Catholic School Orientation: The most fun you can legally have with a Priest

Not because of the excitement of meeting the new teacher, checking out the new digs, or signing up for the numerous booster-clubs and after-school activites -- not even because of the fact that I am THIS MUCH CLOSER to not having to juggle both the kids every day all day, but because I got to see Shawn try to carry on a conversation with our sweet old parish Priest.

Rarely does my husband ever become intimidated or flumoxed, but when he does, I like to pull up a chair, sit back, and quietly laugh my ass off (What? He'd do the same for me!). Unfortunatley, I had to settle for standing with the stroller, holding Jax and laughing my ass off, but it was sooo worth it just to be able to see Shawn stammer and sweat. (I really do adore him, I swear)

That, and I got to hear someone else's kid say this:

Teacher: " How are you today, Nancy?"

Kid: "Good! I just swallowed some throw-up!"

Nice.

I love you, now leave me ALONE

This is how I feel about my kids around 7:15 pm every Wednesday and Thursday night. Those are Shawn's long days at the restaurant, when he leaves the house around 6am and doesn't return for at least 12-14 hours. That means 12-14 hours with the kids alone. 3 hours with my kids is daunting, but 14? Am I on ritalin?

Having done this for a while now, I usually am preparted for these XXL days: I try to get some sleep the night before, am up before they are, get breakfast going, kitchen cleaned, some playtime, then it's off to the gym for an hour. This is usually the best time of the day for us. Just look at this pic I took of them minutes before we headed off to the Y:


See? They're practically screaming "Happy sibling actors ready to star in their first 'My Buddy' commercial."

We get home an hour or so later, have snacks, watch a cartoon, then it's naptime for Jax, and story time for me and Ry. Today she even went down for a 45 minute siesta with me! Incredible!

Then we're up around 2 and it's pb&j sandwhiches all around, followed by a little light cleaning in the playroom, then outside for chalk drawings, bike riding, and overall outdoor mayhem -- I even let Ryan "paint" the house with a piant brush and water.

Then Emma came over, Jax had some alone playtime, and I watched Oprah while folding laundry.

Suburban Housewife Bliss, I tell ya! But then Emma has to leave, it's 5:45, Jax is clingy, Ryan is attention-hungry (????) and I'm trying to end a business conversation on the phone, begging for 10 minutes alone time, eventually locking myself in my bedroom, which turns out, does nothing but encourage them to scream, yell and bang louder.

I call Shawn, desperate to find out when he will be home so I can fix dinner, only to learn that he doesn't plan to leave until at least 6:30, which means the earliest he will be home is...7:15. (It's now 7:30, and still no Shawn).

Now Ry is begging for food, I've kept Jax in his highchair waiting for something (anything) for 10 minutes, so I give in and start dinner. Ryan hides out in the pantry, making me open the door every 5 minutes so she can ask when dinner will be ready, Jax throws the bits of cheese and orange I've given to him, and I try not to burn myself, the kitchen, or dinner.

At last(at last!) we get to sit and eat, and I'm bombarded with comments like, "What is this nasty wiggly yellow stuff?" and "Why do I have to eat salad? It is so disgusting!" I get her to stop talking, only to be pelted in the forehead by Jaxson's portion of the "nasty wiggly yellow stuff".

It's 6:58, I've had enough, so we all head upstairs for bath time, where I figure I can get at least 15 minutes of downtime to sip some shiraz and flip through Vogue.

My naivete is cute, no?

2minutes into the bath and bubbles are flying, kids are screaming and Vogue is soaked.

"That's it!" I yell. "No stories tonight!!" To which Ryan sing-songingly replies, "No stories, no stories, no story story stories!!!"

Grrrr. I whisk them both to bed, with nary a good-night kiss, and tell Ry I will send Daddy up when he gets home, which turns out to be closer to 8 pm. He immediately knows things have gone awry upon entering: a quiet home, messy kitchen, wife in the recliner laughing hysterically at TV's Most Outrageous Moments.

We have our time together while he reheats the dinner that has now gone cold, and take turns telling Ryan to get back in bed. Finally we give up, allowing her to join us for the last 30 minutes of Caddyshack -- for once, the Golf Channel is good for something -- and then I make her do the dishes.

Shawn balks at this, but Ry thinks it is amazing that she gets to do a grown-up chore and stay up late, and follows with, "Maybe tomorrow I can drive!"

Hmmmmm.......

