You know I suck, so I don't even have to draw attention to the fact, but I did anyway.
Here's the rest of November in a nutshell. Well, maybe not exactly a nutshell as that implies something small and simple, and this post is destined to be my usual rambling drivel, covering seventy-five different things in a single paragraph, and qualifying me for a worst-blogger nomination. Oh well, it is what it is.
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| Attitude on wheels... |
So, when we left off weeks ago, I was curled up on the living room floor in anticipation of another round of Punky's projectile vomiting. I'm happy to say it never happened, and we made the drive down state the next afternoon with no sudden eruptions from either end in the car. My nephew's birthday party was a blast, and this experience on roller skates was much better than our first attempt a year and a half ago. Punky was able to get around okay using the kiddie skates, and I was able to actually skate without my body feeling like I was in a car wreck the next morning. I found out there is a tiny roller rink not far from us and we plan to spend some time there this winter when there's nothing to do but watch the snow fall.
The following weekend, Punky and I spent hours sorting through all her toys as we've done every November thus far. There just isn't enough room to keep everything, and saving things she hardly plays with is a complete waste of space. We managed to weed out most of the remaining baby toys quite easily, and then we turned our attention to the massive collection of stuffed animals taking over our house.
Punky calls them her "guys" and, quite honestly, she does play with each and every one of them. But some much more than others, and those others needed to go. I started by offering her two at a time and asking her to pick which one she would like to keep. I tried to make it easy on her by pairing one of her favorites with one that resides at the bottom of her toy box most of the time. Using this method we successfully lowered her stuffed animal count by almost half, and that made for a very happy mommy. Mostly. I lost it a bit when Punky insisted that we both kiss each one goodbye as we stuffed them in a bag to donate. As she told every dust magnet how much she loves him, and how much she'll miss him, and how much she hopes he finds a new home, my eyes filled with tears again and again. And I couldn't be more proud of my little girl.
After the toy sort, we focused on cleaning the house from top to bottom. For one, it really needed it, but the fact that we decided to host Thanksgiving dinner here really motivated us into action. My family made the drive up Thursday morning, and Punky's brothers also came with their girlfriends. In all we had twelve people for dinner which was ready only a half hour later than planned. Not bad for our first attempt at preparing the feast. In typical holiday fashion, I ate way too much and gained over three pounds that weekend. We're still not sure if we will see my family for Christmas this year, so it was nice to spend Thanksgiving together since we haven't done so in years. Everyone left before six that evening, and the three of us were in bed and asleep by nine-thirty. Aside from being exhausted from the whole holiday experience, we needed to get up at the crack of dawn on Friday.
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| Merry Christmas! |
No, not for shopping. Only crazy people brave the stores on Black Friday. We needed to be up and out early so Punky could make her parade debut. My company asked if she and I would be interested in riding on their float in the annual holiday parade in the city, and I knew Punky would be super-excited about it. We wore matching fleeces, scarves, and Santa hats, and spent the morning waving to the crowds as our float made its way through the streets. It was really cold and Punky's attention span lapsed about half way through the route, but it was still a fun way to spend the morning and kick off the holiday season.
Once we managed to bring our core temperatures back up to normal at home, it was time to tackle the decorating. We spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening trimming the tree and decking the halls. Punky's godfather came up that night and helped us with the window lights and setting up my huge snowman collection, and on Saturday we hit the stores to tackle more Christmas shopping.
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| Our tree |
That night I finished all the wrapping. Santa isn't taking any chances with a sneaky three-year-old in the house. I wanted it all wrapped so that if by chance she manages to get into the spare closet and catch glimpse, I could say they are the presents we bought for her cousins and hopefully the explanation will suffice. Punky's smart. Really, really smart. And I can say without a doubt the whole Santa thing isn't going to last much longer. I think will get through this year by dodging some questions and/or lying through our teeth, but I bet the jig will be up next year when she's about to turn five. I was over Santa by that age, too. It simply wasn't logical to me. There were too many conflicting stories. And no one was going to tell me any man was squeezing through our tiny Franklin fireplace with a bag full of presents. Screw magic, I wasn't buying it. And then, of course, I filled my little sister in on it.
