girlfiend

While I’m not completely yuppie/hippie/organic, I am particular about food. All of our milk is organic and our eggs and meat are organic, grass fed, and raised locally. None of our meat comes from a supermarket. In the late spring, summer and fall 95% of our fruits and vegetables are locally grown and organic, either from our CSA, our garden or the farmer’s market.

With other foods I’m not too choosy. I buy potato chips and snack crackers and breakfast cereals based on what’s on sale, and unless it’s a good sale I don’t bother buying any processed organic foods, because, really, what’s the point? Have you compared the ingredients of Annie’s Macaroni and Cheese to a regular box of macaroni cheese? It’s the same thing, only pricier. When it comes to breakfast cereal I prefer the non-organic brands because they tend to be fortified.  I know that it’s not really necessary, or even preferable to get one’s vitamins and minerals from breakfast cereal, but with a kid who barely eats I’ll take nutrition where I can get it. My one rule about the foods in the middle aisles of the grocery store is that I won’t buy any packaged, processed foods that contain food coloring or high fructose corn syrup.

F has gotten used to the routine. He knows that I read the circulars, cut coupons and make lists before going to the grocery store. He also knows that if he asks for something, chances are I’ll say no unless it’s on sale and I have a coupon. I have to. Buying grass fed, locally raised, organic meat is expensive. He’s not getting a four dollar box of yogurt burst cheerios when the plain kind are on sale for two dollars and I have a coupon that will get me the box for fifty cents. He also knows that he’s not getting candy, fruit snacks or popsicles with food coloring. (Keep in mind these food coloring rules went out the window when I was bribing him with treats for the potty. Airheads were a big incentive in convincing him that the toilet was his friend, not his enemy.) I don’t mind spending a little extra for the popsicles that are made with fruit, and unfortunately the kid just doesn’t get fruit snacks unless he’s at someone else’s house. And the poor kid loves fruit snacks. He begs for fruit snacks. He ogles vending machines and stalks other children at the playground, hoping they’ll share.

Today I went to BJs to stock up on flour, coffee, and impulse buys. We passed the fruit snack aisle, and lo and behold I saw a box of BJs brand fruit snacks that were advertised as having no artificial flavors or colors. Sure enough, upon closer inspection the fruit snacks fit the bill. They were made with regular corn syrup, not the high fructose kind, fruit juice, a few other random, inoffensive ingredients, and they had no food coloring. I bought the box. When we got home, F noticed the giant box of fruit snacks and asked if they were okay. I told him they were, and assured him that they didn’t have any food coloring. He ran to B and said, “Dada! I have fruit snacks without artificial colors!” Later in the afternoon he batted his eyes at me, tilted his head toward the floor, looked up through his eyelashes at me and asked, “Mommy, what can I have for a snack? Maybe something without artificial colors?” Sometimes three-year-olds aren’t that bad.

I got to the asthma doctor on time but she was running 50 minutes late. While I waited and waited I knit three rows too many and missed a pattern change. Then I looked down and realized my new shirt that I am wearing for the first time has a hole in it. And my breathing is worse than it was in the spring.

On my way out of the parking garage I learned that they don’t take credit cards. The first time in five years that I’ve been there without cash and they don’t take cards. I gave the parking attendant $1.35. She said, “No you need $5, you get from the ATM inside, ” but the gate opened and I left.

I went in to get the baby after his nap and he’d reached into his diaper, removed a handful of shit, and smeared it all over his sheet, crib, hands, legs and face. Then he got shit all over the tub. Then I puked.

I had to drag both of the kids to my library meeting. Considering the meeting took place during bedtime things could have been worse. But when we got home F was still hungry and of course T saw food so he needed to eat too. And somehow I managed to drop a glass which shattered all over the playroom. I put both kids in T’s room to clean up the mess while they finished eating, but F decided that T wasn’t allowed to play with anything in his own room and T started wailing and trying to escape so I swept the pile under the (gated) fireplace and let them loose so I could put T to bed. I told F that he could either play in his room, watch a movie on the couch, or sit in T’s room on the floor while I rocked him. I gave him specific boundaries and moved furniture so he could see his boundaries. But instead he crawled under the fucking fireplace gate to play with glass and cut himself. I heard him touch the glass before the cut happened and unceremoniously dumped the baby in his crib and ran into the room. The cut wasn’t bad, but fingers bleed a lot.

F had to sit on the changing table with his hand raised above his head squeezing his wound while I finished cleaning up the mess that he’d spread. I had to sweep, vacuum, sweep again and vacuum some more, the baby screaming all the while.

Now I have to clean up the kitchen.

These are in no particular order, but the books grouped together are by the same author.  I don’t  mind reading these repeatedly and don’t roll my eyes when F wants to take them out of the library again.

