Butt Naked Butt Head Baby.

Seriously, my child has to be as wild as the turkeys that roam these pastures green, more so than the bear who by comparison, are frankly quite genteel. Despite the stereotype that us “Brits” (I am not a Brit, I am English … there is a difference, culturally and geographically), are all ‘posh’ and ‘snooty’ and have ‘stiff upper lips’ and speak like the Queen (whom, we apparently all love just as you all loved George Bush and revere Mitt Romney), I am not at all posh. I am educated and my parents instilled in me good manners and how to be a gracious guest (although since moving to the South I’ve discovered being a gracious host is far more important), and although I frequently slip and behave appallingly, swearing like a sailor and being as socially awkward as a giraffe in a crystal shop, I do actually KNOW how to behave. I try to instill in my daughter some of these values that are appropriate for her age. Which pretty much comes down to not throwing poo like a zoo chimp, food or hard toys at visitors, and generally behaving like a little girl of almost two should. She doesn’t. Instead she behaves like a feral coyote raised in a den.

She does have exceptionally good taste in music. Eclectic too, from Blue Grass to Black Eyed Peas, Kula Shaker, The Stones, Blues Traveler, the two Bob’s Marley and Dylan of course), Van Morrison to her favorite Eric Church, this kid likes all genres that I allow except those I forbid … as I’ve mentioned previously, [C]RAP is not permissible (well unless it’s Eminem’s better offerings or a segue in the Peas say), and that Bieber type pop crap is just out. And if Barbie or Barney make it through this door it’s because someone’s shot me in the head and there’s nothing I can do about it from wherever they’ve perched me to drool ineffectually in a corner. More than I already do. Oh the sheer hell of it…….

Anyways, as I’ve also mentioned before, she’s quite the little mover … knew she’d be a dancer like her Mama not only because of the genetic disposition but because she kicked the living shit out of my insides for the whole nine months of my pregnancy … maybe the Blue Grass event at five months along wasn’t the best of ideas. But she picks steps up quickly, she can, thanks to Lilo and Stitch, Hula like a Hawaiian and hip swivel like the King himself. Although maybe I shouldn’t be too proud of that, especially as she’s also developed a love of removing her clothes at all times of the day. One day last week, instead of napping she decided to remove her socks and jammies. Then when they were reinstalled and a sleep-bag added to foil her, she removed all of those, plus the crib bumper and sheet and deposited the whole lot, and her blanky and bedtime buddies on the floor and preceded to scream because she was cold. Contrary much? I don’t need a step machine or an elliptical … I have a toddler and a two story house! As for her physical fitness, if she were in Pre K and they had a Year Book, she’d be voted Toddler Most Likely To End Up On The Pole … I have no idea where she gets most of her moves from, certainly not her decrepit mother (I had ‘em once but trying to Hula with her proved I am waaaay beyond it), and I’m very careful about her TV viewing. So I can only assume it’s a throwback gene and as her father is adopted, we’ll blame those people

This week the stripping has taken a twist. No longer content to fling all her clothes off, she now finds it hilarious to strip and then bounce like a Fraggle on a trampoline if I refuse to get her out of bed five minutes after depositing her, and pees on everything. And I mean everything. I can only assume it’s the bouncing, because yesterday morning I got her up, bare arse naked, leaving a soaking wet bed behind. So I strip the bed. Oh yes, last week when the bedding remained dry and not in need of a change, she was happy to strip it for me, but this week I have to do it apparently. Then, remake with mattress protector, new sheet and an ever changing array of clothing in an attempt to foil this new game. I don’t have a freaking washer dryer in this Lincoln log cabin – I have to share with a neighbor and my times are prescribed … and my time is not middle of the evening or early hours of the morning! Thankfully, my neighbor friend gave me a spare set of protector/sheets so I can at least get two attempts before having to hand wash and air dry the things! The Bug used both sets yesterday. And had the audacity to complain about being chilly and having a less than pristine bed, the little princess

So, the schemes to keep that bloody nappy/diaper on her skinny little ass are under constant review.

Sleep-suits with popper/snaps went weeks ago – she loves the sound of ripping them open with ferocity but hasn’t grasped re-fastening them and their nightdress like appearance once open, apparently isn’t acceptable even though it’s then essentially just a night gown. Doesn’t like ‘em. But “Oooooohhh look what I found, a nappy with velcro … Oh, velcro sounds cool!” Rip………..

So zip ups … yeah right, thirty seconds of up, down, up, down, waaaaaahhhhhh skin stuck, skin stuck!!!!!!!! Taking it off. “Ooooh, there’s a nappy under here, let’s take it off….” You know what comes next. Pee, cry, watch Mama do a work out that’d put Curves out of business getting the skintight protector and sheet on.

Putting a safety pin through the top of the zip mechanism, as suggested by another Houdini Mama. “Ooooh look at this cool thing, see how it comes undone – Hey Mama, I got me a cool stabbing thing, come up here and tell me again why I shouldn’t take my nappy off and pee on the bed …….”

Place baby in zip up sleep suit backwards. Hilarious. Looks like a straight jacket. Looking at her waddle with a disgruntled manner with her feet pointing the wrong way, Freaking Hysterical. Fight temptation to buy ones with hoods Listening to her grunt and groan, wriggle and writhe … er, not sure this is going to work. Finding her with one arm out and a pissed off expression that says, “I nearly choked myself escaping this thing and I woke up with one cold arm, my feet are being bound as if I am in ancient China and I don’t appreciate being denied access to my nappy. Get me out now and run, for you shall pay.”

