Ahead of the Game

If I tell you what I spent the afternoon doing, you'll think I'm nuts.  Of course, I'll tell you anyway.

Not to create the illusion that I'm on top of things, organized, and in the mood for winter, I assure you today's activity was fueled by utter boredom, plain and simple.  I didn't fall down and hit my head or anything.  I swear.

Today I spent two over two hours wrapping Christmas presents.

A few weeks ago I picked up a few gifts for the holidays.  As it happens most years, I had a sudden burst of motivation when we had our first cold fall weekend and my thoughts immediately landed on the shitty weather soon to come.  Start shopping, I told myself, get it done early this year.  Don't wait until the last minute and rush around like an idiot.  Beat the crowds.  Get the good toys before they're gone.  Finish by Thanksgiving and have a nice, relaxing December.

I'll be sure to come back and read that last paragraph when there's five days till Christmas and I still have fifty percent of my shopping to do.

Anyway, that day I bought some things for my niece, nephew, and my friend's two kids. In all, I had eight gifts stuffed in my closet.  While I was trying to figure out what the hell we were going to do the rest of the day, Punky asked me something about Christmas.  The day was only half over and we had already played with most of her toys.  We read books.  We colored.  We built a block tower.  We did her Elmo puzzle.  We played Candyland.  We chased each other around the house.  

Truth is, I'm awfully bored with her toys.  It seems like we do the same things over and over.  And over.  I'm out of ideas on how to keep her busy the next two months until Santa's visit brings some variety to our playtime.  When she mentioned Christmas, I got the idea to wrap presents.  I thought it would be a fun activity to do together and kill some time.  Scotch tape is one of her favorite things, after all.  

She helped me carry the gifts into the dining room.  She crawled under the bed and retrieved the rolls of wrapping paper that were just out of my reach.  She carefully selected which paper to use on the first present.  She listened intently to my "how-to" explanation, and held the paper steady while I cut it to size and taped it in place.  She read the letters aloud as I filled out the name tag.

"And that's how you wrap a Christmas present!" I declared, expecting her to be impressed or something.  

"Mommy?" she asked sweetly, "Can we do something else now?"

So, for the next hour and a half, I wrapped presents while she made tape balls, wrinkled the hell out of a brand new roll of paper, colored on a few loose sheets, and unwrapped a present I had just finished wrapping because she forgot what was in it and she wanted to practice for Christmas.  Her words, not mine.

I think the rest of the holiday wrapping will be done at midnight when she's sound asleep.  Probably a day or two before Christmas when I finish the rest of my shopping.

Just Say No

I thought we were done with this shit for the year, but here we go again. 

Another daycare field trip is on the schedule for Friday.  Apparently when they informed us about the three field trips per year, they meant more like six or seven and we failed to read between the lines. 

If you remember, each of the previous outings was the source of great stress and debate in our house.  Okay, more like in my mind.  But, still.

The first was resolved when my mom volunteered to accompany Punky on a trip to a local campground for the day.  The second crisis was averted when, after we went ahead and signed the permission slip for her to go to the children's museum, she backed out herself because my parents came for a visit and she wanted to stay home with them instead.  I was able to get the day off from work to go with her on the third field trip to the county fair in August and, after witnessing first hand the chaos that resulted from a complete lack of organization on the part of the daycare, I was so relieved we wouldn't have to deal with the issue again until next summer.

When I found the permission slip in her cubby, my stomach instantly turned.  This time they are going to a pumpkin patch for some autumn/halloween activities.  Once again they are looking for parents to volunteer to provide transportation, which means Punky could end up in a car with someone we don't even know, let alone trust, because neither of us can take the day off to go with her.  When you layer on my experience with the last field trip, saying I'm hesitant is a gross understatement.

Her dad and I talked about it for nearly a week before finally signing the paper.  Okay, I talked about it and he nodded a lot, tossed out a few supportive grunts, and changed the subject at every available opportunity.

We checked the "no" box.  She isn't allowed to go.

