Buying a Cage -- For the Fight

I am sitting here trying to write this post, which is supposed to be about very important things, but I am being distracted by the mounting rumble in my living room. Did bikers move in, I am sure you are asking. Or ruffians? Or circus people? No, no, and no. The battle royale is between my 2-year old, and her 8-year old cousin, Luke. 


In the past ten minutes I have heard the following: 

• "Meg called me stupid." 
• "Luke is stupid." 
• "Meg, I'm going to put you in a black hole."
• Meg screaming.
• "Get out! Get out! Get out!"
• "Don't hit me with 'Tangled,' Meg."
• Luke screaming. 
• "Don't touch that! Don't touch that!" 
• "Get your feet off my back!"
• Both of them screaming. 
• "She can't be Johnny Cash! I'm Johnny Cash!" (They saw "Million Dollar Quartet.")
• "I'm Johnny Cash!"
• "Give it back! Give it back Give it back!"
• "Am I a pancake?" (Yeah, I'm really not sure where that came from.)

I have gone in there twice when I have been pretty sure bloodshed was imminent, but I am really trying to make them work it out on their own. Well, that, and I am trying to write this very important post. 


There was one moment of peace, but it involved Luke playing his guitar while Meg played her accordion. I guess it was nice that for a short time neither one of them was in danger, but it still burned my ears and sent the dog running for cover. It was only for a few seconds though, until Meg decided she wanted to be in the guitar case and the brawl began again. 


Hell, I might as well give up. I am never going to get this very important blog post done with all this racket. 


I guess you'll never know what I think of this fabulous invention: 

Oh, wait! Maybe if they make them in kids sizes as well as babies all my problems will be solved. 


I mean, as long as I don't hang Luke and Meg within kicking distance...

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Updated: Lizard Logic

Update: now, by popular demand, with video.

It started Friday night. 

Meg came into our bedroom, her eyes wide. "There's a lizard in my bed," she said. 

     "I don't think so," I replied.

     "Go check," she said, and moved into my spot as I slid out of bed. I was half way to her room before I realized that was what I was doing. Nope, no lizard. I padded back down the hall. 

      "Honey, there is no lizard in your bed, or anywhere in your room," I said, trying to reclaim my spot. 

      "Well, I better sleep here just in case," she replied. She did. On my pillow. 

I thought that was the end of it. It was not. 

All weekend we heard about the lizard. She told me, her Dad, her grandparents, her cousin, and anyone else who would listen about the lizard. When it looked like anyone was getting skeptical, or about to tell her it was just a dream or her imagination, she would demonstrate exactly how the lizard blinked his eyes (very fast), and wiggled his tongue (even faster). 

Pretty sure she convinced more than one person. 



Saturday was the height of the lizard hysteria. Every time Meg needed to go in her room: to take a nap, to get a book, to search for lizards, she would have to show Ryan, and then me exactly where the lizard had sat on her bed. She would show us where his tail had been, and once again demonstrate the eye and tongue movements. She was totally obsessed. I was almost ready to either move her room, or else buy a tiny pair of pajamas for the little bastard so at least he wouldn't be in Meg's room naked. Finally, though, my Mom sense kicked in. 


The next time Meg and I went into her room to look for the lizard I stood in the center in the center of the room and put my arms out. "Lizard," I said, "it is time for you to go home. This is Meg's room and she does not want you here. You need to go home and not come back unless we invite you." I glanced down to see if she was buying it. She looked skeptical. I went on. "We like you lizard, but you can't be here when Meg doesn't want you here. Sorry." A little voice below me yelled "yeah," and I knew that it had worked. 


Don't think we've stopped talking about the lizard. We haven't. At least three times a day we have to discuss the lizard that came into Meg's room and waggle our tongues and blink our eyes. However, now the story ends with "then Mama told him to go home," instead of worries about when he will come back. 


That's fine with me. 


After all, Meg's lizard impression is really damn cute. 