For the moment, it looks like being only able to get one arm out has foiled her, from getting to the nappy and peeing everywhere even if it’s not too successful at keeping her warm and toasty, or quiet when she gets cold. Have a feeling this solution, whilst holding temporarily, is a mere finger in the dyke. However, we have an alternate plan in place as the size of the suit and wriggle room is going to dictate just whether she can get both arms out …. and then you know it’ll all be off again. Or both arms in, in which case the nappy will come off but will be stuck in the suit with her. Which, when she pees all over the place will just serve her right … but though I am most definitely not the best of parents, I’m not out and out mean. Although I absolutely agreed with the person I love dearly, but who shall remain nameless for legal reasons, who suggested extra long sleeves which could be tied. Either independently (her suggestion) or together, across her tiny body (my idea) but which has been vetoed as unlikely to impress Social Services (my darned law enforcement husband again), so for now she remains unbound.

So the plan of last resort, which I am sure many of you have been rolling your eyes from the beginning and thinking is the obvious solution …. duct tape. Yup, gonna get me to Wally World as soon as the pay check hits the account and the hubby lays down the guns (he’s re-qualifying, not standing over the crib in a threatening manner), and then I am strapping that little wad of dry, sleep enabling diaper to her tiny hiney ….. and if she’s really nice I’ll stick the tape only to the diaper. But the first time she peels that shit off and starts again, I am taping it to her skin. Once around the waist as a warning and then once over each shoulder like braces/suspenders if she manages to peel it off. And then hope to God I don’t go in one morning to her standing in that crib with her hands clasped behind her head John McClaine/Bruce Willis style in Die Hard, weapons taped to her back and the words “Yippecayee Mother!@#$&%” coming out of her mouth. Then my dear friends, I shall be handing her over to the Dept of Family Services myself!

Atheists 1 – Struggling To Make Sense 0

The horrific loss of life in this week’s tornado in Oklahoma is weighing heavy – especially those little souls who drowned in their school’s basement. The place where they were ushered by the staff who undoubtedly did all they could to save the children they’d taken to the very place that should have offered them safety. No doubt in time there’ll be an investigation into why the area of supposed safety failed to protect them, there may be changes in protocol, possibly even law suits. For what insurance companies like to call “An act of God” to avoid payments.

Is a tornado an act of God? Did this same being that people are praying to to provide peace, comfort and healing in Oklahoma, also create the very thing that took the lives of seven innocent children? I feel fairly certain many of those cowering from the incredible natural phenomenon that arbitrarily destroys and kills, will have been praying for safety. Did he not hear them? Was he too busy smiting those entering into homosexual relationships or getting married to a same-sex partner or making a list of those using contraception or having pre-marital sex, to pay attention? Isn’t this omnipotent being supposed to see and hear all? So why are some people standing in inconceivable piles of rubble praising him for sparing them, while parents are clinging to each other wondering how they’ll go on?

I don’t usually struggle with faith. I have my beliefs. They’re complicated, ever evolving and don’t fit the mold of any organized church I’ve found thus far. I’m respectful and genuinely interested in the beliefs and faiths of others, and so too real agnosticism. I’ve never had a better religious debate than with those who aren’t sure where they stand but are willing to investigate their views rather than the “I just don’t care’s” who aren’t so much unsure of their stance as uninterested. I have studied and practised, attended and withdrawn from religion but my faith is my own and isn’t tied to a church or particular denomination. I am in good company and am at ease with where I’m at so long as I keep questioning and evaluating.

There are times I despise religion, the organized churches and institutions and their convenient use of religious texts to sanctify man made beliefs and rules to justify their behaviour or their condemnation of those they disapprove of. I despair of bigoted individuals and their intolerance of differing beliefs and lifestyles and the way they dip into their bibles to pull out ‘evidence’ to demonize others, fellow believers and non-believers alike. I loathe the corrupt, the hypocritical, the abusive, both the ordained and the followers and the age old organizations and figure heads who protect them and enable their evil. But I also see good ministers at work. I see projects and missions that aren’t available in any other way and see the gratitude of those they serve, both home and abroad. I see good clergy men getting their hands dirty with inner city social ills and believe these out number the pastors taking home (to mansions in gated communities) exhorbitant salaries in luxury cars. I know great theologian’s out number the ‘need to be celebrity’, self-professed men of God who command adoration and demand large donations. I know the church IS the community in some areas, that it’s members and neighbors receive comfort, companionship and social services from a congregation that genuinely cares and leaders who remember why they chose their vocation.

So I can easily separate my mixed feelings about good and bad churches, it’s hierachal conflicts and the behaviour of their clergy and their flocks, from my own beliefs. And like I said, despite it’s gelatenous state, I rarely have reason to struggle with my faith. Not when bad things happen to me – I’m not that egotistical. Not even when crazed gunmen commit atrocities – I understand the concept of evil, of manmade horror and I certainly understand mental illness. But when something like the senseless loss of Oklahoma happens, I admit to being completely adrift at how to reconcile this ‘Act of God’ with the being that thousands are now praying to for solace. I hope those who survived this event however can, and that they can glean some comfort in prayer and in knowing the world cares about them. But not me. I just feel a powerless, pointless sense of anger, sadness, fear … and yes, unsure and confused. In the creation versus evolution battle, the science versus religious, the faithful versus the faithless, I’d have to say I think the atheists have this one.

