirty-nine."

P: "Whoa! That's a big number!"

Did she just call me old?

As I removed her potty seat from the toilet so I could pee:

P: "You can use my seat, Mommy, if you want to."

M: "Oh, thanks honey, but your seat is only for tiny tushies like yours."

P: "Yeah, when you take it off, the other seat is for big butts."

Did she just call me fat again?

While eating lunch one afternoon, just the two of us:

P: "Mommy, can Aidan come over to my house today?"

Aidan is a four-year-old boy at school.  I think she's a bit smitten with him since she's asked several times if he can come over and play. 

M: "I told you before, sweetie, I don't even know who Aidan is. If I ever see his mommy or daddy at daycare, maybe we can talk about a play date some time."

P: "Okay, Mommy."

Thirty seconds of silence.

P: "Mommy?"

M: "What, honey?"

P: "Can Aidan use your car?"

Somehow I don't think Aidan will be visiting any time soon.

A moment of confusion while looking for her stuff after Mommy rearranged her bedroom:

P: "Mommy? Where's that thing with the things inside?"

M: "What things, sweetie?"

P: "Those things that were inside the white things."

M: "What white things?"

P: "The white things with the handles."

M: "What handles?"

P: "The round handles."

M: "Are you looking for a thing with a white, round handle, or the things inside the thing with a white, round handle?"

P: "The things."

M: "Which things?"

P: "My things!"

She was growing impatient with Mommy.

M: "I'm sorry but I have no clue what you are looking for, sweetie. Can you show me?" 

P: "I can't, Mommy! I don't know where they are!"

M: "Oh yeah. Right. I forgot."

She glared at me like I was as dumb as a stump.  In my defense, I was preoccupied with putting everything away in her newly rearranged room and wasn't listening as intently as I should have, I suppose.  With her hands on her hips, she stormed over by the window and went off on a tangent with vivid arm motions.

P: "It was right here, Mommy! The white, square thing that was right here! It has two drawers in it! What happened to it? I want my things inside it!"

She was looking for her nightstand that I moved across the room into a corner.  If she would've just asked for her puzzles, we could've avoided that entire conversation.

My Ongoing Oral Saga

I can honestly say that this past weekend was the absolute worst sixty-eight hours of my entire life thanks to my wonderful teeth.  

Yes, again. 

Ever since my toothache and root canal at the beginning of the month, things never quite returned to normal.  I was sore for a few days, which is typical I suppose, but once the soreness went away I developed an extremely annoying, painful sensation in the same area in response to anything hot.  It was cutting into my coffee addiction big time.  I decided to fill the antibiotic prescription the dentist gave me in case I had any trouble.  And I filled the one for hydrocodone as well cause you can never have enough narcotic pain killers around the house in an emergency.  Maybe I sensed what was coming down the road. 

After a week on the antibiotics, and weening myself to only one painful cup of coffee per day, I was feeling a bit better.  The sensation was still there but it wasn't nearly as strong.  I hoped, like I always do, that it would simply disappear on its own.  As the days passed, it was clear it wouldn't go down like that. 

By mid-week it started rearing its ugly head any damn time it felt like it, coffee or no coffee.  Once it started, it would quickly spread through the entire right side of my face and within seconds my ear would throb as well.  Without trying, I stumbled upon a cure for my discomfort: cold water.  One mouthful of cold water and it would go away for a while, but by Friday it whittled down to a mere thirty seconds.  

Yes, I said thirty seconds.  I placed a frantic call to my dentist but to no avail.  He was out of town.  And I faced the weekend ahead of me.  I was so glad I filled the other prescription and popped some pills the minute I got home from work.  Too bad they didn't work.  Not one single bit.  Cold water was my only relief.  

At first I was swallowing the magical mouthfuls of water but within hours I realized I was likely to drown in my sleep if I continued to do so.  How foolish I was to think I'd actually be able to sleep.  Anyway, I started toting a spit bucket around from room to room and only swallowed when I had to, like when I had to pee because I couldn't hold both a bottle of water and a bucket while sitting on the john.  

