Yesterday afternoon Kaylee started complaining of pain in her stomach. First she thought she was hungry but was unable to decide what to eat. She was fussing and complaining "I need some food Mo-om!" but every option I gave her was unappealing. So the longer she went without a snack, the higher in pitch and more whiny she became.
I asked her to show me where her belly hurt, as clearly the situation was escalating once I gave her buttered bread and she had two bites before crying even louder. She pointed to her left side and at first I was really concerned as quickly as the pain came on. I asked her if she thought I should take her to the doctor, but she said no because she didn't want a shot. At this point I figured she probably just had a lot of gas, but you never know so I thought I would get some more information.
I dragged her into the office and jumped on Web MD, but in the meantime she was REALLY crying, complaining, whining, and basically acting like there was an alien attempting to exit her body. Web MD was GREAT because I could ask her all kinds of questions about her symptoms and basically narrowed it down to two options: constipation or gas. Awesome.
She climbed up on my lap and was doubled over and said "I knew this day would come! I'm dying!" and I have to tell you I was laughing and stifling my laughter so hard I almost peed a little, and tears were rolling down my cheeks. This whole display was really oscar-worthy I tell you.
I laid her on the couch and instructed her to pull her knees up to her chest. Just like magic, suddenly the pain began to dissipate. Eventually we wandered back to the kitchen, the scene of the crime, and she climbed up on the wooden bar stool. Which was fabulous. Because wood is the best thing for amplifying the sound of the loudest and longest FARTS I have ever heard from a 6 year old child in my LIFE.
Another day, another problem solved, another academy award for Kaylee.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Open Letter to Sock Manufacturers
Dear Sock Makers,
Recently our family purchased socks from an unamed clothing manufacturer, and much to my dismay, each and every sock is designated for either the left foot or right foot.
May I respectfully ask you WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? For anyone who is borderline OCD, anal-rententive, or a stay at home mom with nothing better to do, or the deadly combo of all three (which accurately describes me) this is the meanest thing you could have ever done.
First of all, I am compelled to sort through the pile of laundry to create separate stacks of socks with an L, and socks with an R. And if they are different colors, there are even more piles. And this takes a long time I have to tell you.
And THEN I am guilt-ridden when I don't do it, and I marinate in my guilt until I do laundry again and can sort them and match them PROPERLY. And I don't always have the time to match them, so you can imagine how much my therapy bill will be when I cannot take it anymore.
Secondly, are you NOT aware that socks get eaten by the dryer? So, if a sock with an L goes missing, I cannot possibly keep the matching one with an R because unless it has its match I can't put it together with another sock WITHOUT a letter on it. That would be crazy.
And I can't keep a sock without a mate laying around in the off chance that the dryer eats the R of another pair thus having a match. It just isn't right to keep socks in the drawer without a mate. I mean REALLY.
Finally, have you ever tried to convince a four year old that their left foot is really their right foot? And then spent an entire day knowing that their socks are on the WRONG FEET? Horrible, it's just horrible.
So please, dear sock makers, for my sanity and the sanity of thousands of others like me, please discontinue the practice of sewing the L and the R on your socks.
PS: Did you know you CAN wear them on the wrong foot and they are still perfectly comfortable? Why the hell do you need the letters on there? I just don't get it.
Recently our family purchased socks from an unamed clothing manufacturer, and much to my dismay, each and every sock is designated for either the left foot or right foot.
May I respectfully ask you WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING? For anyone who is borderline OCD, anal-rententive, or a stay at home mom with nothing better to do, or the deadly combo of all three (which accurately describes me) this is the meanest thing you could have ever done.
First of all, I am compelled to sort through the pile of laundry to create separate stacks of socks with an L, and socks with an R. And if they are different colors, there are even more piles. And this takes a long time I have to tell you.
And THEN I am guilt-ridden when I don't do it, and I marinate in my guilt until I do laundry again and can sort them and match them PROPERLY. And I don't always have the time to match them, so you can imagine how much my therapy bill will be when I cannot take it anymore.