So now, we wait. December is looking like an extremely busy month so time will go quickly. I'd say I'm ninety-five percent done shopping. We will be making a trip home mid-month for my family's annual Pollyanna Christmas party, and I'm excited to go since I miss it most years because it's held where people have dogs and cats in the house. This is only the second time in five years that we will be attending. Oh, and the night before I am going to my sister's company Christmas party. She asked me to go and I'm looking forward to a night out. I never get those. Ever. It sounds like it will be a blast, and I already anticipate a bit of a hangover the next morning. I haven't had one of those in years either, and with all the stress life's tossed my way as of late, I think the headache will be totally worth it.
Punky is on the right side of the couch, peacefully asleep for now.
I'm on vomit watch for the next few hours.
In round one she managed to get the carpet in one long, nasty streak from the living room, up the hallway, and into the bathroom. After dozing off for about an hour, she soaked the left side of the couch in round two, right through the towels I stockpiled under her.
So, I suppose I have some time to kill while I enjoy my Lysol high and wait for the inevitable round three. And for the washer full of puke towels to stop so I can get them into the dryer.
I'm always whining that I never have time to write, so I may as well take this opportunity to bombard you with random tidbits of shit I would've written about in the last few weeks if I had the tiniest ounce of self-discipline and determination.
Let's see, where to start?
The election? Meh. Politics aren't usually my thing but what the hell.
Truth is, I really don't have many positive things to say about either candidate. One is a financial disaster, the other a social disaster. In my opinion, the lesser of the two evils won in the end. As I explained it to Punky, my uterus is happy but my piggy bank is scared.
All I know is this: if we stand any chance at fixing this country and healing all that ails it, politicians need to spend less time worrying about gay marriage and what women do with their reproductive systems. Their beliefs on such issues are rooted in the teachings of their religions and therefore have no place for debate in a country that was founded on the very principle of separation of church and state. And one way or another, everyone deserves to have health insurance. Period.
Sandy? Wow. She packed quite a punch. We weren't really affected here, aside from some strong winds and rain for a few days, but the devastation on the coast is horrific. While I am in no way, shape, or form a beach person, I do love the boardwalks of the Jersey coast, especially Atlantic City. My sister inherited my mom's taste for a nightly glass of wine; I inherited her love of an occasional jaunt to a casino. In the last few years I haven't really had the time or the finances to indulge much, but I have some great memories of the yearly trips we used to make to AC on Black Friday. We gambled while the rest of the country shopped. It was our thing and I really miss those trips. I wish all the devastated areas a speedy recovery.
My weight? Holding steady. I bounce between 133 and 138 and haven't really had any issues with maintenance. I try to stay on the lower end of calorie intake during the week, and then eat what I want on the weekends. So, the scale reading tends to be the highest on Monday morning, and the lowest on Friday. It's a great balance and really works for me.
My back? On the whole, much better. But it's still not quite right. I haven't returned to the chiropractor since that last painful rib-muscle-stretching visit. I was sore for weeks afterward. I haven't started working out again, and I've decided to wait until after the holidays. I'm thinking the beginning of February. It will give my back a bit more time to heal but still leave me plenty of time to get in shape for summer.
Finances? Yuck. A sore topic around here. The switch in Punky's dad's schedule has impacted us just like I thought it would. Things are tight, but we are getting by and making ends meet for the most part. This Christmas will pale in comparison to last year, that's for sure. Since my whole family is in the same boat, we've agreed to focus on the kids and skip the gift exchange between the adults. I've already finished my niece and nephew, and we're about 90% done with Punky. I even wrapped about half of what I've bought thus far. So, I think we'll weather the holidays okay. The most important thing is that the kids have a great Christmas. But it's going to get even uglier come January.