Imagine if you will how utterly impossible it is to do anything when you need to drink water literally every thirty seconds.  By midnight it had become a form of torture and I was ready to crack.  Try falling asleep in a thirty second window before the pain returns.  It was absolutely unreal.  As the hours passed, I tried everything we had in the house for pain.  Excedrin.  Advil.  Tylenol with codeine.  And even more of the hydrocodone.  

Let me say this, I have no idea how people become addicted to pain killers when the damn things don't even work.  Hydrocodone is supposed to have calming effects similar to heroin, which may explain why it didn't lose my shit all together and stab myself in the eye with a toothbrush or strangle myself with dental floss, but I was still experiencing the worst pain I've ever felt in my life.  Screw hydrocodone.  It's useless in my book.  

Anyway, by five in the morning I finally fell asleep.  I'm not sure if it was from shear exhaustion or the pain killer cocktail I had swirling around in my bloodstream.  I guess it was a little of both.  And when I woke up at eight, thanks to one overly rambunctious two-year-old that shall remain nameless, the pain was gone.  I was thrilled but it was short-lived.  One bite of toast and sip of water two hours later landed me right back in hell.  Instantly.

I finally heard from my dentist's office around seven that evening.  His assistant listened to my story and called him on his cell phone to see what I, or they, or anyone could do to help me before I lost my mind.  The result?  Nothing.  He called in another antibiotic prescription for me to pick up on Sunday morning, but he said there really wasn't any stronger pain killer he could prescribe.  If hydrocodone wasn't touching it, nothing would.  

I think I had a minor mental breakdown that night around two in the morning.  I stood at the bathroom sink for almost two hours crying uncontrollably, swishing and spitting water, and praying for novocaine.  Or death.  At that point death seemed more likely.  Novocaine needles simply don't fall out of thin air.  

Once I finally fell asleep, Punky's dad let me go as long as he could to give me a break from the pain.  He finally woke me at two in the afternoon because he worked third shift and was about to pass out himself.  Within minutes I wished I never woke up at all.  I started counting the hours till my dentist appointment on Monday morning.  I honestly had no clue how I was ever going to survive another night like that.

Of course my appointment started with x-rays to try and isolate the culprit.  By then, every nerve in my mouth was throbbing so all I could do was give him a general idea where it started.  He only saw one small spot of decay on one tooth and found it hard to believe it could be the source of my excruciating pain.  

I swear I wanted to punch him.  I'm sitting there waiting to die and he's yapping on and on about a ton of shit I wasn't even hearing at that point.  In a tone of voice that is normally only heard from birthing women, or demons, I yelled, "Novocaine now! Talk later!"

Relief came within seconds.  I was in heaven.  Life was suddenly good again.  I put my bottle of water down for the first time in days.  He continued to yap but I can't say I was listening any more than before.  All I wanted to do was sleep and I think I actually nodded off while he was still playing eeny meeny miny moe to choose which tooth to poke.  

The end result?  Another root canal.  And another astronomical dental bill to go with it.  My total for the month of September? One thousand, eight hundred, thirty seven dollars worth.  But Punky got her normally patient and loving mommy back in place of the miserable, drugged, quick to yell, nasty bitch that took over for a few days.  And I'm no longer praying for death.  Just dental insurance.  I plan on asking Santa for it this year.

One Lump or Two?

As Punky's dad was zipping around the kitchen yesterday afternoon trying to pack his lunch for work on second shift, I was doing my own shuffle trying to get Punky's lunch ready for her to eat, and she was busy bouncing off both of us and getting in the way.  Three people swirling in a small kitchen is apparently a recipe for disaster.

I was at the sink with my back turned when I heard her dad suddenly yell, "Look out!"  Then I heard a crack, followed by a scream, and then Punky's unmistakable "that hurt like hell" crying.  When her dad opened the freezer, a frozen three-pound tube of ground meat came flying out and clonked her right in the back of the head.  Luckily it fell sideways and only the end of it clipped her, but it was still enough to cause one hell of a lump within seconds.  What is it about her dad and frozen food head injuries?  Remember the frozen pizza incident?

Anyway, she cried for a few minutes while we gauged the scope of the damage, checked her eyes for proper dilation, and held a frozen bag of corn on the back of her little noggin.  Aside from the lump, she seemed fine so we gave her some tylenol to ward off a headache and continued about business.  