Secondly, are you NOT aware that socks get eaten by the dryer? So, if a sock with an L goes missing, I cannot possibly keep the matching one with an R because unless it has its match I can't put it together with another sock WITHOUT a letter on it. That would be crazy.
And I can't keep a sock without a mate laying around in the off chance that the dryer eats the R of another pair thus having a match. It just isn't right to keep socks in the drawer without a mate. I mean REALLY.
Finally, have you ever tried to convince a four year old that their left foot is really their right foot? And then spent an entire day knowing that their socks are on the WRONG FEET? Horrible, it's just horrible.
So please, dear sock makers, for my sanity and the sanity of thousands of others like me, please discontinue the practice of sewing the L and the R on your socks.
PS: Did you know you CAN wear them on the wrong foot and they are still perfectly comfortable? Why the hell do you need the letters on there? I just don't get it.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Epic Battle
Last night was an epic battle of wills: The seasoned vet vs the rookie. Age vs youth. Experience vs determination. Who won? Read on for the full story...
My kids are good eaters, most of the time. Kaylee will try anything once, and if she doesn't like it she'll tell you. Brady will look at something and decide he doesn't like it. Instantly. Before smelling, tasting or even touching it. Even so, they both like salad. And for that I am thankful.
Last night I grilled chicken (yes, I skillfully operated a Weber grill all by myself) and served salad and grilled asparagus as well. Kaylee at it all and then some. Brady complained about the entire meal as soon as he saw it on the table.
Battle #1: Asparagus. My ONLY requirement is that they TRY something, just one bite, and if they don't like it OK. But they have to try it. Brady says, and I quote: I will NOT eat ANY. I repeated again to him the rule and his options, either eat one piece or eat a pile of them. Incidentally Kaylee was rooting for me to win because she wanted seconds of the asparagus. Brady, she says, just eat ONE. That's all you have to do. Nice cheerleading there, big sis. After about 5 minutes of me putting one on his plate, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it....well you get the idea, I won. He actually ate it. And, guess what? Liked it. ARGH!
Battle #2: Chicken. While only a minor skirmish, please understand that it IS about the fight, not just the war. If I let my guard down for one second he'll eat me alive like a grizzly bear and his prey. Brady wanted a whole piece, which was a big ass piece of chicken, one that even I couldn't finish on my own. I convinced him that I would cut it in half and make bite sized pieces and after he ate ALL his dinner he could have seconds. This took all of about 2 minutes and it was over.
But wait, there's more....
BATTLE #3, the battle of all battles, the cream of the crop, the cherry on top, the big daddy of them all: SECONDS OF SALAD............. As I mentioned, Bready does like his salad, so he asked for seconds, which I happily served up. Mind you he is VERY clear that he doesn't want mushrooms so I carefully select each piece of lettuce to put on his plate. Near the end of the meal he decided that he was done and left the table. We ask them to ask to be excused (you know, to give the appearance to visitors that our children are actually polite) so when they just get up, you know it isn't going to be easy getting them back.
Once he sat back down and I explained to him that since he asked for seconds of salad that he needed to eat it so it didn't go to waste, he promptly said "I will not eat it." If you've met me, you know that any sort of defiance like that doesn't go well, and as shown in battle #1, I will not relent until I win. So, I made myself comfy. I explained that he could sit there all night long, and I with him, until he ate the three bites left of salad on his plate.
Many people, at this point in my story, will think "is it really worth doing battle over some droopy expiring salad with a four year old?" to which I will answer every time and twice on Sunday that yes, with this particular four year old that not only is it worth doing battle, it is a matter of teenage year survival that I not give in. Give the kid an inch and he'll take my minivan for a joyride with a six pack of beer and a learner's permit just because he can.
The rest of the details of the story are not really worth giving other than to tell you that about 30 minutes in, with me returning Brady to the chair in front of his food a thousand times, I finally told him I would just get a glass of wine and a book and wait all night with him. Finally, at that point, it was starting to get dark so I went into the kitchen, poured myself a GIANT GLASS of red wine, and grabbed a novel that I had just gotten through the first few pages. I sat back down, cracked open the book took a long, delicious sip of my wine and looked over at my son.