The Love Shack

I found this quote printed on a cushion on a Pintrest board this week – and it sums up exactly what the Bear and I have been saying about out little log home and the time we’ve spent in it during this phase of the Bug’s life.

“Love grows best in little houses, with fewer walls to separate. Where you eat and sleep so close together, you can’t help but communicate. And if we had more room between us, think of all we’d miss. Love grows best in houses just like this.”

This is in no way a criticism of other people’s homes, of McMansions, it isn’t sour grapes or ‘repurposed’ envy lol And it may not be how we’ll feel in five years time. But for our crazy little family right now, this just about says it all. For those who don’t know, we rent what once was a vacation log cabin rental on a farm. It consists of a small covered front porch where the Bug has her nature table, garden cart and sand turtle. We have a rocker each and the Bug has a swing. We have a small uncovered back deck, bordered with beautiful rose and holly bushes and this is where the Bug plays with her wagon, water, plants and assorted toys. We also have a nice grassed front and side yard from where she waves to the log trucks, dump trucks, the local electric company vehicles, the sheriff’s and the mail lady. Her constant presence out front and vociferous greetings means we have a steady flow of traffic slowing down to wave, say Hi or check on us. Everyone who knows the cabin, knows the Bug.

Inside, we have a smaller living space than most in the Western world would consider viable with a two-year old. I have the benefit of having travelled however, and when you’re five feet tall and have to bend in half to enter a mud home to three generations in Kenya, you get some perspective about how much space you actually ‘need’. Our home consists of just one room downstairs (around 500 square feet if we’re being generous), and off it a small bathroom. The kitchen is a nook within this room and a built-in cupboard in its midst means there’s a narrow corridor leading to the stairs which is lined with a desk and cabinet and is essentially, the office. Within the square that is the downstairs, we have a couch (landlord’s) and a dining table (the neighbor’s), and the rest of the room is like a pre-school playroom complete with hanging bug garlands and kiddies bunting. There’s a handbuilt cubby house, a reading nook converted from a pack n play, a play kitchen, a book cart and an area for a pink Shwinn trike and bucket of cars. Oh and a pretty well equipped dressing up bin. Until last week it also housed our full size bed. Yup – the third house in a row where the heavily pillowed bed sits in our lounge looking like – well a bed with a ton of pillows on it. There is no disguising a bed for two as a couch. Upstairs there’s a sleeping loft, half the size of the downstairs space with a sloping ceiling. Divided by a dresser and changing table back to back, this is where we now sleep with the Bug in her crib on the other side of the furniture divider. Sounds cozy doesn’t it? It certainly is.

It’s not for everyone. If you’re a hoarder, like graphic T.V not suitable for little eyes and ears, have indoor hobbies that involve chainsaws or dangerous chemicals say, or if you crave privacy, this arrangement would not suit you. You do have to be neat and organized but the plus side is the utilities are low and the housekeeping swift. But best of all to us is that lack of privacy.

You see, just as that quote implies, when you live in a very small open space, you witness everything. And you miss nothing. We hear the Bug’s every move. This doesn’t just mean we always know what she’s up to, it means we get a front row seat to every stage of her development. We hear her chatter to dolls and bears and her assortment of zoo animals. She may be in her house or up in her crib or hiding out in her nook so she doesn’t feel scrutinized or self-conscious, and we get to hear the first words out of her mouth when she opens her eyes and the last musings as she falls off to sleep. We try not to giggle as she asks questions of her cousin who’s picture she has by her bed, or confides the details of her day to him. When she tells stories to her animals or bosses her bears about or practises her counting skills or tests her singing voice. We hear her mimicking us as she cares for her babies in her little house or gets the grocery shopping done with her baby safely strapped into the cart. We can see how she puzzles out an issue she’s having with a game she’s creating or what crazy ensemble she’ll be parading about in as she layers every item in the dressing up box. We know exactly which parts of T.V shows she really likes as there’s never a time she’s watching it and we’re not able to see her and the show. We watch her forget we even exist as she copies dance moves or boogies around to the music channel. We see the spark of an idea forming, track the reasoning and hear the execution of every devious little endeavour. We get fly-by hugs and kisses. We’re able to check what it is she’s helping herself to in the ‘fridge and can deconstruct whatever towering hazzard she’s stacking in her latest choreographed stunt.

In short, living on top of one another means never missing something cute, funny or downright treacherous. It means not needing to shout, or yelling through the house to get attention. It means arguing is out … the Bug would hear every word. No storming into another room, slamming doors to make a point. Even the bathroom is off limits as the Bug will just pound on the door if you dare close it. Or open it and barge in. There are some obvious downsides to a lack of privacy lol …. and both the Bear and the Bug snore. But my one and only regret about this house is that I didn’t install a CCTV unit. It would be such a great collection of memories, way better than photos and journals, an actual living history that could have been quite lucrative had I thought to market the idea. Seriously, I think a live stream of Bug antics would go viral in hours. Parents around the world would tune in just to tutt tutt my parenting choices and feel better about their own. Kids would use the Bug’s appalling behaviour to mediate lesser punishments for their own using the “But look at what THAT kid does … I am an angel in comparison” defense. The X-Games would drop by to get ideas for future death defying stunts. Sadly, the Department Of Family Services would probably use clips to build a case against us …. but on the plus side, future Foster Parents would be able to preview the mayhem and withdraw offers of care, so removing the Bug would leave the authorities unable to place her. Might as well leave her with her own kind, they’d think – it’s not as though we’re cruel (can’t say the same for that little bundle of parentally abusive brutishness right now), just ineffective. And they could use them as “What Not To Do” examples in parenting classes.