As the day went on, I got a bit nervous when she kept saying she was tired.  I mean, my child doesn't ask to take a nap.  Ever.  Finally, around six, I let her nod off on the couch but I woke her up after fifteen minutes to make sure everything was okay.  She slept another fifteen minutes but then I made her stay up because bed time wasn't all that far away.

I jumped in the shower at eight, and of course she wanted to come with me.  My planned five minute shower turned into a half hour.  By nine she was settled at her little table for a quick snack before bed.  I finally convinced myself that she was fine and I could let her sleep through the night without worrying.  She was her usual bouncy self, and she said her head didn't hurt any more except when I touched her lump.  All was well.

I went into the kitchen for a minute while she was having her snack.  Next thing I know, I hear a loud crack for the second time that day and it was followed by the same heart wrenching cry.  I ran into the living room to find Punky on her knees with her hands over her eyes.  I almost passed out; I can't handle eye stuff one bit.

I feared the worst as I pulled her little fingers away to have a look.  I was relieved to see her eyes were exactly where they were supposed to be, but she had a black line running clear across her forehead with another gigantic lump rising up in the center.  Dammit.

From the black coloring it was easy to deduce that she cracked her head on the end table.  The evidence also pointed to the possibility that she was spinning in circles with a balloon on a string and she managed to get it wrapped around her legs and trip.  At any rate, it led to another round of eye checking, tylenol dosing, and sitting with a popsicle on her forehead for half an hour.  And no sleep for me whatsoever since I kept waking her up intermittently throughout the night to make sure she wasn't unconscious.

So the answer, my friends, is two.  Two lumps.  In the same day.  A mere eight hours apart.  With her history of head bangs, a post like this was long overdue anyway.

Our New Diaper-Free World

Well, a week has passed since Punky's glorious first day of consistent potty use.  I'm happy, and honestly a bit surprised, to say things are going well.

Last Sunday, she had one not-so-accidental accident where she chose to go behind the recliner and pee on the living room floor rather than use the potty.  My mom was on her way up at the time and Punky was so excited.  I think perhaps she was afraid she'd miss Grammy's arrival if she went into the bathroom.  Her dad and I were not amused with her choice and she faced a lecture from both of us. 

Yes, of course we understand that accidents will happen, but this hardly qualified as one.  I wanted to make sure she fully understood that it is not acceptable to deliberately pee anywhere but in the potty.  I mean, pee is bad enough, but I really don't want to clean shit off the carpet.  Just the thought of it makes me gag.  It seems like the lecture, plus two minutes in the time-out chair, worked because she has not done it again.

On Monday, she had one real accident while we were at the playground.  I have to take the blame for this one.  She was still new to the steady potty routine and I should not have taken her to the playground in big girl undies, especially since we just had dinner and she sucked down a huge cup of apple juice.  The sun was setting and it got chilly quickly.  Even if she tried to hold it, there is no public bathroom at the playground and we probably wouldn't have made it home in time.  I should've had her in a pull-up.  Lesson learned.

While I'm thoroughly enjoying this new diaper-free world, it's not without drawbacks.  Her timing is the biggest.  For whatever reason, her bladder always sends the "I have to pee right now!" signal to Punky just as I am about to eat dinner.  I don't think I've gotten through an entire meal all week without having to take her to the potty. 

On the way back from the hospital on Tuesday, we stopped at a restaurant for supper.  One minute after the waitress brought our food, Punky said, "Mommy! I need to use the potty! Now!"  Sensing the urgency, I immediately jumped up, grabbed her hand, and we raced clear across the dining area to the bathroom.  On our way back to our table, she told everyone she saw that she peed in the potty.

I swear, we weren't seated a full thirty seconds when she said, "Mommy! I need to go to the potty again! Now!"  And again, I only managed to eat one more bite of my now lukewarm food.  Since her dad was at least half way through his meal, he rose to the challenge for the second mad dash to the bathroom.  This time she did more than just pee, and she proudly told everyone all about it again on the return trip.  I'm sure they enjoyed that announcement in the middle of dinner.  Thankfully the restaurant was rather empty. 