If IMAGE is everything, I'm screwed

Once upon a time in a land far far away there lived a little girl who loved to shop. Shop shop shop all day long, that was her motto. Thousands of dollars on credit, two kids and one mortgage later, she no longer gets to shop shop shop, unless you count the once-a-week cruising of the clearance aisles at Target.

Then one day, Shopping Beauty's buddy said "Screw It!", and they jumped in their econo-size sedans, piled their collective kids and headed to the swankiest joint in town. Used to be, Shopping Beauty owned this particular mall, but ever since Nordstrom's moved in things had gone far too uphill for this mom from the 'burbs.

Nervous does not come close to explaining the feeling in my gut as we walked up to the main entrance. The trip was actually a last-minute one for me, but luckily we had been running errands earlier, so I was already decked out in all my hip-mommy wonder: $10 white clearance pants from NY&Co, my $3.75 tee from Target (holla!), my $3 clearance head wrap from - gasp- Nordstroms, and my cute little $9 Charlotte Russe pointy-toe flats. Thank you, thank you very much.

So, although I felt moderately comfortable entering this real-world fashion show, I was anxious as to how the kiddos would behave. Taking them to our suburb mall which caters to the mommy crowd is one thing, but dragging them through Nordstrom's, Sephora, Coach, et. al.? Whole different subject. I think I've pretty much gotten past the whole "my children mortify me in public" bit, but I had yet to venture out with them amongst people who think so highly of themselves they deign smile lest you accidentally mistake it as a gesture of acceptance. Plus, the shit in these stores costs a fortune -- the kind of shit my kids tend to destroy.

Not to mention that when my friend and I get together, our kids go nuts. It's part of the reason we do it so much. WE think it's funny, plus they entertain each other while we shop. We have never before actually been able to shop with them in tow, so we are happy to deal with the minor skirmishes that arise when our foursome joins at the hip (you don't even want to know what they're like at Whole Foods). The thing is, what we see as skirmishes often tend to be annoying anti-chldren debacles to the rest of the world. But whatever.

So we hit Nordstrom's, doing the potty thing, cruisin' the foot wear aisle, holding up shoes for Ryan to look at as if we actually could afford to purchase them should she want me to do so. Then comes the cosmetics section, and Jax starts screaming, Ryan and Jayden begin chasing each other around, and every single counter girl glares with fear and hatred in their eyes. We manage to get out all in one piece, when I notice that Ryan is still holding the Cookie Monster doll she had picked up in the shoe section. Mortified, (but a little impressed that she so easily shoplifted from such an upscale establishment) I walked her back to the scene of the crime to return the stolen merchandise.

Having sucessfully manuevered through that obstacle, we continued on, and I felt bolder and more confident with each step. I was intent on giving forth the look and feel of a grown up who really did belong here with all the pretty people. Even as we made our way through more shops, settling for a bit at that make-up mecca, Sephora, I was thinking, "Hah! I can pull this off -- I can be Perfect Mommy who goes Shopping!" Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

Before I know it, Ryan and Hunter are running around sticking their fingers in pots and pans of blush, powder, lipstick, etc... When I finally tore myself away from my search for the perfect pressed powder, I was faced with Hunter the Clown and Ryan, the little girl whose face he turned black and blue. Oh my God, they looked hideous. Luckily, Angie had completed her purchase, taking Jayden and Ry with her to another store, while I managed Hunter and Jax.

Poor Hunter. I fear he will forever be the little one blamed for everything. I think one of the sales ladies must have seen the mess the kids had made earlier (try as we did to cover up the finger-prints, smudges and wads of tissue), and went to town telling me how Hunter had "wreaked havoc" on their tester products.

"Mmmmkay," I mumbled, so far into my Mommy Make-over that I was not about to let some Bitter Betty ruin my good time. "They're testers, right? They're meant to be played with." I retorted, moving along. I must have pissed her off, because she left huffing as I made my way to the checkout counter, applauded for my fashion sense by not one but 2 clerks, who were clearly NOT trying to butter me up to make a sale, seeing as how I was already in the midst of buying, so shut it.

We glide out of the store, find our counter-parts, and head back to the parking lot, when Hunter decides to try and juggle the recorder-flute- thingy he was playing with, sending it smack onto Jayden's head and breaking it into 3 pieces. Jayden's screaming, Hunter's crying, Ryan is whining about wanting to go to Build-a-Bear, and Jax is just yelling.

Finally we make it out all in one piece, and as I head home with the kids, mentally figuring up my purchases and what level of guilt I should/should not be feeling, I decide that overall, the trip was a success, and one we should consider doing again in a few months/years/decades.