Unfortunately Punky's dad is facing a massive layoff after the holidays. Company wide, the "safe" date has been rolled back to a hire date in 1984. It's very likely he'll be off for an extended period of time, and we'll be forced to make some extremely hard decisions. Should we sell the camper we only used twice and enjoyed so very much this summer? Should we break our contract and pull Punky out of school? There's no way we'll afford it with him on unemployment, but it will be a great disservice to Punky. She's so smart, so advanced, and she absolutely loves school in the pre-K class this year. Should one or both of us look into picking up a second job now instead of waiting until we we hit rock bottom? We're rolling with the punches for now. My stomach turns just thinking about it.
There, the washer has stopped and the puke towels are clean and in the dryer.
This week was rough for Punky in terms of illness. We've really been luck this fall, so I guess we were due for some shit. She woke up with a low fever on Saturday, and as the day progressed it climbed higher and took her cranky meter with it. After eating a banana as a snack before bed, she told me her throat hurt when she swallowed. I grabbed a flashlight and was horrified by the puss bubbles lining the back of her throat.
Thankfully our pedi office has weekend hours in case of emergency. I was convinced she had strep so we made a Sunday morning jaunt to the doctor. The rapid strep test came back negative and she told us that most of the puss-filled sore throats they've been seeing are viral in nature and it simply needed to run its course. She was still too sick to go to school on Monday, so her dad stayed with her in the morning and then I came home after lunch so he could go to work.
She was still slightly feverish on Tuesday but otherwise fine so we sent her to school. Come Wednesday I missed another half day of work because they decided to close the daycare at one o'clock. All the teachers were sick and they didn't legally have enough available staff left to stay open. When I took her to school this morning, the daycare director told me most of the teachers had respiratory things, possibly even the flu, but she had the stomach flu and spent twenty-four hours with diarrhea and vomiting.
Guess which one Punky picked up? I suppose it's the better of the possibilities. It's the messier one, that's for sure, but it's over relatively quickly with very little chance of major complications or hospitalization.
I am so relieved that I already have a vacation day scheduled for tomorrow because otherwise I'd be calling off again, but the reason I'm off is because we are headed down state for my nephew's birthday party this weekend. Punky and I both have an appointment for desperately needed haircuts tomorrow evening, so were were planning on hitting the road relatively early tomorrow morning.
All I can do now is wait to see how she is tomorrow. There's no way I'm making a two and a half our drive with a pukey kid who has the potential for explosive diarrhea at any moment. She's still asleep and I don't dare move her. I'm not stirring up her remaining stomach contents, if there's even anything left in her tiny belly. I guess I'm looking at a night spent sleeping on the living room floor. My back won't appreciate it, but I won't leave her alone in case she vomits in her sleep again like last round.
It's been over two hours since that last bout and I suppose I should try to get some rest while the getting is good. Here's to hoping her dad and I escape catching this crap, and that this is the end of pukefest 2012.
When I glance at the number of posts I've actually managed to complete this year, it's terribly disappointing. But, on the bright side, my lack of time and diligence means you are spared some of the yearly bitching and moaning about things like the upcoming cold winter and my utter hatred of Halloween. So, with that in mind, I'll keep it short(cake) and sweet.
By mid-September, I started pushing Punky to decide what she wanted to be for Halloween. I wanted to avoid the last-minute, desperate search we had last year. If it were up to me we'd skip celebrating the holiday entirely, but being a good mommy means sucking it up and pretending to be excited about costumes, pumpkins, ghosts, and going to strangers' homes begging for miniature candy bars. Okay, I actually enjoy that last one. The chocolate, not the strangers.
Her first choice for a costume was a mouse. Not Minnie. Not Mickey. Not even Jerry or Mighty. Just a plain, ordinary mouse. Why, you ask? I have no clue. She has no mice stuffed animals. She never talks about mice. We haven't had mice in the house. I have no idea how she came up with the idea but it sounded simple enough. Surely I could find a mouse costume somewhere, right? Easy-peasy.