Suddenly, he was ready to deal. It was like magic. I was the interrogator, and I finally broke him. But, when it comes to battle, it isn't always about the win, but about giving a little to the other side so they at least have some dignity left and that they feel like you've done them a favor, not the other way around. He wanted to eat 2 of the 3 pieces of lettuce left and I chose the two largest. He ate them, quickly, then asked what was for dessert.
My kids are good eaters, most of the time. Kaylee will try anything once, and if she doesn't like it she'll tell you. Brady will look at something and decide he doesn't like it. Instantly. Before smelling, tasting or even touching it. Even so, they both like salad. And for that I am thankful.
Last night I grilled chicken (yes, I skillfully operated a Weber grill all by myself) and served salad and grilled asparagus as well. Kaylee at it all and then some. Brady complained about the entire meal as soon as he saw it on the table.
Battle #1: Asparagus. My ONLY requirement is that they TRY something, just one bite, and if they don't like it OK. But they have to try it. Brady says, and I quote: I will NOT eat ANY. I repeated again to him the rule and his options, either eat one piece or eat a pile of them. Incidentally Kaylee was rooting for me to win because she wanted seconds of the asparagus. Brady, she says, just eat ONE. That's all you have to do. Nice cheerleading there, big sis. After about 5 minutes of me putting one on his plate, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it off, me putting it back on, him taking it....well you get the idea, I won. He actually ate it. And, guess what? Liked it. ARGH!
Battle #2: Chicken. While only a minor skirmish, please understand that it IS about the fight, not just the war. If I let my guard down for one second he'll eat me alive like a grizzly bear and his prey. Brady wanted a whole piece, which was a big ass piece of chicken, one that even I couldn't finish on my own. I convinced him that I would cut it in half and make bite sized pieces and after he ate ALL his dinner he could have seconds. This took all of about 2 minutes and it was over.
But wait, there's more....
BATTLE #3, the battle of all battles, the cream of the crop, the cherry on top, the big daddy of them all: SECONDS OF SALAD............. As I mentioned, Bready does like his salad, so he asked for seconds, which I happily served up. Mind you he is VERY clear that he doesn't want mushrooms so I carefully select each piece of lettuce to put on his plate. Near the end of the meal he decided that he was done and left the table. We ask them to ask to be excused (you know, to give the appearance to visitors that our children are actually polite) so when they just get up, you know it isn't going to be easy getting them back.
Once he sat back down and I explained to him that since he asked for seconds of salad that he needed to eat it so it didn't go to waste, he promptly said "I will not eat it." If you've met me, you know that any sort of defiance like that doesn't go well, and as shown in battle #1, I will not relent until I win. So, I made myself comfy. I explained that he could sit there all night long, and I with him, until he ate the three bites left of salad on his plate.
Many people, at this point in my story, will think "is it really worth doing battle over some droopy expiring salad with a four year old?" to which I will answer every time and twice on Sunday that yes, with this particular four year old that not only is it worth doing battle, it is a matter of teenage year survival that I not give in. Give the kid an inch and he'll take my minivan for a joyride with a six pack of beer and a learner's permit just because he can.
The rest of the details of the story are not really worth giving other than to tell you that about 30 minutes in, with me returning Brady to the chair in front of his food a thousand times, I finally told him I would just get a glass of wine and a book and wait all night with him. Finally, at that point, it was starting to get dark so I went into the kitchen, poured myself a GIANT GLASS of red wine, and grabbed a novel that I had just gotten through the first few pages. I sat back down, cracked open the book took a long, delicious sip of my wine and looked over at my son.
Suddenly, he was ready to deal. It was like magic. I was the interrogator, and I finally broke him. But, when it comes to battle, it isn't always about the win, but about giving a little to the other side so they at least have some dignity left and that they feel like you've done them a favor, not the other way around. He wanted to eat 2 of the 3 pieces of lettuce left and I chose the two largest. He ate them, quickly, then asked what was for dessert.
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