Until I get home, change my clothes, and find the giant purple stain on the butt of my white pants.

Snakes on a Mommy

Well, technically it was just snake, but it might as well have been a herd.

I was feeling very Mother-Earthy this morning (actually, I feel like someone rubbed the entire inside of my mouth with cotton balls and then stuffed them up my nose -- the "Mother Earth" thing was just a side effect of being sick but not being able to lay in bed), so I adventured into the backyard for some weed-pulling.

I tackled one main bed, then another, feeling increasingly better with each pull. Looking around, I noticed the desolate little rear corner where a lovely climbing rose should be and decided to move some pots around to make room for our quaint patio table and chairs. In my yoga pants and flip-flops.

As I was lifting our giant clay urn, I turned to stop a plant from brushing up against my ample backside, when it was suddenly brough to my attention that there was no plant. This fact was made clear to me by the skinny little wriggling snake squirming up my leg. Inside my pants.

Now, not to get too dirty so early in the morning, my husband is one hot toddy, but I have never before stripped for him with such speed and agility as I did this morning.

Making that ridiculous sound that always seems to emit itself from my mouth when about to fall -- "whoa, whoa, whooooaaaaa"-- I ripped my pants off, along with my shoes, and ran half-naked screaming into the house, leaving Jaxson behind to fend for himself.

As I heard Ryan screaming "Daddy! Mommy's running NAKED!!", I remembered I had another kid, who fortunately had followed right behind me.

Well, then. It's good to know he can take care of himself should we be faced with sudden danger, because apparently I do not come equipped with the "Not Without My Child" chip.

Just add that to my Big Bag of MOTY Tricks.

You can call off the suicide watch, I'm all better now

I think the thing about that last post was not so much that Ryan's actions were monstrous, but that the result was scarier than unsual. So, other than feeling a little sheepish at my blatant over-reaction, I'm all good.

This week was a bitch, though. Shawn and my Mom say it's because of the heat, I say it's because Ryan needs to get her butt into pre-school pronto. I'm running out of things to do inside the house or some other air-conditioned fortress to keep them entertained -- you know it's bad when my idea of a fun field trip is a visit to Whole Foods. Luckily, it's far enough away, and close enough to the city that I can still pull it off.

So the G'peeps and I took the kids to the Austin Farmers Market this morning and then on to Whole Foods, and all in all it was pretty good. My favorite part was when I began admonishing Ryan for grabbing a yogurt-covered pretzel from the bulk bin, only to turn around 2 seconds later and catch Big Daddy doing the same thing, grabbing 2 -- one for him and one for her. This explains a lot.

Broken Glass

Ryan just put Jaxson's head through our window tonight. He didn't even flinch. We're still not sure why she did it, but we think it may have something to do with her brain wanting to watch Daddy water the lawn.

I'm dying here. Seriously. I have no idea what I'm doing wrong. I am obviously aware that I am not the cream of the mothering crop, but in all honesty I thinkI'm pretty okay. Then something like this happens, Ryan goes into fantasy mode, Shawn blames me and I breakdown. I love my smart kid. I love that she's smart. I love that she's creative and imaginative and full of vibrance. What I don't love is the dangerously close line she walks between being a super-smart savvy sassy spunky kid and a 4 yr old version of Sybil.

I'm truly at a loss. I don't know if I should continue with the blog even -- maybe some of her "other world" obsession is caused by my need to make light out of nearly every situation. (Or maybe I'm a self-centered witch who doesn't deserve to have kids.) I know Shawn doesn't think I'm on enough with the discipline, but if you could really see us, I think I'm pretty consistent. But I could be wrong. I could be blowing the whole fucking thing out of proportion, and probably am, but when you've got kids, that's what you do, right? I mean, they are your world, your reason for being, your duty to God and all that, right? Then how could anything not be a big deal? All our lives are are mere small incidents added onto one another, creating great big moments and phases and eras. So how can we not analyze the little things? When they were babies that was all we did: "Day 1, she did ____. Day 2, she did_______. " Christ, they have us keeping journals of their excrements, right? When is it okay to stop obssessing? When does the care and worry and concern get in the way of the love and nurturing? I never thought I was that much of an anxious mother (shut it), at least, I tried not to show it in front of the kiddos. But we all second-guess ourselves, right? If the AMA can take 30 years to change their minds about breastfeeding and which way to put a baby down to sleep, and spankings, what's so weird about mom's second guessing every freakin' decision they make with their kids: How to handle a discipline problem? How to handle an overly-imaginative kid? Half the experts want you to baby talk every little thing, and the other half think you should bring it on, no holds barred. So now, here I am, little girl lost, trying to figure out which way is up, worried about what I'm doing to my kids, which is probably nothing, except that all the worrying I'm doing is turning me into an emotional wrecking ball, which is what will likely end up being the cause for their imminent downfall, no?