Wrong. I spent hours web surfing every costume site I could find and came out empty-handed. Most didn't have any mice, and the ones that did were sold out already. Apparently rodents were very popular this year. If you have an inkling as to why, please fill me in 'cause I definitely feel like I missed something.
Punky was disappointed but she quickly forgot the mouse idea when she saw a witch costume at the store. She truly had no interest in being a witch for the sake of being a witch. I mean, witches are scary and she doesn't like scary, but this particular witch costume had lights sewn into the fabric and she was captivated by their twinkle. In hindsight I should have bought it and been done with it, but I wanted to think on it a bit. When I returned to the store a week later, it was gone. And so, I had to disappoint my child once again.
Choice number three left me just baffled as the first two: a pig. She wanted to be a pig. Again, not Miss Piggy, not Olivia, and not even Peppa. Just a plain, ordinary pig. I found myself back on the internet in search of the perfect pig costume but, as it turns out, pigs are almost as elusive as mice. I found plenty of adorable pig costumes for babies, but only two for kids Punky's age and they were just about the ugliest pigs I have ever seen. How could I put my beautiful, little girl in an ugly pig costume? It just didn't seem right.
When I broke the bad news about her third choice, I seriously think she wanted to punch me. I wanted to punch something, too. I was beyond frustrated and I needed to put an end to it once and for all. For the next hour she sat with me in front of the computer as I bounced from site to site showing her the options. There was no giving up. I was determined to order her a costume. Something. Anything. I think I would've agreed to a cardboard box at that point. I just wanted it done so I didn't have to spend any more time and energy on the great costume hunt of 2012.
We managed to find a handful of really cute costumes, but getting her to make a final decision was like pulling teeth. All of a sudden she morphed into a shopping diva and my patience was running dangerously low. She was getting tired, hungry, and bored, and I had to pee so bad I was about to explode, but nobody was moving until I had something in the cart, dammit. It was a battle of wills, I tell you, and mommy wasn't caving.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we had a winner:
Despite the itchy wig and freezing temperatures, she had a blast hitting the town and collecting her treats. She was thrilled with her costume and, if I have to say so myself, she was the cutest Strawberry Shortcake ever. The real kicker is that she isn't even into Strawberry Shortcake, at least no more than mice, witches, and pigs. She simply baffles me sometimes, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
Somewhere around the middle of May, when I was deep into my kickboxing workout videos, I heard a distinct pop in my pelvis. Over the next few weeks, kicking with my right leg caused a clicking sound in my hip. Because I'm not always so bright, I solved the problem by easing up on the kickboxing and switching to strength/cardio workouts instead. No clicking, no issues.
By mid-June I started having some mild back discomfort. Some days were worse than others, but I never had any extreme pain. Just an annoying twinge here and there, usually more noticeable in the morning after spending seven hours sleeping on my right side. Not about to let anything derail my mission, I continued to ignore it and went about my business.
I stopped working out in the middle of August. When my mom came to visit with my niece and nephew for a few days, I reached to catch one of kids coming down the slide at the pool and felt a sharp burning pain under my right shoulder blade. Even though it was a one time thing, I figured I better give my back a break and stop the strenuous workouts. As the weeks passed, it was no better but also no worse. I would be really achy when I first got out of bed, but once I got moving it was okay and I'd feel the occasional twinge throughout the day. I was finally smart enough to find a new chiropractor in the middle of September.
Years ago, when I couldn't even stand up straight because of the knot in the middle of my back, my previous employer forced me to see a chiropractor. The mere thought made me want to vomit. I couldn't handle the sound of my own knuckles cracking, and the idea of someone else popping and snapping my bones into place simply scared the shit out of me. But, as long as I live, I'll never forget the way I felt after that first visit with Dr. Poole.
I suppose I was a bit hard on my body. Years of gymnastics and cheerleading surely took a toll. Then pile on years of working in front of a computer with far less than perfect posture. My whole body tingled after my first visit with Dr. Poole. I no longer felt like someone was stabbing me in the back when I tried to stand up straight. I felt completely different. Taller, even. Strange, but true. I saw her regularly for a few weeks until she was sure all my bones were staying in place, and then every three months on average I would return for a tune up when I started to feel a bit off.