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Things I Have Learned From Pinterest

I, like pretty much every other person on the planet with two X chromosomes, have fallen prey to Pinterest. How could I not? I'm lazy and would like to be a better person, and Pinterest makes it seem like I can improve my lifestyle by surfing the web. Also, it makes me feel better about my slacker state, because it shows me other people are slacking as well by what they pin. Sure, it may look like they are coming up with great ideas for meals, playtime, and their homes, but I can read the subtext... 

1. No one wants to eat their vegetables -- or chicken breasts.  Seriously, there are so many recipes for chicken on the site at times I think it's sponsored by the poultry farmers of America. Then I remember that chicken breasts are the one thing pretty much everyone buys, and no one really knows how to prepare with flavor. There are equally as many recipes for "jazzing up" vegetables. You know what doesn't need "jazzing" to make it palatable? Ice cream. You don't need a "pin" to remind you. 

2. Everyone is disorganized. Organization tips are the chicken of the home design pages. Oh, and almost all organization can apparently be done with hanging shoe racks. I am expecting any day to see a pin with children stuffed into plastic sleeves hanging on the back of a closet door. 

3. There are very few "good hair" days. Women with straight hair are pinning advice on curling it. Women with curly hair are pinning advice on straightening it. Brunettes are looking for home streaking tips. Blondes are looking at "low lights." Everyone wants to find something "different" and "romantic" to do with it. I'm betting very few do. 

4. Playing with kids can be a drag. I love my daughter, I really do, but there are some times when I just have no idea what to do with her except sit her in front of the TV with a bag of refined sugar. Pinterest let's me know I am not alone. There are thousands of "car games," and "rainy day activities," and "play time ideas" that don't cost a lot of money, and don't need a lot of time to set up. Oh, and most of them can be organized with hanging shoe racks!   

5. Remembering more than five things is hard. Recipes with five ingredients or less spread faster on Pinterest than rumors about celebrity pregnancies on TMZ. Ditto for crafts with five pieces or less, photo shoot ideas with five props or less, and cleaning solutions with five steps or less. I guess six makes our brains explode. 

I've also noticed that a lot of people are apparently planning parties with great themes and really cute food that they aren't inviting me to, but I that's a topic for another post. Or for my therapist. 

Of course, it could just be that the parties are all in their minds... After all, actually throwing a party is work. 

That is sooo un-Pinterest.  

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Ocupado

When we had a daughter I knew there would come a time when it would be impossible to get her out of the bathroom. I just thought it would start around the age 12 and would be because she was obsessing over her hair, her skin, and her make-up. I had no idea it would start at age two and a half and be because she is (in her words) trying to be "snuggly warm."

Caught in the act...

We live in an old house. It's drafty. We know that. Winter is a time of undershirts, socks, slippers, and more blankets on the bed. Meg, though, apparently needs a little something extra. Not necessarily because she's cold, but because she doesn't have that "fresh from the dryer" feeling. The only place you can get that feeling in our house? The bathroom.

I mean, I guess you could get it in the dryer, but that would be dangerous.

Our bathroom is especially warm for many reasons. It is the smallest room in the house, with the biggest heat vent. It has stone tile that absorbs heat. Oh, and because we have jerky cats who like to destroy toilet paper, the door is always closed. It creates an atmosphere that could be used for raising chicks -- or Meg.

Now, whenever the heat goes on, we hear Meg's little feet running, and the bathroom door closing. When we go in to find her she is always wrapped in the robes that hang on the back of the door, her back to the vent. She is always "snugly warm."

She has even tried to improve the situation, dragging all of the blankets from her bed with her as she heads in there, or bringing a book or two to keep her occupied. We drew the line at the iPad though, at least for right now. After all, we don't want to spend the whole winter with the entire family in the bathroom.

Although that does sound cozy... And clean.

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Not a Paid Endorsement

If you have a child, and that child has a nose, chances are right now, or in the very near future, you will be dealing with snot.

Sorry. There's no way to sugar coat it.

Cold season is coming, or in our case, is already here. Meg's nose started running Saturday afternoon and by yesterday had turned into a full on faucet. I'm home with her today because she didn't sleep at all last night, waking up every hour to cough or just breathe, despite the Vicks Vaporub we smeared all over.

