Great. Sticky.

The Peach is now 2, is into EVERYTHING and is kinda, a teeny bit crazy. As a result, I am finding I am frequently grabbing things away from her and putting them places I probably shouldn’t. Like my pocket. Or my purse. So I shouldn’t be surprised to reach for my keys and find instead, a half-eaten package of fruit snacks that have gelled into some sort of weird amalgam with a couple of (unused, thank God) tissues in the side pocket of said purse.

It took me several minutes to get the tissue-lint/pectin/red-dye#6 paste out from under my nails.

So I did an inventory.

Here’s what I found.

In my purse-

  • Just a small sample

    Just a small sample

    2 Mimis

  • a handful of unused tissues she pulled out of the box. I actually thought those might be useful. Not.
  • a handful of napkin shreds from… McDonalds? Not sure.
  • a tootsie roll pop wrapper (that one might have been Princess Punk)
  • a juice box straw. I rescued that one from her nostril the other day
  • a half of a crayon
  • a Sharpie, sans-cap. That was quick thinking there. (sarcasm… in case you hadn’t figured it out)
  • one glove
  • 2 pen caps (but not a sharpie cap)
  • 1 AAA battery
  • 1 teeny acrylic ball that looks like it could be the end piece to a barbell when I had my tongue pierced a lifetime ago
  • 2 hair bands. From her mouth.
  • 1 barrette. This, she yanked out of her hair (along with quite a few precious silky-fine strands) and hurled directly at my head
  • a dog biscuit. I’m pretty sure she had intended to give this to Fairy Dog and not eat it herself, but since I confiscated it while she was in the car (several miles from home and The Fairy) I’m not making any assumptions.
  • half a package of PB crackers. She pulled these out from under her carseat while I was wrestling her into the car. She then hid them, waited until I had reached a I-can’t-reach-back-there-and-grab-you-without-pulling-over speed and then proceeded to munch on them. I’m not exactly sure how long they had been wedged under her seat, but even an hour in that car would’ve made them inedible to anyone but a 2-year-old.
  • And the always disgusting… Diabetes test-strip, used, complete with drop of blood from Princess Punk’s finger prick. I scooped that out of her mouth. Gag.

In my pockets (coat and pants, over the past week)

  • 2 (different than the purse) Mimis
  • more shredded napkins, this time from home
  • a baby comb
  • a Barbie cowboy boot. This had been popped off her tongue where she had delightedly suctioned it then walked around the house showing everyone.
  • a foof of Fairy Dog hair
  • styrofoam packing material
  • a used tissue that she had been about to lick
  • a raisin
  • a ketchup packet
  • a capped Sharpie
  • various shreds of paper
  • at least 4 different types of string/yarn/twine

 This is just from the past week. I cleaned out my purse less than 10 days ago.

Excuse me, I have to go wash my hands again.



The joys of Two.

It’s official.

The Peach is 2.

As of January 15, 2014, I became the mother of a two-year-old.

As of March 26, 2014, she is still alive.

I’m quite proud of myself.

I may have mentioned before, The Peach is, linguistically at least, a fucking genius. Her speech is on the level of a 3-4 year old. Which is awesome.

Ok… It’s not awesome. It’s a hair pulling pain in my ass. There’s a reason 2-year-olds aren’t particularly verbose yet. It’s a hell of a lot less aggravating to get a screamed, “NO!” than a screeched, “NO, I DON’T LIKE BOCCOWI! BOCCOWI IS YUCKKY! I WANT GAPES! GAAAAAAAAPPPPEEEEEEESSSS!!!” This is, of course, within 24 hours of her announcing, “Mmmhmmm! Boccowi is deeeewishus!”

Her pronunciation has not yet caught up with her vocabulary (as evidenced by the boccowi). This, combined with her rapidly expanding lexicon and a short fuse has resulted in withering looks (are you really that stupid Mommy? I SAID ammamulmecamcle.) followed by stamping feet and occasional objects thrown at your head. And she hears herself saying it correctly.

“Animal Mechanicals?” (OMG, I can’t believe I was irritated with The Ponies. SO. MUCH. WORSE.)

“NO! Am-ma-mul-mec-amcle!” Very slowly. Because Mommy is obviously deaf, mentally deficient, or both.

She is funny. She lives to make you laugh and is frequently creative in how she does so. She has an incredibly expressive face and will twist it into crinkled noses and furrowed brows and huge grins and about 15 versions of “The Pout.” So when you laugh at Hickory Dickory Dock, because that cheeky mouse went up the cock, she grins and hams it up and now will probably never say it right.