Another drawback is that her potty routine actually takes more time, and happens more frequently, than a diaper change.  She insists on being naked from the waist down despite me telling her a hundred times that it's okay to keep her pants on her ankles.  It won't affect her pee one bit.  Apparently she's not convinced.

Then, it usually takes a few minutes of sitting on the potty before anything happens.  She asks me for some privacy so I stand in the hall and twiddle my thumbs while she recites the alphabet, sings a song, flushes just for the hell of it, and spins all the toilet paper into a pile on the floor.  Finally I hear a tinkle.

Then comes the wiping, flushing, hand washing, and putting her clothes back on for the tenth time that day.  Next on the list is the sticker reward.  Once she finally decides which one she wants, it takes a few minutes for her to find the perfect spot for it on her potty paper.  I use this time to re-roll the toilet paper.  

Sometimes, start to finish, these potty episodes take twenty minutes or more.  And the real kicker?  Ten minutes later she has to go again!  She's having trouble understanding that it's possible to do both things on the potty in one sitting.  So, just like it happened at the restaurant, shortly after we run the whole routine for a tiny tinkle, we need to repeat all the steps for the other number.  But it's still better than stinky diapers.

If the above doesn't constitute enough potty trips in one day, it can almost double if she has gas.  Farts are really confusing.  She can't tell the difference in how it feels yet, so for now it results in an emergency dash to the the bathroom for just a little toot.  Although these false alarms are time-consuming, it's definitely better than her ignoring the feeling and taking the chance.  Did I mention how much I do not want to clean shit off the carpet?  I thought so.

Today we went to a friend's birthday party at a children's activity center and I took my purse.  Just my purse.  Only my purse.  As in, no more lugging that damn diaper bag around everywhere we go.  I felt a bit naked and unprepared, yet it was so liberating at the same time. 

Punky wore a pull-up to the party because I thought she might be too distracted to stop and pee, but as it turned out she stopped not once but twice during the party to use the bathroom.  I was so impressed that a huge room stuffed with every toy and activity imaginable for kids wasn't even enough to derail her potty progress.  It clinched it for me and I'm totally calling it: 

Punky is potty trained! 

The Children's Hospital

The drive to the children's hospital on Tuesday was long and fairly quiet.  Punky napped most of the way while her dad drove and fiddled with the radio.  Lost in my own world, I stared out the window and thought of all the horrible things we could hear from the doctors. 

It was a two hour drive but we gave ourselves three just in case.  It turned out to be a good idea.  We got lost and took a twenty minute jaunt around the city.  By the time we found the parking garage, navigated our way into the hospital and to the suite we needed, and signed all the new patient paperwork, the nurse called us back to get Punky's height, weight, and temperature.  Ninety-nine on the nose.  No fever whatsoever.  No fever at all since the middle of August. 

I was so thankful we weren't left in the waiting room for very long.  The sights in a children's hospital are simply heartbreaking and I had a hard time coping.  None of those kids deserve to be there.  Looking at their innocent faces, I felt more anger than sadness.  The physical pain they have to endure, the emotional roller coaster their parents experience, the fact that we may be walking down the same road ourselves.  All of it makes me angry.

  

While I filled out all the paperwork, Punky played at an activity table with a little girl.  She was maybe six or seven I'd say, and her mother kept her within reach at all times.  She wore thick glasses, braces on her legs, and a neon green and purple helmet covered in flower stickers.  Her mother seemed anxious that Punky was getting so close and attempting to interact with her.  In a low, stern voice, she kept telling her daughter to be nice and it was making me a bit nervous. 

The whole episode lasted about two minutes before Punky moved on to another toy, and I held my breath the entire time.  I braced myself for the questions that would surely come.  "Mommy, why won't that girl talk to me?  Mommy, why does she have a helmet on her head?  Mommy, what are those metal things on her legs?"  My mind scrambled to find the right choice of words just in case, but I'm glad I didn't need them.  If Punky noticed anything different about the little girl, she didn't verbalize it.  