Truth be told, it would be nice to have an extra room or two in our next home. But, hand on heart, I can honestly say those would be guest rooms – with the exception of a small sound proofed padded cell (for me not the Bug), and a closet for the clothes. I wouldn’t trade my front row view of The Real Bug’s Life for more rooms to heat/cool and clean for anything.

Where’s Your Manners Lil Bug?

4 a.m this morning, preparing the Bear for another day on shift and the Bug is on her first breakfast of the day. Which, not being fully awake, usually takes place on my lap complete with blanket and assorted essentials. Unless of course it’s an ‘Up and At ‘Em’ kinda day in which case she edges along the couch and steals the Bear’s omelette, yogurt and granola.

Today was a sleepy Bug day. So from my lap, she issues missives:

Bug: Blanky ……

Check.

Bug: Hold soosie (pacifier/dummy) ….

Check.

Bug: Cheerios ……

Check.

Bug: Bubba (milk) …….

Check. And:

Mama: Is there a “Please” or “Thank You” in there Bug? Where’s your manners this morning?

Bear: Did you leave them in your bed?

Bug: Yeeaaah……. I go get ‘em Mama?

No baby girl, being cute enough to offer gets you off the hook lol.

The Real Fear Factor

Fear. It can keep us alive or it can literally paralyze us. I used to be scared of stupid crap – spiders, my big phobia. To the point where I would only buy loose tomatoes at the supermarket so I could remove the tops before taking them home. The odds of a spider sitting atop a tomato in my fridge didn’t enter the rationale. I once cowered for an hour under the duvet because I thought a thumb tack (drawing pin) left up from the Christmas decoration tear down, was alive! So yeah, jeer at the tomato stalks … that wasn’t the worst. I refused to garden because I knew they were amassing under the man-eating plants (blame my Dad for that one – he should never have read Day Of The Triffids to a seven year old!) and didn’t even open the door to the back garden of a house I rented for a year. To be fair in the end, nobody could open the door lol. Tarzan and Sasquatch could have been out there forming a militia and nobody would have known. I avoided the great outdoors and hated eating al fresco because of the little bas***ds. Which is kind of funny as growing up in England, spiders are piss-ant compared to the Black Widows and Brown Recluses that I merely take care of now lol My husband hates spiders too but with a yell of “You go high, I got the ground covered babe,” we deal. He’ll take care of the flying things I really hate and I’ll take the spiders. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate them but you can’t exactly leave them and hope they leave with Elvis when you have a toddler in the building. One who’s gotten so used to watching us pick up Stink Bugs in tissue (don’t squash, flush because the smell makes me puke), that she just yells “Tissue-bug!” as she goes after one. Trouble is she doesn’t distinguish between creepy crawlies. Which is how I found her picking up a baby Black Widow this week and why I gave up the natural remedies and busted out the Home Defence.

And therein lies the crux. I don’t think I really knew fear until I had my daughter. Now it’s hard to get through a day without it. Literally. Most days I am woken at daybreak by my neighbors roosters who crow on and off for three hours, disturbing both the Bug and me. In fact the only person not woken is their owner who is deaf – I’m.not suggesting shers lucky to be so but there are advantages to opting to not use hearing aides lol. Smart woman. I once got so mad knowing she was sleeping when I’d been awake all night worrying about something and then as I dropped off, up they start, that I texted her and told her to go feed the fu**ers before I snapped their heads off. I don’t always play nice … hence that catagory in my blog lol. I am ashamed but somewhat able to justify my actions when both afraid and sleep deprived. I’ll try to refrain from such uneighborliness but I do have a Plan B – to go pound on her door at 5 a.m and wake up both her daughters …. she’d love to have them on her hands for two otherwise blissfully sleepfilled hours that nobody else around here gets thanks to her project! Anyway, my real hatred of the roosters is that during that fitfull sleep, I dream. And when I say dream I mean have full sweat, panic attack nightmares. About something happening to my daughter. About not being a Mama anymore. About something happening to my husband. To leaving the Bug parentless. About my far away family being sick, hurt or worse. I never used to be this way. I used to mock my ex-sister-in-law for having eight locks on her front and back doors in a really safe area of England. I thought she was so egotistical for thinking she should be such an obvious target. I worried – and nagged her constantly – that they were at far more risk of being trapped by fire. Fire, arghhhh there’s another one.