But God help you if you incur her wrath. She hits. She spits. She throws things. Hard. And then, when she calms down enough to register the “stern look,” she hangs her head and says, dejectedly, “I go time out.” And when reminded that the Itsy Bitsy Spider did not get a time out as well, she cries. Loudly and with complete and utter bullshit. I swear, she doesn’t even try anymore. She actually wails, “Aaahhh… EhHehHehHeh… Waaaaahhh.” Yes. Seriously.

Oh, and apparently, potty training is for idiots. It’s much easier to have Mommy change your diaper. And she has told me so. “Mom, I peeewwwwp. Change my diapeh.” On one such occasion, as I have her squirming and half-naked on the couch, Crazy Girl attempts to reason with her.

“Why don’t you use the potty Peach?”

“No. Yucky. Mommy change my diapeh.”

“But Sissy uses the potty, don’t you want to be a big girl like Sissy?”

“No. I pee on Sissy.”

And then, a few days later, as The Peach is bent over in the living room, grunting and straining like a squat-thruster trying to set a new world record, I ask,

“Are you pooping?”


“Don’t you want to poop on the potty?”


Elated, I leap up from the couch, ready to bustle her into the bathroom in the hopes that the turd she is trying so valiantly to get out, stays in there until I get her perched on the toilet.

“C’mon! We go poop on the potty! Let’s Go!”


Princess Punk posted that little exchange on facebook.

She is in constant motion. She disagrees with every single thing you say, ask or do. She squeals and screeches at volumes that, by all rights, should crack the windows and every other piece of glass in our home. It is nearly impossible to keep clothes on her and changing her diaper has become an olympic sport. She won’t eat what you give her. She is stubborn and pushy and independent and opinionated. Basically… Two.

She’s also beautiful and smart and cheeky and turning into a pretty cool kid.

And she never fails to make me laugh.

Princess Punk gave The Peach a bath last night, wrapped her up in a towel like a little cocoon and plunked her on the bed for me to jammify.

“It’s a burrito baby!”

“heehe… Buwito baby!”

(squirms) “Oh No!'” She sounds truly alarmed.

“Whats the matter baby?”

“Wheh is my butt? (gasps) Wheh is my ‘gina?”

“…Um… Did you lose your vagina?”

“Yeah! (gasps again) Oh nooo…”

(squirms some more, then throws off the towel triumphantly)

“Deh it is! SU-PISE! HAPPY BUH-DAY!”

Just… Wow.

Finding the new normal

M74~Normal-People-PostersRelatively speaking of course. I mean… Seriously, I could never have described myself as “normal.” What is normal anyway? Is anyone really normal?

I digress.

Things are starting to settle in. 90% of our crap is moved in. The other 10% are the various odds and ends that you end up throwing into one big box because you’re just so damned tired of packing already. Stuff that you pack because you probably don’t need it, but you might.

Although 90% of our stuff is moved, I’d estimate that only about 60% is actually in the place it’s supposed to be. And because this is a big new house with a big new family configuration, figuring out exactly where exactly those places are is… Challenging. My new kitchen? Great. With about a million cupboards, drawers, pantries and cubbies in which to stow our myriad of dishes, pots, pans, utensils and multiple kitchen appliances. Who the hell uses a yogurt maker anyway? Trying to suss out where to put all our stuff so that I can actually use the kitchen efficiently is becoming a headache. At least once, every time I cook something, I find myself saying, “Now why the fuck did we put that there?” The pantry is built-in, massive and deep. As in, God help you if you need a can that migrated to the back wall deep. So we’re trying to figure out how to utilize all the space so we won’t have to put a miner’s light on The Peach and send her into the void just cuz we want some mac n’ cheese.

My Mom’s space is crowded, but seems mostly moved in. Unfortunately, the act of moving combined with increased Peach-care has left her too tired to use it most of the time. We’re trying to get to get the chaos down to a moderate level so we can work out a childcare schedule that doesn’t completely suck every ounce of energy out of her. There’s no reason she should end up watching The Peach any more than she did before she was living with us. Since The Peach is now a F5 tornado with the tendency to speed through the house, naked and screeching, I think it’s wise to work that out soon before My Mom completely loses her shit.