Anyway, we met with two doctors during our visit.  The first to hear our story was a young Christian Slater look-alike with a Czech accent and musky cologne.  Punky warmed to him right away once he handed over his stethoscope for her amusement.  We went through all the fever episodes one by one, and he'd interrupt every seven seconds or so with a question.  In a college student scribbling notes sort of way, he wrote down every word we said in blue marker on a loose-leaf sheet of paper.  He had arrows going every which direction and he flipped the paper from front to back over and over again while trying to squeeze more facts into the proper timeline.

When he finished his art project, he gave Punky a quick physical exam and excused himself to discuss our case with another doctor.  Fifteen minutes later he returned with an even younger colleague to review their findings.  The second doctor bore an uncanny resemblance to Soleil Moon Frye in her teenage, post Punky Brewster days.  Her long, brunette ponytail swayed back and forth as she danced around energetically in an attempt to make my Punky love and trust her.  

Maybe I'm just getting old, but I wasn't comforted one bit by their youthful, seemingly inexperienced, appearances.  In that moment I found myself wishing for a real doctor.  Send me a guy mid-sixties or so, dressed in a suit, with white hair, bifocals, a deep raspy voice, hair on his knuckles, and no beside manner whatsoever.  And how about one of those white coats that seem to indicate to, well, everyone in the world that he's a frickin' doctor, dammit. 

At any rate, Soleil conducted the exact same physical exam performed just twenty minutes earlier by Dr. Slater.  They chatted with Punky and asked her questions about boo-boos, and itchies, and how her tummy feels.  They squeezed her joints, and checked for rashes, and pushed on her lymph nodes.  They watched her run, and jump, and spin in circles.  Finally they were ready to discuss their conclusions.

Where do we start?  What did they discover over the last hour?  What will they test for first?  Whatever they had to say, I was ready to hear it.  As long as it wasn't presented with glitter-filled sketches on green construction paper.

"Well," Soleil announced in a surprisingly professional tone, "We've reviewed her history, the blood work results, and performed a physical examination.  We don't feel any further testing is needed at this point.  Given the fact that there's been a break in the fever pattern, and she is exhibiting no other signs or symptoms right now, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.  We would have to test for everything, and some tests are lengthy and expensive, so until the fevers return or more symptoms begin to show, we prefer to wait and just watch her for a while."

That was the one thing I was not prepared to hear.

Her dad and I sat in silence for a few seconds while we tried to comprehend their decision.  Then we both started firing questions in rapid succession.  They had a lot more explaining to do before we accepted their train of thought.  They ended up going through a list of possibilities and all the reasons why they have no reason to test her for a particular illness at this time.  It took some convincing, but we finally understood their reasoning.

They sent us home with an appointment for a follow-up three months down the road, cups to collect a urine sample during the next fever episode, a lab order to have said urine processed, and our promise to take her temperature rectally next time for a more accurate reading.  And the same knot in my stomach I've had since our local pediatrician first told us that something could be wrong.

"Great news!" some people have said.  I think that's a stretch.  I mean, I'm a tad bit comforted by the fact that these doctors didn't seem anywhere near as panicked as her pedi, and I'm a tad bit relieved that we didn't have to subject Punky to all sorts of testing, and I'm a tad bit happy that they said it could be absolutely nothing at all and she may never have a fever like that again.  But, I'm still extremely worried that something could be wrong, absolutely terrified at what that something might be, and totally pissed off that we are no closer to having an answer than we were weeks ago.

As the narrowly post-pubescent doctors so delicately put it, all we can do now is watch and wait.  

And pray.

Dry

What a marvelously delicious three letter word.

Only 360 days in the making, tonight I am celebrating the first day in 992 days that I did not have to change a diaper. 

That's right.  The stars have aligned.  It finally clicked.  The potty train has reached the station. 

Every pee.  Every poop.  Every single drop of anything gross somehow managed to make it's way directly into the toilet today with very little prompting on my part.  

She gets it.  She knows what to do.  She recognizes the feeling and tells me she needs to go. 

The road was long, bumpy, and full of twists and turns, but we made it.

I want to dance!  I want to sing!  I want to yell it from the rooftops!

Congrats to my beautiful, little girl on her first entirely dry day.  I couldn't be more proud.  

(And don't worry, sweetie.  I'll let you get used to it for a while before we start the next lesson.  Butt-wiping 101 will commence a few weeks down the road.)