Of course I try to keep it all in check. We have a safe home in as safe an area as any and despite my husband’s job and the additional privacy care we have to take, I don’t feel we’re a target or at risk anymore than anyone else. And Lord knows we aren’t a home invasion risk … unless there’s a racoon or possum out there who’s taken a fancy for a small cabin with a twenty year old T.V and a glut of Cheerios. In which case it’s on with a broom and a waste paper basket but I’d be prepared to vacate … thinking The Great Outdoors here lol. I do sometimes recheck the locks when the Bear goes to work – the fleeting fear of someone breaking in and my daughter having to see something horrific sometimes skips across my mind before I slap myself. I have my preventative health checks. So does the Bear. I am an older Mama and the reality is my daughter will lose her mother younger than most of her friends – my own selfishness. But she has wonderful family surrounding her (allbeit miles apart, but miles that absolutely do not matter), and who knows when their number’s coming up? Age is no determinant. Health is infinitely fickle. And accident is a constant dread. Then there are the myriad of lesser fears. What if my daughter is bullied? What if she hits her teen years and is plauged by angst or depression that no amount of motherly love can impact? If she develops a painful or debilitating illness? Marry’s an ass – the horrible human kind not some quirky donkey thing, and the human removes her from her family so I can’t beat the shit out of him/her for hurting my baby girl? What if she runs away from a ridiculously over-protective mother at 16? What if she decides she wants to be a golfer and hates Nascar? What if she refuses to live in the trailer I’m planning on installing in our backyard so she’ll never leave home? What if she turns out like me? Or another Emo brat or whatever it’s equivalent will be by then?

I know you can tear your heart apart and ruin a life half lived if you allow these things to dominate. I know you can ruin a childhood, drive a child away, create neurosis and fear in a child unaware of the very existence of the woes you carry as you project your irrationality. I know fear containment is essential so as to not deny a wilfill, funfilled, afraid of nowt little butt-head the freedom to enjoy her life as she should. This I know, I do. How to ‘feel’ less dominated by the gazillion “What if’s?” though?

This I do not know. But I think throttling three ‘effing roosters housed in an echoing metal horse box in the midst of reverberating metal barns, and unleashing the noise and chaos that are my neighbor’s kids at 5 a.m might make me feel a little better. I’m one of those “need to do something” kind of people …..

New Catagory. WTF Moments.

You would think that being two years and so many months into parenthood, I’d already have entries in this category. I certainly THOUGHT I’d had more than a few of these moments. When she runs for the third consecutive time at a solid wall and is STILL surprised she bounces off rather than passes through. When she sounds as though she’s pulling the toy crate across the room and by the time you get your glasses on and sit up in bed, you realize she’s pulled the collapsed high chair out of its hiding place and the phrase she was just repeating over and over was “Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit” because she’s managed to fold herself into it and has hitherto stored the very expression I don’t remember saying in front of her but which is absolutely contextually perfect for her present predicament. Or possibly even the time we walked down onto the beach and she sees the ocean for the first time, that she’d remember anyway because she actually saw it first in a pink fleecy bear suit at two weeks old in January because I like the beach in winter and that’s our birthday/anniversary celebration, and didn’t see a reason not to Christen the little Bug that way. But despite it being entirely new to her, with the now legendary lack of fear she throws herself into the surf, flips onto her back and starts doing the backstroke while her Dad runs fully clothed in after her and I collapse on the sand in full-blown panic attack. But then maybe it’s like the Flu or Food Poisoning. Only when you’ve actually had the real deal do you understand that previous near death experiences were actually just bad colds or nasty stomachs bugs. Today we had the parenting equivalent. Our first real WTF? horror.

Now you can skip straight through to the actual deed rather than wade through the preamble but please, let me waffle to the extent that I can attempt at least to convince you that we are not terrible parents who allow our baby access to the kind of information she’d presumably need to enact today’s atrocity. For to us, the horrific image was just that. Also let me explain, in case you don’t know this about me / haven’t read it elsewhere, how I approached the whole issue of childbirth. For both are relevant. In addition, the context in which this event occurred is, I suspect relevant. And going to be an ongoing horror. So let’s start there.

Potty Training. No she doesn’t eat or throw pooh … way too obvious lol. So. We bought a potty with a lid in the shape of a ladybug almost a year ago now I’d say. The first time she sat on it, she pee’d in it. Yay potty dance, this is easy, what’s all the fuss ….. blah blah blah. Next day, sits on it, no pee, no problem, wanders off sans nappy, pees on floor, cleans it up with just washed favorite blankie … still no problem. Continues to sit on it intermittently in the bathroom while I’m on the loo, but no further progress. When I’d change her in the lounge I’d ask her between old and new nappies if she’d like to use the potty but didn’t push when she said no. Then one day her Dad decided to encourage her to try and whoa there soldier …. absolute rejection of the potty and the beginning of her obsession with getting the clean diaper on almost as the old one left her skin. We never have understood this compulsion but it’s something that really bothers her and any delay would upset her – to the point where she has to be stood beside the bathtub full of water with the nappy being given up at the last minute. Getting out is a desperate rush to the clean one. Her Dad didn’t force her, she’s never been pushed and the ladybug potty has just sat as a seat in the bathroom. In recent weeks she’s gotten more into her dolls and she noticed one had pants/knickers on. So when she started to take them down I asked if Dolly needed to use the potty which she found hilarious but yes, Dolly did. And so that game has been in play and on occasion the Bug would take down her trousers and sit on the potty but not without the nappy. My sister-in-law, ever my voice of common sense, suggested waiting until the warmer weather and putting her into the paddling pool without a nappy to see if that got her over the fear. We’ve picked up a swimsuit and are waiting for the warmer weather. No big deal but that’s the back story on the always diapered, never naked, OCD Bug.