Our plan is to take her to school a little later than usual on Friday to spare her the tantrum that would surely ensue when all the kids get ready to go and she has to stay behind.  Yes, I know she's smart enough to realize something isn't quite right when most of the kids aren't there that day, but I'm trying to minimize the blow.  I'm sure she'll ask questions and I hope her teachers answer them carefully.  Punky is a sharp cookie.  One wrong answer could lead to one very long day for the teachers.   

I'm confident I made the best decision for her safety, but I can't help feeling guilty.  It's not like we never tell her no; she hears it a lot.  But, just in case she puts two and two together and realizes that all the other kids got to go somewhere fun and she couldn't because her mommy has paranoid delusions that a mildly intoxicated soccer mom with a suspended license and a minivan not capable of passing state inspection will drive them off a cliff while sexting her secret lover on the way to the pumpkin patch, I've lined up something fun for us to do on Saturday.

Out of Touch

It has come to my attention lately just how out of touch I am with the outside world.

I don't generally write about things like current events, pop culture, reality TV, or politics, partly because I could give a rat's ass about most of it and partly because I haven't a clue what's going on these days.  I've become completely disconnected from life outside the walls of work and home.

In some ways, that's good.  I mean, the things that matter most to me exist within those barriers.  Taking care of Punky to the best of my abilities became my priority the minute I found out she was cooking.  I knew there would be sacrifices.  I was prepared for that.  But I don't think I understood the scope of it.  Every aspect of my pre-mommy world has been altered in one way or another.  And three years into this journey, I hardly remember that life as it was.

Do you know I haven't watched one single prime-time TV show in about a year and a half?  I was never really into TV, but there were a few shows I enjoyed.  Sometimes I miss them.  Prime-time in this house consists of block building, car racing, doll house playing, book reading, hiding and seeking, and whatever other activities Punky thinks up to keep us entertained.  If the TV's on, she's watching something animated while I do the dishes, pay bills, fold clothes, attempt to have a phone conversation, or sneak some me-time online. 

Recording shows doesn't do us any good.  We went that route when we first discovered we were losing the ability to focus on a program without an interruption every thirty seconds, but all we ended up with was a stack of tapes with weeks worth of shows and no time or desire to watch them.  By the time Punky gets to sleep at night, I'm either too tired to watch or I have a list of other things I'd rather do to occupy the whole twenty minutes or so I get before going to bed myself.  

The last time I watched the evening news, the coverage was of Michael Jackson's death.  And that's only because I heard it on the radio while driving home from work and I had to see if it was really true.  That hour usually falls during dinner time, and since we enforce the "no TV during dinner" rule with Punky, it would hardly be fair for us to watch the news.  Depending on her mood, she can stretch her meal out to forty-five minutes some nights. 

We buy the Sunday paper faithfully.  He steals the crossword puzzle so he has something to do on the john over the next week.  I clip the coupons.  He flips through the sales papers.  I tuck a section or two away so I'm prepared if Punky has the desire to paint, color with markers, or use play-doh in the days ahead.  He checks out the cars for sale; I check out the houses.  We can't afford either but it's nice to dream.  One or both of us may glance at the employment listings, especially if it follows a particularly shitty work week.  But to actually read the paper?  Who has time for that?

Once in a rare while I catch a few glimpses of the news before work.  But honestly, I was never a morning person.  A few more minutes of sleep is more valuable to me than a few minutes of news.  Plus, I'd rather not spend my day dwelling on all of the awful shit going on in the world.  Ignorance is bliss, people.  Truly.  

But, I do feel a bit left out around the proverbial water cooler.  

I have no opinion whatsoever about who's the best dancer, singer, or survivor.  I don't even know the names of the choices.  No, I didn't hear about the bad accident that happened nearby at three in the morning.  I have absolutely no clue what the weather will be like tomorrow.  That new commercial with the dog sounds hysterical, but no, I haven't seen it.  I've never even heard of the movie you saw with your hubby last Friday for date night.  And I really can't say if Ashton Kutcher is a suitable replacement for Charlie Sheen.