The one saving grace in all of this? Boogie Wipes.

Really, these things are magic. They say they are just saline and vitamin E, but there has to be some magic in there too. They probably just can't put it on the label because of the FDA.

My Mom found Boogie Wipes last year when Meg was in the throws of last year's cold season. At first I was not so sure. Actually, I was bitchy. I figured my Mom had been suckered by a nice package with a catchy name when a wet paper towel or a baby wipe could do the same thing.

I was wrong. The fact these wipes are so great though actually makes me okay with admitting it.

All Moms know the super crusty, after nap, so gross you want to run face. There were times when I saw it on Meg I thought the only answer was alcohol. Not to get the snot off, but just so I could look at her. Boogie wipes made short work of it.

Oh, and not only do they clean off the snot horror? They do it without leaving the dried chapped skin horror behind. I think we all know what baby wipes can do to a baby face. There was a point last winter when I really worried Meg would actually be scared for life. That was before Boogie Wipes.

And no, I am not being paid by Boogie Wipes. Really though, I 'm flattered you think that many people read my blog. I just figure I found something that works, so I would share -- even if it has a stupid name.

Really, you'll thank me. And if not you, your kids.

You know, the ones with the noses.

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An Open Letter to the Gosselin 8*

Hey Buddies!

How are ya? Okay? I know things aren't great right now. Do y'all want some otter pops?

Is that better? Try not to spill them on your shirts. Now that you aren't on TV you're gonna have to make those clothes last longer. After all, who do you think is going to wash them for you now that the PAs are gone -- your Mom?

See, I knew I could get you to laugh.

I know this whole "cancellation" thing has got to be hard on you. I'm sure camera crews and Teamsters are really the only parents you've ever known. Well, sure, there's your real parents, but let's not even go there. I mean, you're still children, and I really shouldn't swear around you.

I think the hardest part of this all though is the fact that now you all need to find jobs. Yeah, you do. Don't argue. No excuses. None of that "but we're children" crap. Your Mother and Father are accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and they are accustomed to you providing it. If you let them down now what kind of children are you? I'll tell you: not very good ones.

Ultimate fighting, maybe? Nah, Joel looks like a bleeder...

Okay, so we know we need to eliminate any job that requires you to be cute. After all, if you were still cute TLC wouldn't have booted you. We actually should forget any job TLC related unless any of you are old enough to get pregnant and not know it, or if you have any weird habits. Alexis, if you start eating your hair at a rate that it forms a giant ball in your stomach they might want to talk to you.

Maybe we could find something that requires tiny hands. Any of you interested in rug looming or jewelry making? What about pipe snaking or mine canarying? I know, I know, some of these sound dangerous, but really, can they be any worse than what you have been put through? And don't you owe it to your Mom? After all, she went on "Dancing with the Stars" for you and almost killed a man with her yelling. That's how much she loves herse -- I mean, you.

WAIT! I GOT IT! There are just enough of you to form a mangy, rag tag gang of dodgers, like in "Oliver." You might need your Mom for this one though. She can stand somewhere with a sign that says "formerly famous" and unwitting tourists can stop to take pictures. Then, when they aren't expecting it, you can swarm them like locusts and strip them of their fanny packs and digital cameras. You need to jump on this opportunity quickly though. You are entering the teenage years and soon will be seen as just another gang. Then you'll just have to wait until you're all old enough to be on "Celebrity Rehab" to make a decent living. And you KNOW that won't make your Mom happy.

I guess there is another route, but it's kind of crazy. Your Mom could put all the money she has made off you in a trust fund and start parenting. Then you could go to college and find real careers you love, and become your own people.

I know, crazy.

So, I guess you just need to remember that most tourists have a low center of gravity and will stop fighting if you yell "look, corn dog samples." I know I always do.

Best of luck,

Libby

*For my friend Sam

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Multiplying

The children next door are multiplying.

No, I don't mean that way. Gross. They're kids. This isn't an "After School Special."

I've already told you about Liza. She has two older brothers. So, when they moved in we were glad to learn about the family of five. The little family of five.