Now the second thing you need to know is that we are very careful with her T.V viewing. Her penchant for copying and being quite possibly Hollywood’s youngest stunt double to be means we have to be REALLY careful. Ever since the day when she was a year old and her Dad was watching America’s Dumbest and, having seen a clip of some drunken Canadian frat boys attempting drunken breakdancing in a tiny kitchen, one hurling himself onto his head, knocking himself out …. to be copied by the Bug seconds later. When I asked her, rhetorically “Are you playing America’s Dumbest Buggy?” she nodded emphatically and yelled “Ya!!!” with serious expression. She’s also developed the tiny fists of fury and the flinging of toys and other random acts of aggression which means cartoons are seriously censored (she can sing “Spongebob Squarepants” because she’s allowed the theme tune, but no more), and apart from Duck Dynasty, American Pickers, Pawn Stars and the Gilmore Girls, she doesn’t see adult T.V.

The reading material in this house is ecclectic but as anyone who knew me during my pregnancy will know, you will not find a babycare or pregnancy book in this house. I was booked for an induced C Section until the week before the Bug was born. I saw no point whatsoever in reading about the horrors of childbirth. Which is why, with a room full of highly trained, high risk doctors at Duke, when the 23 year old nurse told me to start pushing, I had to call her down to my head height and ask, “Erm, how do you push?” At which point the thus far one quite ‘standoffish’ member of the doctor team, the one I thought I hoped I didn’t get on the day but in the end was so so grateful to because you need scientists in complex medical proceedures not friends, I feel. And there were so many other people in that room I had all the cheerleaders I needed. Him I needed to be my doctor. And in the end he melted anyway and when it came to crunch time and I needed him to know that if he thought emergency C Section was the way to go, there was to be no discussion, no delays – he was in charge and was to act not talk … something he came and looked me in the eye to agree to, to the exclusion of everyone in the room. That is mutual respect. But still, this bastion of close-lipped, inscrutable faced, man of medicine shook his head and said, “When you said you didn’t read guides and wasn’t prepared for a natural birth, you really meant it didn’t you? Are you really 41?” I love that man. And I tell that story to illustrate that not only has the Bug not seen what she did on T.V, she couldn’t have inadvertently glimpsed a printed image either and it’s certainly not something we photographed, videoed or even talk about. I was that squeamish about the whole thing that when the nurse handed me a mirror during her birth, I refused to take it saying “I don’t do mirrors …. either end.”

So. When I’m a little slow putting the clean nappy on tonight because I’m busy being mad that the Maple Leafs scored in the hockey playoffs and she doesn’t freak out, I ask her as casually as I can if she’d throw the baby wipe in the trash … she loves throwing out trash. Don’t ask me. So I push it a bit and say “You can bring the ladybug in if you want to pee,” and lo and behold, the child brings the potty in from the bathroom and sits down on it. No fuss, no pee but a huge step forward. So eventually she decides to go get her Dolly for a Pee Pee. No problem. Only the now nappiless Bug comes waddling back to the potty with a baby doll dangling from between her legs. And there it is people. A horrible, mystifying, something we never anticipated having to see image of our two year old birthing her baby doll. I want to gouge out my eyeballs, reach into my skull and rinse my brain in disinfectant. I can’t even begin to describe the Bear’s trauma and that guy’s seen things.

And there you have it. The first real WTF? of my life as a mother. Try as I might I cannot imagine how she would hold this knowledge, where she would have seen it and I am hoping to God that it was purely coincidence and a one time horror only.

Needless to say the Bear and I added a little extra rum to our Dr Pepper tonight.

Hard Core Par Core Butt Headed Goon Baby

Can anyone tell me, round about the 24 month mark, is crack naturally released into a baby’s system? Is it part of the limbic system, does anyone know? I’ve checked the developmental milestone charts and I don’t see anything specific about random shots of pure adrenaline coursing through a toddler’s body but I figure I’m missing something. I may have to break out the Grey’s Anatomy. I’m more comfortable with a Haines Manual but there doesn’t appear to be one for the Bug model – if I have to write it we’re in trouble. I must find this gland that excretes pure speed into my daughter and disconnect it. It’s not only about being able to keep up. If it were that simple I’d distill some from her supply and mainline myself, I know at 43 it may take more than coffee and will power. But honestly, I don’t see how this child will make it to be three if we don’t find an antidote! I am considering renaming her Deadly Dave and going on the road.

