duh.

The Kidling had a remarkable day yesterday. She was cheerful all afternoon when she returned home from school, overcame an enormous fear successfully, was able to stay up late to finish her homework without a meltdown, and didn’t even get ticked when the “two stories at bedtime” reward that I offered became “one story” then “maybe just half” after I realized that she had chosen quite the tome (and no one who values her sanity keeps The Kidling up past bedtime).

A banner day, really.

Naturally, as someone who values happiness and joy, I wanted to remind The Kidling of her general awesomeness first thing this morning.

“Did you dream about your great accomplishments last night?” I asked when The Kidling walked bleary-eyed into the room.

“No,” she replied incredulously. “I dreamed about My Little Ponies having a race!”

Duh.

 

a how-to guide to bad parenting

I like to think that I am very nearly the parent I want to be. Do I have things to work on? Yes. Am I flawed? Extraordinarily. But I sincerely believe that is part of showing The Kidling what it means to be a strong woman: modeling self-love in spite of flaws and failures.

One of my flaws obviously being my affinity for alliteration.

But I have days. Holy shit do I have days. And let’s face it: those months weeks days are far better blog fodder than the good ones. One of those days was a particularly exhausting one. It involved errands, chores, and general crap. We returned home late and I hoped to get her straight to bed, but… she was a mess and really needed a shower.

Sunuva-

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! With constant harassment reminders from The Mama, The Kidling got in, screwed around in the water cleaned up, and got out.

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! I gave her two minutes to use the toilet, wash her hands, and brush her teeth. Yes, I know this is irrational. Yes, I know that is impatient. Recall, Dear Reader, that this is a story of one of those days.

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! I gave warnings.

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! The one minute warning was accompanied by a grouchy yell from down the hall, courtesy of The Mama. Then, the clock ran out. I marched my frustraed, irrational ass* into the bathroom, took the toothbrush out of her tiny hand and told her she was finished.

Firmly.

“Why?” She asked, on the brink of tears at the injustice of having her toothbrush whisked away without explanation.

“Because your time is up.” The Grump The Mama replied.

“Oh. I didn’t know,” she explained in a voice full of sincerity. “You didn’t have to yell at me because I knew I had one minute and I don’t know time!”

The Kidling was earnest.
The Mama was humbled.
The Dada was right:

“She makes a valid argument,” he noted.

Indeed she does.

_________

* You read that correctly. At this point, even my ass was ticked off.

quotes from the loo

Fine, not technically from the loo; rather, from within the loo.

The Kidling: (calling into the living room) Excuse me, Mom?
The Mama: What, Dear?
The Kidling: Can you tell me if this is too much toothpaste?
The Mama: I trust you, Dear.
The Kidling: (incredulously) You do?

Fair question. You know, after this.

the managing of expectations

Confession time.

Yes. Again. Apologies, but this does seem to be a good forum for such things.

I have been slacking lately in the meal department. Purchasing and preparing meals is a household task that I have, until recently, embraced.

Especially since it means The Dada handles the laundry. Yes, all of it. Yes, I do realize how lucky I am.

But lately… a half-hearted hug is the best I could do. The Family has been eating more than our fair share of quesadillas, pizza, and assorted pasta dishes, garnished with the not-infrequent dinner out for good measure. Suffice it to say I was quite pleased with myself Sunday evening when I served homemade squash apple soup and homemade truffled shiitake parmigiano reggiano risotto in the same meal.

Smug. S-M-U-G. Smug.

As is the case in oh-so-many cautionary tales, that hubris foreshadowed my downfall, for The Kidling began to sing during the meal:

“You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit. You get your risotto, and you don’t throw a fit.”

I give up.

sentences guaranteed to get you slugged on the playground

“I like these because they are fried and they have truffle oil!”

-The Kidling
October 1, 2013

neglect, or why i am a strictly average blogger

Sheesh. I get a great idea then I don’t follow through consistently. Being human is so. damn. irritating.

I somehow neglected a very important step to accompany Tuesday’s story about love. With apologies to the dictionary lovers everywhere…

Per-cep-tion: noun. A social event held for the purpose of celebrating a specific occasion, typically a wedding. Syn. party, soirée, bash, reception.

re-entry

The Kidling had the good fortune to spend the better part of two weeks with two different sets of grandparents. Yes, she is the luckiest Kidling in the world. No, she was not happy to be home. The fact that she hopped out of the car upon arriving home to find a stack of her artwork in the recycle bin did not ease her re-entry.

Unfortunately, at the top of the stack of recycled masterpieces was a wocket-less pocket. The Mama, being the horrible human being that I am, tore off the feathered head of the wocket before tossing the remainder-pocket and headless wocket- into the stack.

The Kidling was understandably heartbroken. Fits and tears ensued. I held her and talked with her about how we can’t keep everything, blahblahblah. The recycling creates more paper for her to use for her art, blahblahblah. There are more trees in the world when we recycle, blahblahblah.

She wasn’t buying it.

Alice: (crying) Why are there so many noes? Why is it always ‘no’?

The Mama: (calmly) Alice-

Alice: (wails) Why is it always ‘no’? Why, from parents, is the answer always ‘no’?

The Mama: (more calmly) Alice, it isn’t always ‘no’. Mom and Dad say yes to you-

Alice: (interrupts, again. wailing, again.) Why, from parents, is the answer almost always ‘no’? Why is the answer almost always ‘no’? (continues into perpetuity. Seriously. I am pretty sure she is still talking about it, and this was 10 days ago)

I need to learn to cover my tracks.

no more fun

 

The Kidling is a lucky little munchkin in more ways than I can count. Most importantly, she is safe, her basic needs are all tended to, and she is loved.

By safe, I mean followed around and hovered over. A bit.

By basic needs, I really mean “and then some.” A little bit because we work hard, but mostly because we are fortunate and the world has been kind. Don’t go getting any crazy ideas. She doesn’t have her own iPad or anything, but when she needs new shoes, she gets them. And they’ll probably be cute.

And by loved, I mean worshipped (hence this blog’s name).

You know what puts the lucky-Kidling-o-meter over the top? Alice adores horses, and Grandma and Grandpa have three. Notice I didn’t say we have horses. That would require an acreage we cannot afford, tack we have nowhere to store, farriers I know nothing about (as evidenced by the fact that I spelled it with an “e” before autocorrect saved me), and far more time than we have to ensure they have adequate care and attention.

No, having horses at Grandma and Grandpa’s is the best case scenario for The Kidling. Not unlike a niece or nephew, we get to have all the fun and hand them back when the diaper gets dirty…

But with much messier accidents.

So dear darling child had a fantastically good time yesterday with Grandma and Grandpa’s equine friends. Too much fun, it turns out, because at bedtime she declared, “I will only go to sleep if I can ride a horse right now!”

That settles it: no fun for you.