Monsters - They're Not Just Eating Cookies Anymore

The other day when Meredith and I got up in the morning she accompanied me to the bathroom. This is a regular occurrence. In fact, I'm not certain my bladder can perform its duty without one or more pairs of eyes watching. You've heard of "shy bladder"? My bladder is an attention whore.

As I moved to wash my hands in the sink I said to Meredith in my usual happy sing-song-y voice that I use to narrate our day, "Did you see that little monster come up here to see us?"

I was referring of course to Hermione, AKA Kitten of Doom.

But Meredith responded by opening her eyes wide with fear and sidling up to my leg and latching on with a death grip, and quietly, but clearly said for the first time that I know of, "Scared."

I wasn't certain if it was the word "monster" that had caused this reaction or if it was possibly the actual kitten. God knows she scares me when my bare feet are exposed to her guerrilla warfare tactics.

Since my mind is like a steel sieve, by that evening I had opportunity to use the word monster with her again and find out. This time I was changing her diaper and she was happily chattering away and playing with a wipey. Again it was the cat that inspired me to say, "Here comes the little monster to see you!"

I didn't know a toddler could levitate off a changing table.

I did my best to point out the kitten, and she saw her, and acknowledged her, but frantically looked in all directions to see when and where this OTHER monster might be coming from.

I couldn't figure out exactly how she would have learned to associate the word monster with anything other than a friendly blue Muppet that devours cookies and the occasional letter of the day. And then I hearkened back to the days of Jamie's toddlerdom. When his big sister would regale him with tales at night of the monsters that lived under his bed and in his closet, ensuring chaos at bedtime and effectively procrastinating actual bedtime.

I must remember to thank Jamie for passing on the tradition of education in the art of nightmare induction.

Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Husband?

My husband is quite possibly the least romantic man on earth. He honestly cannot understand why someone would want jewelry as a gift. He says it's too expensive and it doesn't actually do anything. Flowers die so what's the point? And he doesn't dare buy me candy in case it's a diet week. Really hon, wouldn't you rather just have a nice new coffee-maker or a pair of gloves?

It's okay though. It's not like I didn't know this going into the game. The first year of our relationship he bought me a toaster oven for my birthday. A toaster oven. I was 25 years old at the time. I didn't ask for a toaster oven. I don't recall ever mentioning a toaster oven. I didn't really even cook back then.

When I gave him "the look" complete with one raised eyebrow over the discarded wrapping paper, he began to sense this "look" might be something to take note of for future reference, and that he just may have committed a faux pas of some sort. He made a quick stammering save by saying, "Wait - that's not all I got you," and pulled out a sweater. Since my birthday occurs three days before Christmas, and he made a hasty trip to the mall the next day, I'm pretty sure that sweater was originally meant as a Christmas gift, but I let it pass.

He could use a little sensitivity training also. While I was giving birth to our first child, somewhere around my 5,000th push, right around the time I was pretty sure my eyeballs would pop out of my body long before that baby would, he announced that he was "really tired and he was just going to go lie down over here," and pulled a blanket over himself and did.

Don't get me wrong, even though he doesn't value jewelry or flowers, he knows I do and sometimes he really gets it right. I got a lovely pair of diamond earrings for our 10 year anniversary this year, and he's always brought me flowers after the birth of each child (impromptu naps notwithstanding).

But yesterday morning, he not only took the baby and let me sleep in until 9:30 (NINE FREAKIN' THIRTY!!), he took the van out to wash it, and returned with these.
I suspect I'm being buttered up for Hunting Season, when I find myself a single parent for days on end, but I never, ever question sudden romantic gestures.

I love you too Dave.

Ass, Bitten

So there I was all bragging about my wonderful, compliant, EASY kid.

Oh yes, she actually loves the breathing treatments. That dinosaur mask is toddler gold! She won't take it off! What? You mean your kid won't sit still for those treatments? You poor dear soul. Excuse me while I polish my superiority complex.

My initial instincts were correct. The kid doesn't think the breathing treatments are so cool. We're down to sitting on the toddler pinning her arms together for eight minutes.