About six months after Punky's birth, I went in for my first realignment post-pregnancy. She warned that carrying a baby around would probably lead to more frequent visits, but that was fine with me. I was no longer afraid of the cracking and popping, and I always felt brand new afterward.
Then something terrible happened a few weeks later. Dr. Poole was walking her dogs one evening after work and suffered a massive heart attack. She passed away almost instantly on the sidewalk in her neighborhood before anyone could even try to help. And so ended my regular chiropractor visits. I trusted her, and only her, and I wasn't in the least bit interested in finding a replacement.
Over the last few years, I've gone from lugging a ten-pound infant around to toting a thirty-pound three-year-old. Our terrible mattress had gotten progressively worse. I've continued to work forty hours a week in front of a computer. My February brainstorm to lose weight and get fit by literally working my ass, and belly, off with Jillian Micheals videos was apparently the straw that broke the camel's back.
I like the new guy. He's surely no Dr. Poole, but he's nice enough and I'm not terrified to go there. His initial assessment revealed exactly what I thought: my hips were completely out of alignment. The muscles running up the right side of my spine were all scrunched up and pulling the intercostal muscles between my ribs. As a result, two of my ribs managed to twist which exposed their sharp bottom edges and led to the discomfort I was feeling. Sounds logical, right?
It took four visits to get my hips to stay where they are supposed to be, and a fifth visit to confirm they hadn't moved. That was almost two weeks ago, but I had to go back today for visit number six. He tapped my ribs into place a few times, but he didn't corrected them once my pelvis finally settled and my back was still bothering me. He thought it would get better on its own, but that wasn't the case. So today, he attempted to stretch the muscles between my ribs before getting his spring-loaded metal mallet thingy and untwisting the bones. It was extremely painful and I know I will be incredibly sore for days.
But here's the thing: I'm scared. Really scared. It's just not getting better. I still don't have any extreme pain, but something isn't right. And I'm terrified at the possibilities. I haven't been sleeping. I haven't been eating. And I haven't been all too pleasant to be around lately. I know if this doesn't work, x-rays are the next step. My stomach turns when I think about the things they may reveal.
I want to feel better. I want to get back to being active. I want to continue my journey to a healthier me.
Here's to hoping things return to normal soon. The worst case scenario is all I can think about, and I'm driving myself crazy.
If nothing else, this post will demonstrate both my utter lack of fashion and just how far out of the loop I've been for at least a decade.
When the warm, summer days bid farewell few weeks ago, I found myself in a bit of a predicament. All it took was one rainy, fifty-something degree Saturday for me to realize I was in trouble and facing the chilly autumn season naked from the waist down. Over the past few months I managed to give away every single pair of jeans I owned because none of them fit, and I had yet to replace them. I had a choice of either freezing in shorts or being over-dressed in work clothes for my trip to the grocery store that day. Given that regular leg shaving tends to directly correlate with the average outside temperature, my decision was obvious. Plus I hate to be cold.
The time had finally come to face the inevitable: jeans shopping. Since my August post I lost an additional four pounds, bringing the grand total to forty-two. I'm not exactly sure how I managed to pull that off since I haven't worked out the last eight weeks (more on that in the next post), but I officially reached my goal weight and I was ready to face the dressing room mirror. In fact, that turned out to be the easy part.
I stood in front of the massive jeans display like I just landed on foreign soil and didn't speak the language. When the hell did buying a pair of jeans get so complicated? I tried so hard to remember the last time I bought some and slowly arrived at the conclusion it had probably been roughly ten years. Pathetic, eh? All I know is that last purchase, whenever it was, was a simple transaction: grab correct size off the rack, head to cashier, go home. Jeans were simply, well, jeans.