I have nothing to bring to the lunch table.  

Unless, of course,  you want to talk about snotty noses, potty training, daycare issues, tantrums, or how the hell you convince a two-year-old to sit down and be quiet for thirty seconds while Mommy makes a seventh attempt to balance the checkbook, since the first was interrupted by a loud scream that implied a severed limb but turned out to be nothing, the second by a request for a snack that couldn't wait or she'd die of hunger, the third by a sudden dash to the potty because she waits till her bladder's about to explode before acting on the feeling, the fourth by little fingers hitting buttons on the adding machine, the fifth by another potty run to squeeze out the three whole drops she missed the first time, and the sixth by a smashing sound as the lamp committed suicide by throwing itself off the end table.  It had nothing to do with the red ball next to it on the floor or the little girl that sprinted across the living room to hide behind the recliner. 

Right now I don't need the outside world; I'm barely surviving the inside one. 

Paying the Piper

After exactly four weeks of consistent potty use, it was time to pay up.

Sticker-filled potty paper

The deal was that if Punky filled her potty paper with stickers, she could get anything she wanted at the toy store.  And if you remember, she completely out-smarted me and chose something expensive.

She worked hard for it.  She earned it.  She deserves it.  And a deal's a deal.  

In all honesty, I wish she would've chosen something else.  With the holidays quickly approaching and our financial situation a bit rocky, it was a large chunk of cash to spend right now.  Plus, this isn't exactly the best time of year for an outside toy.  She'll probably only get to use it a few times before it's locked away until spring.  

But, as I said before, I couldn't change the rules after I put the offer on the table.  I want Punky to trust me.  I want her to understand the process of setting goals, working hard, and enjoying the reward for a job well done.  And I want her to believe what I say.  That will come in handy years down the road when we face the heavy issues like peer pressure, dating, alcohol, and drugs.  When I tell her I'll know if she kisses a boy because her nose will turn purple, I want her to believe it, dammit.

Punky's stylin' smart-car

It took her dad a few hours to assemble it while she danced around in circles and tried to help.  The battery needs to charge overnight before she can really use it, but this evening she was perfectly content playing with it in the living room.  She'll be counting the hours tomorrow until her dad comes home from work to carry it outside and hook up the battery.  I just hope she steers it better than she did her bike this summer.  It's more expensive and much easier to break.

Mid-Life Crisis

I think I may be having one.  

For months now, actually.  I just finally labeled it.

If it's not, then I'm not sure what else to call it.

I know I usually get in a funk this time of year, but this started months ago when thoughts of cold and snow were furthest from my mind.  So, it's more than a funk.  

I admit to having issues with depression, especially when my thyroid get out of whack, but I don't necessarily feel sad or moody.  It's more like regretful and disappointed.  So, it's not a thyroid problem.

I don't think I'm angry.  If I am, it's solely directed inward and not at others.  I don't feel anyone else is at fault for how I'm feeling.

I'm simply not satisfied.  With anything.  Aside from Punky, that is.  This surely has nothing to do with my beautiful little girl.

I just daydream a lot.  I never used to.  Not at all.  But now, it's almost constant.  And always about the past.  Never the future.

It's almost like I'm questioning every decision I ever made it life, and wondering what would've been if I had chosen differently.  I'm stuck in a what-if mentality and I can't shake it.

If someone asked me at eighteen about where I thought I would be in twenty years, I wouldn't have said here.  Nothing about my life turned out how I thought it would.  I had dreams, but I didn't follow them.  Maybe now I'm trying to understand why.  Maybe now I'm trying to figure out what I still have time to fix.  If any of it even can be.

Forty is lurking just sixteen months away.  My rational mind knows it's only a number, yet I seem fixated on it somehow.  Like it's some sort of deadline or something.  The "it's now or never" argument is gaining momentum in my psyche.  If I don't get a handle on it, the results will be drastic.

Mid-life crisis? Nervous breakdown? Good old-fashioned mental illness?

I suppose only time will tell.

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.