How do you squeeze the normal out of the crazy?

P.S. Lea Ann and Jennifer -- this is not the post to comment on with some smart-ass remark.

Good Housekeeping

This post started out mainly as a series of pics taken throughout the day to explain to Shawn why, after months of working the flylady technique, he was still walking into a sloppy home day after day. How could this be? We always go to bed with a spic and span house, we awake to a shiny sink, clear floors, clean clothes -- what the hell happens in between?

Well, honey, Jax happens.

Here he is helping me with breakfast this morning:

It was so cute when he climbed up and started playing with the stove knobs.












This is him working the laundry scene. (You really should just climb on in there to make doubly sure you didn't forget anything -- it can work wonders in saving that spare sock.)










Okay, so here he is channeling Shawn as Ryan and I destroy the kitchen making dessert for Daddy.













Maybe that mess wasn't all his fault, but just look what he did while we tore it up with the sweets:

So you see, Shawn, I really do work around the house while you are gone, but with all the help I've got, along with having to stop every few minutes to take pictures, it just seems as though nothing gets done.

Luckily, he had Ryan's dinner conversation to take his mind away from the tragic mess that is his oasis away from the RESTAURANT.

She immediately hit us with the fact that while she was posted up in her room (punishment for whacking Jax with a spatula) she began to notice that her chest and/or stomach area began to feel "on fire and like there were needles all over it." And so begins World War III.

Lax Mommy vs. Anal Daddy, circa 2006. Shawn starts worrying about what multitude of medical mysteries she may have contracted, while I'm rolling my eyes in disgust at what a sucker he is. "Shawn, you don't think this could just be a diversionary tactic to get us to forget about the spatula thing?"

"Yeah, but what if it's not."

Damn, the cautious reasoning of the stable parent. Damn, the wonders of the over-imaginative child. Damn the skeptic Mommy's Catholic guilt.

Needless to say, we will be making a call to the doc tomorrow.

Thankfully, Ryan quickly followed with a scrumptious audio entree as we were finishing our real one. She walked over to retrieve her old booster seat and we told her she didn't need it, put it back.

"But I want to get high, Mom."

Holy Moses mowing the lawn. As Shawn choked on his salmon, I barely managed to squeak out, "Well, I'm not the one to fight you on that one, babe. Have fun."

And though that portion of the conversation was both filling and satisfying, she saved the best for dessert.

I don't remember how we got back onto the subject of the spatula incident, but we did, and as we were discussing it, she broke rank and blared out, "Hey! SpongeBob has a spatula!"

"Yes, Ry, but that's not the point of the story."

"I know, I know, I know."

"Okay, so what was the point?" I asked.

"Blah blah blah blah." she replied, with what I SWEAR was a wink and grin towards her father.

Yepppp. That's about right.

Quote This

Ryan to Jax:

"Get ahold of yourself!"

Of course, he then body-slammed her into the wall, she kicked him in the head, and Mommy screamed,"You guys are sucking my brains out!"

Self-expression does not appear to be a problem in this household. Lucky us.

When did REGISTRATION become a contact sport??

Sleeping bags, camping chairs, coolers with food and drinks. The line for tickets to the Stones? Star Wars? Nope. SUNDAY SCHOOL.

Seriously, y'all? This is what we've come to? No one wants to volunteer to teach religious ed, so the classes are numbered, which means spaces are limited, bringing us into the ugly world of Christian supply and demand.

Registration began at 9 am this morning, but the line started at 5:30. By the time we got there at around 8:45, the line was wrapped around the church twice, people were wilting, and no one was happy about the 95 degree weather. The lengths people will go to not to have to deal with other people's kids...

Anyway, after about an hour we got in just fine (mostly because I cut in line accidentally, but whatever), then headed on to our next registration destination: the YMCA.

At about the time we were leaving the church, my friend called saying people had been lined up at the Y since 4 am, and the line was out to the parking lot, so we should get moving, like, yesterday.