I stared at the full wall of denim before me and tried to make sense of it all. The display was designed like a giant spreadsheet, with banner headers announcing styles/cuts at the top and size ranges/rise ranges/length ranges filling the cells below. To my dismay, none of the signs read plain, old jeans. I had no clue where to even start. What the hell is a bootcut skinny mid-rise. Or a straight average low-rise? Or a classic-rise skinny boyfriend? That last one made me giggle. But seriously, last time I bought jeans the size wasn't preceded by six other adjectives. It made my head spin.
So, I did what I imagine any old, clueless, fashion-ignorant woman would do: I grabbed as many pairs as I could carry and headed to the dressing room. With all the different styles available, I wasn't even sure what size would fit. I decided on an analytical approach and got busy trying on pair after pair. I pulled a small tablet from my purse and took notes as I worked through the various options, checking off what I liked and scratching what I didn't, just hoping to end up with the formula for the perfect pair of jeans.
This should probably go without saying, but as lost as I was in this new-world jeans experience I dared to attempt it: c-section rolls and low-rise jeans do not mix. It was downright embarrassing. Even if I stood perfectly still, the roll slowly inched its way upward and right out the top. It was ugly. And I have to say, even without the mommy pouch I have no clue how any woman can wear them without constantly feeling like they will slide right down at any second.
Start to finish, it took just under an hour to reach the checkout line with two pairs of jeans that were the right size, right style, right length, right rise, and right color for me, and I learned a ton of new vocabulary in the process. I left feeling both educated and exhausted, but smugly satisfied with my size eight jeans in tow.
When I arrived at school to pick Punky up last Monday, she was across the room playing with her friends. I headed to her cubby to get her crap together and found a backpack in it that didn't belong to us. Just as I turned to tell a teacher about it, Punky came zipping across the room at top speed.
"Mommy! Mommy! I get to go first! I'm the first one that gets to take Sloppy Joe home! Look, Mommy! Look at his backpack!"
I stood there dumbfounded as her teachers tried to contain their laughter and fill me in on the joke. I obviously missed something.
Finally, Miss Jackie said, "His name is Jungle Joe, not Sloppy Joe, and he's all yours for the next week. He's in the backpack with all his things. Just remember to write in his journal before bringing him back next Monday!"
Punky was dying to open the backpack and show me Jungle Joe, but I made her wait until we got home. The backpack weighed a ton. I couldn't imagine what the hell was stuffed in there. I really hoped Jungle Joe was not a living, breathing animal of some sort.
As soon as we got in the door, Punky dumped the entire contents of Jungle Joe's backpack out on the couch. I was relieved to see that J.J. was just a little stuffed bear in a safari outfit, and boy did he have the stuff. A flashlight, cellphone, blanket, story books, toothbrush, and extra outfits were just some of the things crammed in the backpack, but most of the weight came from the journals stuffed in the bottom of the bag.
As it turns out, the pre-K class at the daycare has been taking J.J. home for years, and all of his visits and adventures have been documented by the parents. Some wrote daily diary-like entries; others wrote only once at the end of his visit. Some included photos of their kids with J.J.; others had the kids draw a picture of him. Some were neat and well-written; some were sloppy and rushed. But as I started reading back through years past, I was amazed at all the places the stuffed animal has been and the sheer number of kids that had the experience of taking him home.
While I lost myself in reading the adventures of Jungle Joe, Punky showed him the ropes. She gave him the grand tour of our tiny house. She showed him both bathrooms in case he needed to pee during his week-long stay. She showed him the pantry so he knew where to get a snack if he got hungry. She showed him nearly all of her toys, one by one, so he could find things to play with if he got bored.
For the next seven days, she toted him everywhere. He was within arms reach at all times. Whatever she did, he did, too. She brushed his teeth every morning and night. She snuggled him close at bedtime and made sure he had his special blanket to sleep. She talked to him, sang to him, and told him stories. They watched cartoons, colored pictures, and played musical instruments. He even accompanied us on a trip down state this weekend to visit family. And, when we sat down last night to write the story of their week together in his journal, she cried because she didn't want to take him back to school today.