The Zen Master is slowly taking over the basement. We’ve been married 3 and a half years now, and I still cannot even venture a guess at how his brain works about some things. He seems to have a system going down there, but it looks like he’s just moving things around randomly. The stuff that isn’t random is peculiar. Since the laundry room is in the basement, he’s now taken over the entirety of the chore. It used to be Princess Punk’s job to fold, but now he does that too. And then puts the neatly (sort of) folded clothes in neatly labeled drawers for each of us. In the basement. 2 floors down from my dresser. When I asked him about it, he said, “People can just come get their clothes when they want to put them away so I don’t run out of baskets cuz they’re sitting there with clean clothes in them.” “People” in this statement would be referring to ME.  3 points babe.

Legos are AWESOME. Laundry Baskets are AWESOME. Legos and laundry baskets are AWESOME!

Legos are AWESOME. Laundry Baskets are AWESOME. Legos and laundry baskets are AWESOME!

The Peach? LOVING IT. Although, she’s so enthusiastic about everything, it may just be everyday life in general that is making her so cheerfully gleeful. I gotta say, I never get tired of coming home to, “Mommy home!!! Hooowaaayyy!!!” That statement is however, frequently followed by a hem tug and, “Mom. Mom! I hungwy. Go get me to eat.” With a subsequent “Peeeeeeeeze?” if I’m very lucky. She has a “big-girl-bed” now. It’s actually quite pretty, honey oak and solid wood. Cheap too. Thank you Random-Asian-Laborer who makes less in a month than I do in a half-hour. I feel shitty about buying that stuff because I know it promotes unfair labor practices. But I still do and hope that maybe those underpaid workers will figure out us fat-assed Americans have been taking advantage of their cheap labor and revolt, cause a paradigm shift in the world economy and subsequently establish us as a utopian Roddenberry-esque world. Anyway. Where was I? Right… The Peach’s new bed. Twin-size and tucked under the window in her new room, she has slept in it since we put it together (about a week and a half) and, for the past 3 nights, has not only slept alone, but has fallen asleep alone after a bedtime story and a tuck in. She is enjoying having her own room and actually stays quietly in bed for a little while in the morning after she wakes up. Amazingly, I got to sleep until 7:30 on Saturday until I woke up to, “Moooom. Mommy… Geh UP Mom.” And, when I appeared bleary-eyed in her doorway, “Mom, I pee in the bed, look…” We need to find her some better diapers.

Princess Punk has claimed her space and it already looks like her closet, backpack and desk simultaneously exploded in the middle of her bedroom. And she HAS unpacked already. But she’s happy. And she’s able to walk to school and she absolutely Can. Not. Wait. until the weather improves so she can use our amazing backyard and POOL. Oh, and she’s already planning the 8th grade graduation party. We’re trying to navigate rules and chores and guidelines in the new house. It was apparently her belief that in the new house, there were no established rules so she could do whatever she wanted. Which she learned (the hard, “you’re grounded,” way) that this was, in fact, not the case. But the adults in the house are also adjusting to new disciplines and structures since the way we did things before doesn’t always translate to our current situation.

BTW, she did a drawing on her ipad that was so good (as her drawings frequently are), I went to Snapfish and got it put on canvases and it now hangs in our new living room.

My girl is talented. Nuff Said.

My girl is talented. Nuff Said.

As for me? Still don’t have my own space worked out. The bedroom is nice, but I can’t sit in bed comfortably with the new mattress and therefore, have no place to type. Hence the no posting for a while. The 3-season porch where my space will be is currently crammed with boxes and freezing cold. There is a hot tub on the way (YAY!). It’s small, plug-and-play and one of the most energy-efficient on the market. It’s also going to be a tax-write-off since I’ll be using it as therapy for chronic pain (actually suggested by my physical therapist). There’s a small, disconnected gas stove out there that we’ll need to hook back up, and that, combined with the heat from the tub and some plastic sheeting on the windows should make it comfortable enough to sit in even if the hot tub is not in use. So I’ll be putting a chair out there and some speakers so I can blog and listen to my audiobooks and chill out to my heart’s content. Definitely looking forward to that.

Nice, right?

Nice, right?

And our bedroom is nice. Oddly shaped because of the way the roof and dormer windows are, but big enough to fit our furniture nicely. Plus, some built-in drawers to put linens and towels in since our bathroom is the size of a closet and doesn’t even have space for a trash can let alone shelves or even a towel rack.

So settling in. Moving things along. And finding a new, often better, happier way to be a family.