Yuletide Blessings to ALL!




The dangers of precocious children


My girls are very different from each other. Having a second child made me realize how different two girls from the same parent can be. Even though Princess Punk has some different genetic contributions than The Peach, it is still amazing to me how vastly different they are, not just their personalities and their physical appearances, but developmentally as well.

The Peach-

My Peach is fair-skinned and golden with spun-sugar hair that is a light brown/red/blond/gold, depending on the light. Her eyes are the same color as The Zen Master’s, that is to say, multiple colors. They change from a speckled olive green to a slate blue to purplish grey and, when she’s pissed, a brighter green with flecks of brown and gold. She’s all dimples with a slight overbite that we are starting to think is from binky-overuse. She is hot-tempered and stubborn and smart. Like… scary smart.

I have the good fortune of working with a child psychiatrist. So the following information comes straight from an MD and not say… WebMD.

The Peach, at just under 2-years-old, is linguistically and cognitively on par with a 3 to 3 and a half year old. She can count to 13. Consistently. Actual counting, not just reciting numbers. She speaks in 3-4 word sentences on a regular basis. Subject-object-verb. Now… to be fair and in the interest of full disclosure, she is frequently difficult to understand. The diction and phonemes are lacking, but the grammar? The grammar and logic and reasoning? There. Coming out of her mouth. With regularity, confidence and emphasis.

Last week, she dropped her binky on the floor. I picked it up, and, as we are attempting to wean her off of it, I did not give it back. Her reaction? She looked at me, quite calmly, pointed at her hand and said, quite clearly,

“Mom. Mimi. Put in hand, Peach put in mouf.” (Clarification; Mimi is her name for her binky. Not exactly sure how that came about. And she did use her real name and not her “blog name” when referring to herself.)

So yeah. Smart. And I don’t know if she is highly intelligent or just developmentally ahead of the curve in a few areas, but regardless, she is constantly surprising us with what she is able to do.

Hence the danger.

We spent most of Friday in the ER. My Mom was watching her and dozed off… For less than 15 minutes. She awoke to find The Peach industriously coloring her hands (back and front) with a Sharpie. Into the bathroom to wash hands then back into the room to find the mess she had not noticed before. That included a great deal of potting soil on the floor and about 6 pill bottles. All with caps securely, childproof sealed. Then… Mom saw the pills. About 5 of her dog’s joint pain pills (because he is a crotchety old bastard and groans every time he gets up). The bottle, with childproof cap firmly in place, had about 5 pills left in it. Out of a full bottle. Of 50. The Peach had opened the childproof cap, dumped out the pills, and screwed the cap back on.

“Did you eat these?”


Just to be sure, My Mom picked up a different bottle, showed it to The Peach and asked,

“Did you eat these??”


So… a call to poison control and a trip in the ambulance and some X-rays of her abdomen later (“Ok honey, they’re going to take a picture of your belly, hold still…” “Cheeeeeeeese!”), the ER doc decided she probably hadn’t actually eaten very many, if any at all, and they would observe her for a few hours and send her home.

She was absolutely fine.

I spent a good portion of the 4 hours we spent in the ER researching “childproofing for smart kids” on my laptop.

So there’s the one.

And the other?

Princess Punk is cinnamon and spice with braids and a head shape befitting ancient Egyptian royalty. Her eyes are chocolate and deep and a dark amber when the sun hits her just right. She is creative and artistic and can make you laugh in a split second. She has always been ahead of the curve physically. She hit all those motor skills milestones several months before the average age. She is a born athlete. She excels at sports and has a combination of balance, strength and flexibility that an adult would envy. She developed quickly, got her period early and is now built like a brick shithouse.

That is such a disgusting phrase. Anyway…

Hence the danger.

My beautiful, 14-year-old daughter has a body that is several years more developed than her brain. The idea of sex is (as of today at least) absolutely gross to her. She has a boyfriend. He’s sweet and goofy and would probably jump in front of a train if she asked him to. He came over on Friday with The Princess’s BFF to watch a movie. Just to illustrate how infatuated he is, he let her paint his nails. Purple. Anyway, at some point, Princess Punk had to do a set change for her pump. Since she had decided to use her thigh as an infusion site, she had briefly changed into a rather tight pair of cutoff jeans.