We live in a small house. A log home (thank goodness the walls are thick and can take a hammering), but with one open space given over entirely to Bug stuff, she has room to play. She has a cubby house, a reading nook, an art Center, a kitchen and room to bounce on her Rodi, (an ‘adult toy grade latex’ bounce horse – I kid you not, that’s how they market it and it needs to be that strong), her rocking horse, space to chase her cars or trains or princesses or pirates or growing zoo around. She has the caterpillar tunnel to scramble through. She has a playmat with stream and logs to jump about on. She can even ride her trike. But none of this is sufficiently active, noisy or death defying for my child. Oh no. I remove the hazards, she simply finds new ones. Favorites right now are ‘running and sliding’. We have waxed concrete floors. She’s discovered socks or footie P.J’s make great skates. But so do any number of items placed on the floor which she can then run and leap into or onto, sliding them across the room until they hit the wall at which point she crumples into giggles. Tea trays have been removed. So have baking tins. Unfortunately, paper is great she’s discovered. She can fashion skates, skateboards, surfboards or snow boards out of anything. She’s learned that leaping from the ottoman into her purloined method of skate gives speed. Anything that can be pushed, can be riden. My Mum brought home a beautiful retro wooden dolls pram I’d have loved to bring back here but fir it’s size, and she and my nephew played with it extensively while we were in England. As a two man bobsled. Without such a robust sled, she’s resorted to using her gardening cart as she’s outgrown the plastic shopping cart she was using. That’s now doing great service as a ramming device. She literally drags it to one corner of the room and then revving it back and forth a few times like a pole vaulter about to make his run, off she charges, hurtling around the room smashing into various things, toppling many, avoiding none. She’ll get a glint in her eye a split second before the new death defying stunt is Can anyone tell me, round about the 24 month mark, is crack naturally released into a babies system? Is it part of the limbic system, does anyone know? I’ve checked the developmental milestone charts and I don’t see anything specific about random shots of pure adrenaline coursing through a toddlers body but I figure I’m missing something. I may have to break out the Grey’s Anatomy (I’m more comfortable with a Haines Manual but there doesn’t appear to be one for the Bug model – if I have to write it we’re in trouble), and find this gland that excretes pure speed into my daughter and disconnect it. It’s not only about being able to keep up. If it were that simple I’d distill some from her supply and mainline myself, I know at 43 it may take more than coffee and will power. But honestly, I don’t see how this child will make it to be three if we don’t find an antedote! I am considering renaming her Deadly Dave and going on the road.

We live in a small house. A log home (thank goodness the walls are thick and can take a hammering), but with one open space given over entirely to Bug stuff, she has room to play. She has a cubby house, a reading nook, an art Center, a kitchen and room to bounce on her Rodi, (an ‘adult toy grade latex’ bounce horse – I kid you not,that’s how they market it and it needs to be that strong), her rocking horse, space to chase her cars or trains or princesses or pirates or growing zoo around. She has the caterpillar tunnel to scramble through. She has a playmat with stream and logs to jump about on. She can even ride her trike. But none of this is sufficiently active, noisy or death defying for my child. Oh no. I remove the hazzards, she simply finds new ones. Favorites right now are ‘running and sliding’. We have waxed concrete floors. She’s discovered socks or footie P.J’s make great skates. But so do any number of items placed on the floor which she can then run and leap into sliding them across the room until they hit the wall at which point she crumples into giggles. Tea trays have been removed. So have baking tins. Unfortunately, paper is great she’s discovered. She can fashion skates, skateboards, surfboards or snow boards out of anything. She’s learner that leaping from the ottoman into her purloined method if skate gives speed. Anything that can be pushed, can be risen. My Mum brought home a beautiful retro wooden dolls pram I’d have loved to bring back here and she and my nephew played with it extensively while we were in England. As a two man bobsled. Without such a robust sled, she’s resorted to using her gardening cart as she’s outgrown the plastic shopping cart she was using. That’s now doing great service as a ramming device. She literally drags it to one corner of the room and then revving it back and forth a few times like a pole vaulter about to make his run, off she charges, hurtling around the room smashing into various things, toppling many, avoiding none. She’ll get a glint in her eye a split second before the new death defying stunt is about to begin but no amount of time would prevent the onslaught. The term ‘Hellbent’ was created for such children. If it seems like a good idea, it must be. My sister-in-law mentioned how my turning three this week nephew loves his scooter. I shuddered to think of the Bug on one and we had a laughing chat about getting her skates and the imagery of a baby giraffe trying to stand. A bad idea? I don’t know – I mean when she’s so adept at building her own WMD’s would something built for purpose be so bad? I could utilize protective gear …. but I have a feeling that might make it worse by giving her even more fearless confidence. The one time we gave her bubble wrap to see if like most kids, she’d find popping it funny, she wrapped her head in it and butted the door. So, if ramming your skull into a wooden door doesn’t prove an enticing enough stunt, why not factor in suffocation? Would you like me to run you a bath and add a little drowning risk to spice things up some, baby girl?

So now we have this added danger dimension of the uncontrollable bursts if pure energy that could probably be used to neutralize solar flares or power hydro-electric dams if harnessed. I’m seriously considering a himan hanster wheel and some piwer cells. She can be gently dressing her doll or feeding her Kitty (named Itty Bitty Aunty Kitty Jess-eeee Kat ….. for short), and in an instant be on her feet running full pelt, arms flailing, death yell blaring, right at a wall. But for the thickness of the logs I’m sure there’d be a small girl shaped cartoon style hole and she’d be out and across the fields before I’d levered my old bones up off the couch. Starting these rabid runs don’t seem to be something she plans or even consciously decides to do. She tryly appears to be possessed and completely powerless to eesist their awesome might. And stopping certainly doesn’t enter her tiny soon to be hockey goon mush mind …. stopping’s what you do when you hit something harder and heavier than you apparently. Collecting any number of items along the route that either present a barrier and must not be allowed to impede, or a battering ram seems to feature prominently and add to the fun. So it’s not at all unusual to be adding milk to your tea in the kitchen nook only to see/hear/feel a screaming blur of naked flesh pushing a high chair loaded with bears, clothes, assorted crockery and other random shit at a million miles an hour towards the front door. Imagine the really thick but extremely strong kid in school pushing the scrimmage machine down the football/rugby field while the other kids hope to Christ he doesn’t lose focus and head their way, while a gleeful coach thinks he’s hit paydirt provided the kid doesn’t eat, sit on or hug any of his team mates. That’s my kid. Except she’s the skinniest little waif you ever saw. Just furiously tough and apparently without any concept of her own strength. I pray she doesn’t flesh out too much because we’ll be telling her to ignore the other kids calling her Lenny and saying “Tell me about the rabbits George.” And begging her, for the love of God, don’t hit ‘em!