Labor Day Weekend

Punky and I certainly made the most of the last weekend of summer.  We were in constant motion for days.  I still haven't fully recovered and I'm looking forward to an extremely lazy upcoming weekend. 

As soon as I got home from work last Thursday, we packed the car and made the two hour drive down to visit family.  Punky's mouth ran the entire first hour with barely a break to breathe.  I absolutely adore our chats, but after sixty minutes I was ready for some silence.  My iPod and Team Umizoomi took over for the rest of the trip while I quietly sulked about summer ending and my dental visit scheduled for the next morning. 

The antibiotics and pain killers kept my toothache at a tolerable level for a week and a half, but I knew it would be a painful and expensive trip to the dentist.  I was correct on all accounts.  It turned out to be a wisdom tooth causing all the trouble and as an added bonus it had three roots rather than two which made for an incredibly lengthy root canal.  I was going to take Punky with me to the dentist so she could see what its all about in preparation for her first visit down the road, but I decided to drop her off at my mom's instead.  It turned out to be a good decision; she would've been bouncing off the walls if she had to sit there for so long. 

Once the novocaine wore off, my mom and I took Punky and my niece out for a nice lunch.  They both behaved like little ladies in the restaurant and they ate like they hadn't in weeks.  After I tackled some paperwork and bill-paying in the afternoon, we returned to my parents' house at five for dinner and spent the rest of the evening there. 

Tilt-a-Whirl laughter!

Saturday we headed to the amusement park for one last day of rides before we're buried in snow.   Okay, that's a stretch.  We should have at least another month or two before that shit starts, but it's still too close for me.  Anyway, Punky's godfather came with us again as well as my sister, her boyfriend, and my niece and nephew.  The kids had a great time and the adults did, too.  We were able to take turns watching the kids so we could ride the best wooden roller coaster ever.  It's truly a classic and ranked number five in the country for wooden coasters and it's a must-do at the park.  Punky cried again because she is still too small to ride; my nephew on the other hand, who more than meets the height requirement, was offered any toy he wanted if he would ride the coaster with me but he wasn't having it.  No way, no how.  Maybe next year...

My sister and I took the kids on the tilt-a-whirl and laughed our asses off while it spun in circles and gave us a physics lesson.  As kids, we had a hell of a time getting it to spin.  Fast forward thirty years, factor in our babies-in-our-thirties extra poundage and the operator's request that the kids sit in the middle, and we were in for one hell of a ride.  It was so much fun and the kids laughed as hard as we did.  

We ended up closing the park again so it was almost eleven till we got home.  I'm so glad we got there one more time this year; I think Punky enjoyed it more than our trip to Disney.  Now, due to heavy rains and insane flooding here in the northeast, the park is literally under water.  It's such a shame but thankfully it happened at the end of amusement park season instead of at the beginning of summer.  It's not the first time it flooded and it won't be the last.  I'm sure it will be back to normal by the time spring rolls around again. 

Jammin' with the band!

On Sunday we headed to the annual family corn roast at my uncle's farm.  True to form, tons of different delicious foods and desserts were enjoyed with tons of stories and laughter.  Punky was super-excited to see my uncle Mark and play his drums again.  She only talked about for an entire year.  Instead of letting her randomly beat the crap out of them, this year he let her play them while the band was playing real music.  He gave her some sticks and she tried to copy what he was doing.  She played about three songs with the band and she did a great job.  It was definitely the highlight of her weekend.  She was so proud that she jammed with a real band.  As much as I hate to say it, I see a drum set in our future.  And boxes of heavy-duty ear plugs.

Monday morning we spent some more time hanging out with Punky's godfather and then we headed to my sister's for a while.  Before making the drive home, we stopped to have lunch with a friend of mine.  In hindsight, I should have left Punky at my sister's and enjoyed a nice, quiet lunch.  She was such a good kid all weekend, no trouble whatsoever, but her angelic behavior disappeared just in time for lunch which made it next to impossible to have any sort of conversation.  

I knew she was truly worn out from the constant activity all weekend and I'm sure that played into it.  We weren't on the road five minutes and she was sound asleep.  I woke her up when we pulled in the driveway.  

It was a very long and extremely quiet drive home.  I was glad.  I needed it.