Eight...........loooooooooong....................minutes.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. You go ahead and enjoy your turkey and stuffing.

I'll be over here eating Humble Pie.

Sidekick To The Dog Of Dormancy

"Sabrina why are you wearing two different shoes?"

"I didn't have time to match. I was defending my feet against the Kitten of Doom."

This could be her new moniker if the whole sweet and feminine "Hermione" thing doesn't work out.

Good Call

Despite the continued busy signal at the pediatrician's office, I decided it would be best to forge ahead and brave the pediatrician's office. Something in Meredith's cough was setting off my maternal antennae.

Turns out she has a double ear infection, but more importantly, she was wheezing a fair amount and will require breathing treatments. This involves a medication called Albuterol (normally used for asthma) blown into her face.

The last time she had these breathing treatments it didn't go so well, as chronicled by clicking here.

I realize she was only 6 months old at the time, but I figured if it was that difficult to pin her down and keep her still while she was basically a very cute pillow that had just learned to sit up, it would be next to impossible to convince her to do it now that she's a fully functional, walking, running and (back) talking small human with very defined opinions of what she will and will not (no how no way) do.

Those Irish eyes are smiling over the much coveted dinosaur mask. In fact, the only tantrums that have occurred came when I attempted to take the mask off.

All I can say is my kid is weird. Wonderful and delightful, but weird.

Vertical Hold

It's hard to believe but there were no remote controls in the 70's and 80's. Wait, I lied, there was one in our house. Before you become impressed with the advanced technology living in my childhood home, I will let you in on the secret of the very earliest remote control.

It was me.

My parents had a rule that if they called for me, wherever I was in the house or outside, I was expected to come and see what they wanted. It was a matter of respect.

Or in my Dad's case it was a matter of needing someone to see if the Steelers were playing on Channel 2 or 4 that day.

I still remember a day I was on the third level of our split-level house and he was in the bottom level Family Room. He began yelling for me and as I groaned and rolled off my bed, the yelling escalated into veritable bellows. I was certain I would find someone had entered the sliding glass doors from the back yard and was brutally beating him.

When I came charging into the room I found him in his usual position, reclining comfortably in his La-Z-Boy recliner (genuine Naugahyde - no FAKE Naugas for us! No sirree!).

"The television's rolling again. Fix it for me."

He'll never know how close he came to patricide.

Anyway, I've attempted to instill this same sense of respect in my own children. Unfortunately their father provides them with a seriously poor example. The man can sit and appear to not have heard a word I've said when I've repeated the same information three times. And when I pointedly say it a bit louder and in a way he cannot ignore (slapping upside the head can do wonders for the attention span) he says "I heard you the first time!"

So I've come to accept that I could be bleeding out from a head wound on the basement floor and the only one that might respond is the dog, assuming she wasn't already sleeping.

Yeah, I'm on my own with the head wound. The dog ain't coming either.

It Must Be A Day Ending In "Y"

You know it's bad when Meredith's newest phrase is "runny nose".

Meredith is sick. It's one of those low grade sick things that you sort of forget when it started, but you wake up one day and think, "Hmmmmm, that has been going on for awhile, now did that start this month or last month?"

Such is life with three small petri dishes.

I debated taking her to see the doctor this morning, but when I called the line was busy. As in busy signal, not put on hold to listen to a minimum of 20 minutes of admonitions to make an appointment for a flu shot, accompanied by the warning that my insurance may not cover all of my child's well-visits. No, that kind of busy I'm used to.

But a busy signal on a Monday morning at the pediatrician's office when they have several incoming phone lines is a Very Bad Sign.

Since we don't need to catch any new and interesting exotic viruses right now - we're doing just fine finding them on our own thank you very much - I made the decision to let it lie.

But my children have a habit of getting really sick on Sundays and holidays, therefore I'm guessing it would be prudent to take her before Thursday (Thanksgiving Holiday for my international readers). Otherwise I'll be stuck talking to the lady at the answering service who is really pissed off that she had to work today, and will flip a coin to decide if she will actually tell the on-call doctor that I called.

Screaming Earache Child + All Day Family Togetherness = Mom calling HER doctor to beg for tranquilizers.