Basic night at home: pick up The Girl, dig around for dinner, pop a beer, feed The Girl, dig around more for dinner, play, etc… At one point, MRA and I are milling, noshing in the kitchen, The Girl is mashing down a pretzel (ok, not so much the pretzel as just dipping her finger in the cheese that accompanied it), MRA looks at me and says, “Isn’t it about time for K-Rae to go to bed?”
I agree, finish my bite and wait for the “NO!”
Nothing.
I looked around to see if she had skated outside to play with the beasties or into the other room to pull out 50 more toys to play with all of the sudden. Nope. She was right there… but not for long.
I realize this is something I should never commit to print, let alone say out loud: she heard Daddy and said to herself, “Yep, I’m kinda pooped. Time to head upstairs.”
You read that right. She took herself out of the game at the drop of a hat. Started up the stairs all on her own, clearly intent on going to bed. Just turned around to see if someone was going to hold her hand while she ascended the stairs.
Oh. My. God.
Is this really happening?
Sure enough. I fully realize it may never happen again, but I’m reveling in it tonight.
For the first time in a long time, I got a little push-back when putting The Girl to bed tonight. She sat through her two bedtime stories (Guess How Much I Love You and Time For Bed) and I popped her into her bed. That’s when the fun started…
“Puppy, blankie,” translated: “Puppy needs to be covered up with the pink blanket.” Ok. Check.
“Mickie, blankie,” translated: you guessed it. “Cover up Mickey with the purple blanket.” Ok, a little odd, but whatever. Check.
This is where I had to make a mad dash for the closet as we had run out of blankets.
“Kate, lay down, please,” she lays down, but in the opposite direction of “normal”. I’m amused. She quickly realizes something isn’t right. “O’way,” and she gets up and flips around.
“Lay down,” I remind her.
She lays down; I cover her up. Not enough. Mickey and Puppy have to now lay the same direction. Are they covered still? Check.
Whew… everyone is covered and oriented North. I think we can sleep now…
N and I have always managed to have great adventures together. Three years as college roommates. A semester in Europe, getting kicked off trains and making out with strange men in Rome. Great dinners in New Orleans. Most recently, though, we have jointly discovered the joy, challenges and sappy moments associated with Mommyhood.
So, while N&K reside in San Diego where every day is perfect, they made a trip back to the lovely Midwest to see family and friends. We’re the friends.
Six weeks apart, the two girls got along pretty well. Playground, walks, ring-around-the-rosie and the zoo. Great times. The only bump in the road came during the last hour of their visit. My Girl awoke from her nap early – lost bink and poop conspired against her. From there on out, everything was “MINE!” Fits reigned. Tears formed. Timeout made its debut.
Ah well, it was a great time with great friends. Maybe next time my girl will be just as sweet as hers…
(Did I mention she was bossy, too? 
I just can’t resist sending this photo. (it’s not as clear as it could have been, but then I didn’t want to be too obvious in the taking… the kid is trailing behind mom.)
The Girl and I went to Eckert’s in Millstadt yesterday. (MRA had his fill at Rombach’s farm the day before and opted to golf instead.) We arrived early to beat the crowds, but were entertained nevertheless, as they started to file in. I was drawn to watching this family in much the same manner that The Kid is drawn to mud, puddles, and bonfires…
Mom, Dad, and Kid were all similarly clad. Overalls over all.
Mom and Dad could never find employment at Lumiere Place. For a host of reasons.
And they brought a dog to the farm. Now I’m not the one to throw stones at the less-than-kid-friendly-family-dog (dear Shang… may he rest in peace…), but I didn’t take my dog to “amusement parks”. And he had been snipped – not that it seemed to help much. The Rottweiler in this photo had not visited the local neuterer. He huffed, snuffed, and lunged his way through the Farm.
Lovely. I was actually tempted to pick The Kid when one of the Farm dogs started following Mr. Big Boy around… looking to see who was the alpha.
God bless Bubba.
Out of respect for your fellow shoppers:
Never.