As she is bending over to stick a needle into her thigh, I catch this goofy, silly, sweet kid, staring at my daughter’s ass with a look on his face that could only be described as… Lustful.

“Don’t you look at her like that.”

(hastily looks away) “Oh! Ummmm…%coughcough%”

That boy was incredibly lucky The Zen Master didn’t see that.

Then later, I see some videos posted on facebook of Princess Punk and her BFF (who spent the night) dancing to some K-Pop song on YouTube.

We made her remove them. Immediately.

It was very clear, both The Princess and her friend were just goofing around, being girls, having a good time and in no way were they trying to be sexy or suggestive. The BFF is an average girl, she’s still built pretty much like a kid with some inkling of the woman she will be some day.

But My Princess? Wearing her cutoff sweatpants and a loose t-shirt? My girl looked like a 20-year-old practicing dance moves for the club.

It. Was. Terrifying.

And even more terrifying, is the absolute cluelessness The Princess possesses. She is a kid. She is finding herself as a woman, and she is starting to realize she has, “A Body,” but she still doesn’t get that grown men look at her with thoughts in their heads that make me want to put bars on the windows and go buy a shotgun.

Not to say that The Peach doesn’t possess age-appropriate motor skills or that Princess Punk is dumb (all A’s at the moment in fact), but each of my daughters has some degree of… Let’s say, “advantage” in certain areas.

So. Yeah. We are SO screwed.

Breaking point

After a flurry of text maessages from both my husband and my teenage daughter, I sent the following email to both of their cell phones, since my texting was no longer working, probably overloaded by the aforementioned flurry of text messages:

Subj: Now my fucking cell phone is not working

You know what? Fuck this. I’m not being Mrs. Newlife* anymore. Being Mrs. Newlife sucks. I will be Georgiana from now on.I will be home around 4pm. Iwill happily accept a hug and a kiss but the next person who asks me something that another person in the household can answer, I am going to completely fucking lose the tiny piece of sanity I have left. And Princess Punk**, before you start getting pissy about me yelling at you, know that I am sending this to more than one person.
*Obviously, I used my real name in the actual message
**Ditto for The Princess


Things are… sketchy right now.

Nothing bad really, just nothing particularly good either.

My Mom is waiting for her divorce settlement to be finalized.

And she is waiting to see how much actual cash she will have at that point.

Because we need to know if we can come up with a minimum down payment for the house we’d like to buy.

Which is a moot point unless we sell the house we are all uncomfortably crammed into at the moment.

Which has produced a single brief phone call since it was listed 7 weeks ago.

And I will be extremely lucky to walk away with anything more than a few thousand. For a house I put over 30,000 dollars down on. Thank you Grandma for leaving me enough money to buy a house after you passed. I’m sorry I seem to have pissed it away in this economic clusterfuck that is particularly discriminatory against mobile homes.

My Mom is in The Peach’s room. The Peach’s crib is squeezed in next to my bed. I have to scoot to the end of the bed to get out in the morning. Which is not particularly easy when you have to pee. My Mom and Princess Punk are sharing a bathroom. Which tends to end up in some sort of drama at some point almost every day. I have no place to get away. None of us do. Except The Princess, the only one who has her own room. But nobody wants to go in there anyway, it’s a stage 6 biohazard zone. I can’t even have privacy in my bathroom. The door doesn’t lock, and my brilliant, not-quite-2-year-old is quite adept at opening doors. So I frequently spend time on the toilet or in the shower yelling, “NO! OHMIGOD, Do NOT touch that!” or, “Mommy is going peepee in the potty. Could you please go see Daddy instead?” To which I’m met with raucous giggles and much squealing and “nooooooooooo” and cockroach-style scrabbling all over the room.

Everything is crowded. And claustrophobic. And loud and crazy and it’s making me want to run away and hide.

Oh, did I mention that HE is living in a 2800 sq foot 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom house? By himself.

Just sayin’.

I just want to know what to expect. Even a dim idea about what to expect. I just want one less thing to worry about. Something I can think about. Look forward to. Even make some tentative plans around.