By then I was so hot and frustrated from church that I just figured we'd get there when we get there, and if spaces were available, great. If not, there was always clown school.

Luckily the Katrina Effect had worn off for gymnastics by the time we arrived, so we were able to walk right up, pick our class, and be done with it. Except with us, it's never easy.

Ryan was having a hard time deciding between dance or gymnastics, so I told her we could try both for a while to see which she preferred. The only hitch was I was in such a rush to get into gymnastics, I didn't look at the dance class time, which of course coincided with gymnastics, which meant I had to get back in line, re-do the registratin and get Ry into a different class.

Luckily, the Y had provided a jumping pit and sno-cones to keep the kiddies happy, bringing the number of ridiculously superfluous shit we'll do for our kids so we don't have to listen to them whine to new heights.

I think I should start a parenting school focused just on the Art of the Registration Process. Everyone would be welcome but, of course, you'd have to register first.

The One Where It's Too Hot to Come Up With A Title

And trust me, I know hot. (That's what she said...badumbumching)

I was ironing last night when I suddenly heard loud, jumbled noises from Shawn downstairs. He was hammering out his work schedule and watching baseball, so I didn't think anything of it until Ry came into my room a few minutes later, looking very much like the cat who ate the canary.

"What happened?" I asked.

"Well, I was just really worried that Emma's fish was going to get hungry in the middle of the night and start swimming around like this (makes frantic fish swimming motion and eye movements) and wake us up, and I know you don't like it when we wake you up at night, so I wanted to put some food in his bowl."

"We don't have fish food, Ry. What did you put in there?"

"Baby Powder."

(This is when Shawn starts yelling my name)

"Hang on, Ry -- you snuck out of bed to go downstairs to pretend-feed the fish that the neighbors entrusted to us to look after with baby powder?"

"Well I just didn't want him to be swimming all night like this (again with the frantic fish motions and eye movements)."

Sure enough, there was the delicate little betta swimming around under a milky-white film of powder. How she snuck past Shawn is a mystery, but I must say the girl is thorough.

FYI: fish is fine. Mommy pulled an all-nighter refilling the bowl and monitoring its condition.

By the way, we're thinking of starting up a pet-sitting biz. I think we'd be really good at it.

They don't give you pain meds when diagnosed with Herpangina

But they sooooooo should, because this sucks. I can hardly talk (shut it), barely swallow, and the inability to sleep through the pain has done wonders for my Positive, Cheery Outlook On Life.

You long-time readers may remember a while back when Jax was diagnosed with the same thing.

Whatever. Mine is, like, 100 times worserer. (Did I mention it hurts to talk??)

Toastmasters 101

Ryan: "Mom, can I tell you something?"
Mom: "Always."
Ryan: Well, um, I was trying to um get my um braceets and um they um well, I wanted to get them, and um, my bracelets I mean, and um..."
Mom: "Ry, you've got to try to stop watching yourself in the mirror while you talk and start focusing on what you're saying. People don't like it when you take forever to say something and all you say is 'and um'."
Ryan: "And umm, anyway my bracelets got stuck and umm..."

Meanwhile, in other lands far from here, my sister's regional manager decided to inform her that as a reward for being in the top 3 sales division in the state, they were sending her and another lucky soul on an all-expenses-paid trip to Disneyland. Know how he did it? He walked into her BANK decked out in full Mickey Mouse attire. In a BANK. VERY prestigious. Very "financial instution trustworthy of your life savings", I must say.

So anyway, she is taking Ryan and I have been ordered to accompany them as well. Don't tell anyone, but I am totally psyched. I'm stocking up on fanny packs, bermuda shorts, and sandal/sock combos even as we speak. We're talkin' first class all the way, baby.

So.Many.Multiple.Tongue Ulcers.

Nine, to be exact.

It's what you get when your 16-month-old starts getting in his molars. Sleepless nights, medicine struggles, midnight tantrums and lots and lots of drool. Luckily, it seems as though things have calmed down with him, just in time for the stress of teething to ignite the same syptoms in me.

Did I mention it's also our 5th anniversary today? It's always nice when you can be sick on a special day, but fortunately we have 2, so I'll just make up for it in October.

See? Pre-marital pregnancies and shotgun weddings really can pay off!!

Toilet Terrorist Strikes Again

It's a damn good thing I never used that wallet, anyway. Thanks for helping me de-clutter, Jax!

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Programming To Bring You This...