Then the two nephews moved in. One came because he wants to play football at the high school. The other obviously is trying to clean up his act and needs his uncle (who is a pretty imposing man) to help him out. Okay, so a family of seven. Still small by Utah standards. We could handle it. And only two of the kids were little, right? The rest are teenagers and young adults trying the best they can to be mature and responsible.

This weekend, the mother's daughter from her first marriage moved in -- with her two kids. So, now we have the parents, a young female adult, a young male adult, two teenage boys, a pre-teen boy, a six year old girl, a four year old girl, and a five month old baby living next door.

I am expecting a partridge in a pear tree to show up any day.

So far we haven't had any real problems. Ryan is getting the worst of it as the two little girls (Liza and the even chattier Channa) have decided to "keep him company" while he works in the yard. I don't think it helps that they know he likes to eat popsicles to cool off. And if Ryan isn't enough of a draw they have practically formed a fan club for our cat Olive. It's only been two days and I have already told them both at least a dozen times hissing does not mean happiness.

Meg is loving all the action. Every time we go outside now there is someone in the yard, and she happily shouts "kids." She used to shout "Liza" at all of them, but when they would correct her it got confusing, so now she just stays generic.

I just hope there aren't more coming. And that the parents don't feed any of them after midnight.

That's when it will really get ugly.

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ARRRGHHHH!

What happens when you try to explain to a toddler that riding on the outside of the cart can be dangerous, no matter how many jerky kids with irresponsible parents you see doing it in Target?

This:

I tried to get her standing -- twice. She slid back down. I tried to pick her up and carry her. She made her body so heavy I swear it was made out of lead. Finally, her Dad just threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. A screaming sack of potatoes.

At least it tired her out. I'm going to drink wine now.

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The Truth Hurts

I think we can all agree that sexism is everywhere. No one says anything about it, and we all try to act like it isn't there, but it is -- and it starts early. Kitchen sets have little girls in the ads, while trucks have little boys. The doll isle is all pink and features "little mommy" slogans. The action figures are on aisles filled with blue "tough guy" slogans. Nothing implicit is said about toy only being for girls or for boys, but it's all implied.

Thank God for Fisher Price. They totally cut through the bullshit. Ladies and gentlemen (mostly gentlemen) I give you the hammer...

Yep, this hammer is for boys. BOYS! No girl better try to touch it, even if she is 3 to 18 months. A girl baby wouldn't even know what to do with the power of this hammer rattle, and trying to figure it out could cause serious problems! She might break a nail, and we all know about the problems of baby nails.

Of course, Fisher Price realizes that while girls shouldn't -- no, CAN'T -- play with hammers, they know that they are still at least 50 percent of the toy buying market. They had to create something for them too. After all, girls can be so pouty if they feel they aren't getting enough attention.

BAM! Yep, that's right -- a diamond ring! I mean, come on, isn't that what every baby girl wants? Of course, it would be better if it was given to her by a boy baby, but it's fine as a gift from her parents in order to remind her what's she's reaching for in life: a real ring from a boy, that hopefully knows how to swing a hammer.

I am just so proud of Fisher Price for saying what every other multi-national toy company is thinking: that boys should do things, and girls should stand by and look pretty until boys are ready to pay attention to them. If they get any more truthful they'll have to call their next collection the "fuck you Gloria Steinem, get back in the kitchen" teaching toys.

No, I won't be buying any of them. Probably no other Fisher Price toys either. Regardless, though, I do appreciate their honesty.

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Four Year Old Memory Shark

I think we all know the only reason to play a game with a child is the secret knowledge that any time we could crush them. Yes, yes, we play games to foster creativity, and for interaction, but what is really enjoyable about it is that we know we are letting them win, and that at any moment we could snatch that away from them and leave them crying. It's sad, but it's true, and it has made Parker Brothers millions of dollars. It's only when that knowledge leaves us that the games are no longer fun.

That is what happened to me last night.

It was all so tempting. A new memory game featuring brightly colored candy, a warm sitting room, a fire in the fireplace, and, best of all, a bright eyed four year old girl. I thought I would sit, drink wine, talk to my friend (the unwitting child's mother), and magnanimously let her win, all the while enjoying my benevolence. Really, could you pass that up? I thought not.