"But I'll miss him so much, Mommy!" she muttered through her sobs. "I won't be able to play with him anymore! I'm so sad, I can't stop crying, Mommy!"
From reading his journals, I was able to offer her a bit of comfort. It seemed like every kid had two turns to take J.J. home each school year, so I assured her that he would visit us again soon but she needed to wait until it was her turn again. Once she finally stopped crying, I finished the journal entry and taped a picture of them in the book. After she fell asleep with Jungle Joe last night, I packed all his things in his backpack and set in next to her school bag.
When she first brought him home last week, I wasn't exactly sure what, if anything, she was supposed to learn from the experience, but now I can easily list about ten lessons that can be learned and/or reinforced through a week with Jungle Joe. What a clever idea. The little fuzz ball and his two-ton backpack are welcome here anytime. Punky's already looking forward to his next visit.
Punky started her pre-K class the beginning of this month. So far, she is doing really well. She is so proud to be one of the big kids, and I love hearing her daily report on all the fun things they do in class. She has her own tool box stocked with crayons, pencils, glue, scissors, and other miscellaneous craft supplies. She has learned to write her name on all her papers. She absolutely beams when she gets to be the line leader or the one who passes out papers to the class.
There's no doubt in my mind that we made the right choice by letting her move to this class a year ahead of schedule. She's definitely holding her own with the older kids, in fact the teacher told me Punky is currently helping her teach the others the letter sounds. Even though there are only eleven kids in the class, they added another teacher in the room which really allows for individual attention. It's especially great news for Punky because a teacher has time to take a lesson a step further for her since she already knows much of the core material. And, as always, she's soaking it all up like a sponge.
Punky is now at the age where she's asking to do things, and the hardest decision for us will be deciding what, where, and how we can even pull it off. She wants to take karate. She wants to take dance lessons. She wants to be a gymnast. She wants to learn how to really play too many instruments to type. She wants to go to friends' houses and have them visit ours. All of those things take time and/or money, neither of which we have very much of these days.
Enrolling her in any activities will be especially challenging given where we live. We are at least twenty minutes away from anything, and most of those activities would require a good half-hour drive. On weeknights, I'm lucky to be home by five-thirty. Getting her to a dance class that starts at six will be nearly impossible. Not to mention that we're heading into winter and bad roads will only further complicate things. I told her to wait until after her birthday in December, and then she can pick one activity to try. I think karate will be her first choice. We'll see come January.
There is another new phenomenon in her world: TV commercials. Ninety-nine percent of her television experience thus far has been commercial-free kids channels, but now she's getting into shows on other networks that don't have the same policy. Plus, her favorite channel of all has recently abandoned its pledge and now suddenly allows advertisements. What this means to Punky is an eyeful of toys and games she never knew existed, and a Christmas list a mile long with months yet to go. I guess it was bound to happen sooner of later, and I guess it's good for us to have an idea of what she's thinking so we aren't speechless like last year when it's time to write her letter to Santa.
We managed to sneak in one final trip to Knoebel's two weeks ago. I found an envelope full of ride tickets, and my sister brought a cooler full of food, so it didn't cost us much beyond the gas to get there. Punky was so surprised, especially since I told her the park was closed for the season. It wasn't a lie, honest. I really thought it closed after Labor Day. She was thrilled to have one more day at an amusement park before winter arrives. She's a ride junkie, no doubt about it. I really hope she's tall enough to do some of the bigger rides next year. She's dying to tackle a real roller coaster. That's my girl.
Sometimes I look at her and simply can't believe how fast the time has gone. She seems so grown up, so independent, so damn smart. Like she hardly even needs me anymore. She can feed herself, dress herself, wipe herself, and entertain herself. When she wants a drink, she gets it. When she's tired of TV, she turns it off. When she's bored she bounces from one activity to another, destroying the house and leaving a trail of toys in her wake. But eventually something happens and she wants or needs my help, and all seems right with the world again.