Go.
Sans.
Bink.
Ever.
Ok, there are a million little things we are to teach our children. Daily. One of these little tidbits is “no hitting”.
Tonight, while sorting through a bag of – go figure – new-to-KRA shoes, I realized it was time for The Girl to start migrating to bed.
“Ready to go to bed?” (I know, what kind of stupid question is that to ask of a child. They are never ready to go to bed. Even stumbling around, incoherent, knocking themselves silly, bumping into the littlest things, they’re not ready for bed. Whatever, I ask it in the event that she actually says “yes”.)
“No, Mommy!” and she gave me a little whack on the face with her hand. Nah uh. Oh no she di-int!
So I take her hand and tell her, “No hitting, it’s not nice to hit. No hitting Mommy.” I’m giving her my most-stern look, serious and everything. She’s searching my face looking for weakness. FOUND IT! So she starts to smirk. I hold on tight to “the look” and I don’t waiver.
She starts to look contrite. Yes, contrite. I can’t hold it… oh, man, I can’t hold it any longer. The face is just too sweet. So I dip my head and hide it while I grin and try not to laugh. Somehow, she knows EXACTLY what I’m doing. No fair! She starts to giggle. I break down and give in. We’re both laughing. Teaching moment has been shot straight to hell. Ah well, we’ll teach that “no hitting” crap another day. Tonight, my kid and I are sharing a good laugh.
Thanks to a wonderfully thoughtful legal assistant at the work shed, our little Mousketeer has her very own set of Mickey (or are they Minnie?) ears! 
Let’s hear it for Lucy, for Playhouse Disney, and that wonderful swampland in central FLA.
Last night The Kid was the writer, director, and star of her own drama. Twice.
Our beautiful little 18 month old came home from school a full-fledged terrible 2 year old. A royal fit, about what, no one really knew or remembered. Including her.
At each doctor appointment along these milestone dates in her short life, she takes the doctors suggestions, cautions, etc. to heart.
“She may start to prefer one parent over another.” Sure enough she listened and complied.
“She may start to wriggle off her changing table. So start changing her on the floor.” She did. We did.
“She may start to throw fits when trying to test limits, push for control…” The doc went on to tell me how to properly ignore them. Within two weeks, we were putting the docs suggestions to good use. Ignore her. Luckily, last night, we were in the comfortable confines of our home. MRA, not having sat through the docs’s diatribe, tried to soothe and placate the Drama Queen. She played into it and cried and boo-hooed more. Sniveling, the whole nine yards. Amazingly enough, once ignored, the hurricane faded to, not a tropical storm, but a light mist and she was ready for dinner.
“Would you like some cheese?” I asked her.
“Yes” came the reply. Confirmed with a nod.
These shoes are gold. She loves them and we love the giftor. Fronk brought these back for The Girl for Christmas last year. Obviously too little for the shoes, she still loves them. Loves to scoot around on them. Loves to slip-slide her way around the room on them.
It’s Friday afternoon and MRA is leaving work for the day.
“Want me to pick up The Girl?” he asks.
“Sure. See you at home.” Click and I’m off. Off to wrap up the last visages of work. Off to pick up a birthday present for tomorrow’s society party for our friend’s 3 year old. (yes, I did spend my half-hour jogging session this morning trying to decide what to wear. what The Girl will wear. pretty sad, I know.) Anyway, after searching for the perfect gift and settling on something I’m sure they’ll hate, I head home.
“Where’ve you been? Whydidn’tyoucall?” MRA asks when I walk in the door. I’m obviously late. I’m apparently a half-hour over his expectation and it’s clear he has no idea what to do. Dinner? Well, she’s had cookies and juice. (cookies are a strict only-after-dinner item and juice is only something I gave her last night because she was pitifully sick, coughing and needed a throat-soother) So, back to cookies and juice. And raisins. He clearly wants to make her happy and feed her, but is clueless.
Mom to the rescue. Cheese. Pasta. Banana. All is right with the world.