I didn't really pay attention during the first game. It was all so fast, and I was drinking wine. The next thing I knew it was all over, and I had only three pairs: circus peanuts, candy necklaces, and some sort of nonpareil. Not only had she beaten me, but she had only let me take the crappiest candy on the board.

She wanted to play again, so I took the challenge. I put down my wine glass and concentrated on the board. Every move she made I watched, trying to burn the location of every candy into my brain. I started wondering why the hell we need so many types of candy in the world. I began to imagine that some of them had to be made up. The child started to make chewing noises every time she turned over another pair, letting my know she was not only eating candy, but my self-esteem as well. I wasn't going to let her swallow it whole.

I picked up red licorice. She picked up Good and Plenty. I picked up peanut brittle. She took candy corn. Lollipops. Taffy. Some kind of candy that looked like rabbit turds. One that looked like Czech cough drops. The cards were flying fast and furious. Finally, only four remained -- and it was my turn.

I turned over the first card -- jelly slices. I knew exactly where it was. I had seen it at least 20 times during the game. Also, there were only four cards left. I grabbed the second card and deftly turned it over revealing gummy -- wait for it -- WORMS.

The chomping noises she made while gathering up the last cards still ring in my ears.

The worst part of the story? At the end of each game, in order to name the winner, we had to stack our cards next to each other. Once stacked the four year old, who now appeared to have the eyes of a demon would say "look Libby, mine's bigger." Not only did she win multiple times, but she publicly shamed me too.

On my way out the door, my friend patted me on the shoulder. "She always beats me too," she said. I know she was trying to make me feel better, but I swear I heard a hint of pride in her voice.

My memory training starts now. Retribution will be mine. Oh yes, yes it will.

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The Big Purple Mark of Shame/Coolness

A friend of ours was at home yesterday, enjoying the afternoon, when her son came into the kitchen with a mark on his neck. A mark that had not been on his neck before his girlfriend had come over to study, in his bedroom, with the door open. A mark that was purple, and mottled, and obviously caused by suction. Yep, her baby had a hickey.

Like any good mother, our friend freaked out. How could HER son had gotten a hickey? They had the door open! She was less than 20 feet away! He dates a nice girl! She raised him better than that! She quickly sprang into action, letting him know she noticed the love bite, and that studying in his room, door open or not, was now off limits. He was embarrassed. The girlfriend was embarrassed. I don't think anyone was as embarrassed as our friend though. Not only was she having to lay down the law, but she was facing the fact her son is now doing stuff she never wanted to picture him doing, and that in the future he will likely be doing more of it. Oh, and then she had to think of all the things SHE had done when she was young, feel shame about them again, and then fear he will do THOSE things. Sheesh. Talk about mortifying.

After hearing the story I suggested she make him wear a scarlet "H" on his shirt, and assured her that the mocking from the other kids at school would probably be a worse punishment. I knew that wasn't totally true though -- remembering back to when I was his age, and the fact I wanted a hickey more than anything else in the world. I bought mock turtlenecks just in case I got one. I envied my friend Patrice, who looked like a leper with no self esteem. I knew that if I got a hickey I would have trashy, physical proof a boy liked me. My Mom told me nice girls don't, but I didn't want to be nice, I wanted to be cool.

I have no idea what I am going to do when Meg wants to be cool. Maybe by then have platonic relationships with boys will be all the rage, and sexual activity will be seen as tacky. Yes, I know that would mean the end of the species, but it also would mean me not having to worry about my daughter ever worrying about being a slut, or a prude, or having a boy use her physically because she wants him to love her, or deal with disease of heartbreak. I think that's a fair trade.

It hurts my head, and my heart just to think about it. I mean, to her it will just be a hickey, but to me it will be the first signpost on a road filled with dangers that I have already traveled, and don't want her to wreck on. Oh, and I can't provide her with an accurate map, and even if I could, she probably wouldn't take it.

Thank god for my friends -- and the fact they are going through this first.

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