I'm gonna put aside the funny this morning (and believe me, there was much "funny" - though I use that term relatively- including, but not limited to, hide and seek in the dark, a declaration of independence from Ryan that nearly made Shawn cry, an all-night battle with Jax, and the discovery of an imminent attack from my MIL) to request something of all you chunkyrhinoians flotaing out there in the internet.

My very dear friend Chaika, who just gave birth to Addison Grace July 27th, is now back in the hospital with her bundle of joy, waiting breathlessly while Addison recovers from surgery to repair her diaphragmatic hernia. Addison is doing well now, though will be kept in NICU for a few more days while doctors try to move her off of her breathing tube.

They can all use our prayers, thoughts, and any other goodness we can send their way. Chaika's good people, y'all.

This Just In...

After searching and searching AND SEARCHING, rescuers finally recovered the body of one Polly Pocket amidst the water-logged debris of the dishwasher, sources say.

Police are pointing the finger at the small giant living nearby, calling it a hate crime of enormous proportions. According to authorities, his face had "GUILTY" written all over it...

I Blame the Children

...for these last 10 pounds that just won't go away. It's their fault that they request McDonald's for dinner with sweet little cherubic faces that no woman can turn down, their fault that they don't eat all their Happy Meals leaving half a cheeseburger, 3 nuggets and two small bags of fries just sitting there taunting me, their fault that after I finished off my healthy salad tonight I proceeded to finish their meals as well. Sheesh.

Who did I blame before they came along??

And BINGO was his name

Who needs a dog to chew on your shoes when you've got a son who will not only chew, but give it a good dip in the toilet as well?

NOW They Tell Me???

Apparently, all this time I should have been directing Jaxson AWAY from the cell phone with the toilet seat, instead of vice versa. Add another notch to my MOTY belt.

What's Dirtier, Cell Phone or Toilet Seat?

The Lost Art of Being a Man

Our decades-old oven stopped working this week, so I had a nice little repair man zip on out to fix it. Thankfully, it only needed a new igniter, which is a pretty common problem and easy to fix. I was so delighted to hear that, seeing as how the new Premium Outlets opened down the road from us today, and I had earmarked the cash for that.

Unfortunately, I forgot to explain that to the nice little repair man, for he apparently replaced our faulty igniter with a platinum one, seeing as how this 15 minute job ended up costing $175.

I've now vowed to make sure my son AND daughter know how to fix any and all things around the house, so as to never fall victim to over-priced handy-men. My grandfather was the quintessential handy-man, much to the delight of my Dad, who would put off household projects until Honey and Pappy came for a visit. Which leaves me with the dilemma of finding someone to actually teach the children how to be handy around the house. I can duct-tape the hell outta a lot of things, but at some point electricity will enter the mix, and we'll all be toast. Shawn isn't much help in that department either, not because he's incapable, but mainly because he's never here. Lucky for him, I had a lazy-ish Dad who forced my sisters and I to mow our acre yard from about the age of 10, so I can at least pull my weight on that end. But I draw the line at toilets. I can barely clean 'em.

Anyway, back to my problem...Uncle Jeff is pretty handy...maybe we'll write something about handy-manism into the guidelines of Godparenting. And just to be fair, we'll get Lalo to teach them both how to embroider. That should be fun.

But for now, I'll just make do with the fact that Jax can at least make the handyman's visit entertaining enough to be worth the mula -- he spent the majority of the time throwing his lunch at the guy.

Get the Goods...

'Cause we just added new ones, and they're already sellin' like hotcakes. I'm serious, they are. Go. Go NOW.

Touche`

Ryan had a tantrum today, which she graciously conducted after her friends left, alone in her room -- mostly because I made her, but partly because it's easier to flail around in her own room when there's less people around, natch.

Afterward, she and I were laying down for our nap and started talking about tantrums, being angry, controlling our temper, and all that good stuff. I felt such warmth and pride as a result of letting her wrestle her 4 yr old demons on her own, and then being able to listen to her justify/explain her actions -- warmth because of the obviously amazing mother I'm becoming, and pride at my little girl's ability to recognize and assess the emotional cause-and-effects we all face day to day, bringing her one step closer to controlling her emotions, creating a happier, more stable person.

Until we woke up from our nap, she asked for juice and I counter-offered with the ever-dreaded water. "Mom, you better get me some juice -- you don't want me to throw another fit, do you?" (head cocked, eyes peering expectedly)

Ahhh, yes. The condescending ultimatum tantrum. Very Alexis Morell Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan. And isn't she just the kind of happy stable person we all wish we were??