Lost and Found
The Incredible Book-Eating Boy
The Way Back Home  (Oliver Jeffers)

And the Train Goes (William Bee)

Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothing (Judi Barrett)

A Color of His Own (Leo Lionni)

Knuffle Bunny
Edwina the Dinosaur who Didn’t Know She Was Extinct
Leonardo the Terrible Monster (Mo Willems)

You Can Do It, Sam (Anita Hest)

Ten Apples up on Top (Dr. Seuss)

Why is Blue Dog Blue? (George Rodrigue)

Angus Lost (Marjorie Flack)

Let’s Go! (Lizann Flatt)

Are You My Mother?
Sam and the Firefly (P.D. Eastman)

Freight Train (Donald Crews)

My mother has a zebra skin rug. Not a zebra pattern, but an actual zebra skin. It is creepy and weird and bristly. I think the eye holes are the worst part.

Stand up and look at your walls. If you have to look up to see the art it is hanging too high. Art should be hung eye level. There are exceptions- above a headboard or a fireplace mantle,for example- but generally speaking you shouldn’t get a crick in your neck looking at the pictures on your wall.

After six weeks of vomiting every time I had a small amount of alcohol I think I have recovered. I had a few ounces of beer yesterday and about 3/4 oz of vodka the day before with no ill effect. I am thrilled. If you have to take flagyl (metronidazole) take the no alcohol warning seriously. When I first ignored the alcohol warning I was still taking the drug and I puked for hours and had the spins for even longer. A week after I’d finished the drugs the effects were the same. Weeks after that, I still couldn’t drink. I don’t know why the effects of the drug lasted as long as they did. The internet, two pharmacists, a physician’s assistant, and a doctor friend had no answers for me. I am a medical mystery.

I saw stirrup pants at Old Navy this morning. Promise me you won’t buy any.

Let me be honest for a minute. The baby is my favorite. I know that I shouldn’t play favorites, or at least I shouldn’t admit to playing favorites, but in this case I can only assume that this is temporary. The baby is my favorite because he isn’t three. There will come a time, in just a few short years, when he will be three, and I’m almost positive that when he turns three he will cease to be my favorite. Why? Because three-year-olds suck. They are assholes, I tell you. Assholes.

Yesterday the Fiendling was not happy. I don’t know what the fuck his problem was, but he woke up in the morning and was just an absolute terror. He was whiny and mean, and made one unreasonable demand after another. He absolutely refused to pee telling me that he was going to pee on the floor instead. He would not pee in the potty and when I tried to put him in a diaper he ripped it off. He threatened to pee in the trashcan, in the sink, on the rug, on the kitchen floor and on the bathroom floor. There were strong words, threats and tears. Eventually he chilled out and peed in the goddamn potty for what seemed like 20 minutes. The kid clearly had to pee and was just refusing because of his three year old control issues. Last night, after I read him his stories, I was cuddling with him in bed. I warned him that I would be leaving his bed and his room in ten minutes. He said, and this is a direct quote, “I’m going to be mad when you leave. I’m going to take off my clothes and pee on the rug.” What a little fucker.

In comparison, here’s an example of a one-year-old tantrum. Last week we were cell phone shopping. The baby was not happy. To show us he was not happy he threw himself to the floor, cried, kicked and screamed. We gave him a snack and he threw it. We gave him a sippy cup and he threw it. We gave him a dummy, floor model cell phone and he immediately stopped screaming and was an absolute pleasure for the rest of the shopping experience. The tantrum lasted all of two minutes. One-year-olds are easy. They want things and stop crying when they get them. Or they want things that they cannot have and can usually be bought off with something else. They may arch their backs and scream and fuss, but they are easily appeased and do not threaten to pee on things to express their rage.

Some day the baby will be three. He, by nature of his age, will probably be an asshole. He will have wants and needs that I am unable to meet because he will be totally unwilling to express them. Instead of telling me what he wants he will hold his pee and tell me he is going to pee on the kitchen floor and make a big puddle. He will probably throw tantrums and be willful and mean and tell me no when I tell him that I love him. He will probably hit and kick and make me want to throttle him.

F, at that point in time, will be five. I cannot speak from experience with my own child, but I’ve taught kindergarten and five-year-olds are fairly reasonable. They might think talking about pee is funny, but they’d rather pee in the toilet than soil themselves. They also like to please adults. In addition, by the time he is five F will be in school full time. He will no longer be trying my nerves all day long. Instead, he will have hours out of my presence and may even want to please me. Instead of making me carry him screaming to the car when it is time to leave someplace he may follow willingly. Instead of refusing to eat until bedtime he may actually realize that food isn’t that bad and eat at meal times.

Truly, I cannot accurately predict what he will be like at five. While I’m sure he will still be stubborn and willful I know for a fact that he will not be three. His brother will be. And his brother will have ceased to be my favorite.