I think in retrospect, playing Par Cour with her as a tiny baby might have been a mistake. It seemed funny at the time, running around the tiny apartment bouncing cute newborn feet off of walls, doors, furniture, yelling “Par Cour!” and pissing off the people holding ‘church’s downstairs. But those old crones may have had the last laugh because there is no surface in this house my daughter won’t scale, yell “Whop Hoo” and leap off. Now that sofas and tables are “Sissy height”, I have to be aware to the sound of moving furniture because it’s nothing to turn around and see a rocking chair being loaded onto the highchair, one crooked little leg already on the arm, the trailing one ready to boost her up. Unstrapping herself from any restraint has been a fait acompli for a long time and why wait to be lifted out if the highchair? She climbs in, ergo she climbs out. So this weekend we bought a booster seat with detachable tray that sits on the floor. We removed the straps as the Rain Man routine of doing them up and undoing them just drives us insane. So now she stands up with chair attached around the waist and waljs around with a tray full of food out front akin to an uce cream vendir at the cinemas if old. When she’s not rocking it back and forth on two legs or placing it atop something taller for a little added pizzazz. The bed bouncing has had to stop …. because it literally doesn’t stop until she’s sailing tbrough the air en route to a very hard landing.

And the throwing! We taught her early on that before throwing a ball she has to yell “Catch!” And wait for “Ready.” This is because she has a mighty arm. At 18 months she picked up a Rugby ball for the first time at my parents house – and threw it the length of the lounge to smack my Dad right in the face. Over his stunned expression he said, with some pride, “Bloody ‘ell, she can throw!” Yes Dad, she’s American lol They call them footballs here but they’re the same shape and she’s been lobbing them at unsuspecting victims since before she could swallow a Cheerio. Which is why we taught her to check people are ready to receive before she throws ….. especially as she can pitch a baseball with even more force (though less accuracy), than a football! Now though we really only hear “Whop hoo – catch – ready?” as she launches herself at you from a great height. And believe me, even if you are empty handed, sans coffee, without dinner plate, you are never really ready to catch a hurling bundle of arms and legs and crazy flying hair that is the Bug full flight. She doesn’t travel like a missile, not even a cannon ball. It’s more as though she leaves the launch pad at one speed, clicks on some sort of skin and bone dynamo that turbo boosts her ascent, and then drops onto you with velocity that’s totally disproportionate to direction. Think spinning asteroid crossed with a squid tossed with a high powered rocket launcher landing with a shriek in your lap. It hurts. Just not her!

Which I have to say is becoming a problem. There is never a time when this child is not covered in bruises. She wears them as badges of honor already. I am beginning to worry about the level of desensitivity to pain. And the lack of fear in a two year old is downright terrifying to a parent. Especially one who lives in a log cabin with a sleeping loft. Oh did I mention that her bedroom us seperated from the ground floor only by a waist high rail and a great drop? There was some discussion about errecting safety netting, the kind hung behind baseball mounds to protect the spectators. But the only outcome would be a Bug scaling the netting. It’s only a matter of time until sh3 attaches bungy cirds and hurls herself over, crashing into the kounge like S.A.S forces repelling down buildings and swinging through windows. Which is why we have forsaken our privacy and moved our bed upstairs alongside the UFC cage, sorry ‘crib’. I have the finely honed auditory skills of a legally blind mother …. there’s no sound we cannot identify within a split second of hearing it at a range usually only perceptible to dogs and bats. It really pisses the kid off. The Bug has yet to figure out how I can be on the toilet and still yell at her to stop doing the exact thing she’s trying to get away with once she’s certain I cannot see her. That skill has so far kept her alive. I heard her last week escaping from the crib and flicking the button on the t.v on and off before getting herself back into bed as though she’d never been anywhere else. She was happy to demonstrate how she escapes but not the return journey. All the advice about removing the rail as soon as they can climb has to be weighed against the level if chaos she’ll unleash when free. From the moment we errected the first stairgate, she began the quest to climb it – something she mastered quickly. She immediately progressed to dismantling them. If all else fails, take a bigger run up is her go to strategy. Which is why we now sleep alongside because crib sides and stair gates sure aren’t stopping her and even if I were allowed to use the restraints and ‘cuffs her Daddy uses at work, her ability to channel the spirit of Houdini and escape any system within seconds, also has us outfoxed.

In short I have the most deadly combination of baby. A no fear, phenomenally strong, complete absence of pain, overly inquisitive, stubborn, thrill seeking hockey goon. Who now has an internal reservoir of chemical speed that’s released without warning throughout the day, sending her into a human tornadic, screaming whirling dervish stopped only when Mohammed meets the mountain and (in her words), the mountain “Goes boom!!!!” For no good wipeout should be without crashing sound effect apparently. We are so getting investigated by Family Services. And are so going to have to improve the Health Insurance …… about to begin but no amount of time would prevent the onslaught. The term ‘Hellbent’ was created for such children. If it seems like a good idea, it must be. My sister-in-law mentioned his my turning three this week nephew loves his scooter. I shuddered to think of the Bug on one and we had a laughing chat about getting her skates and the imagery if a baby giraffe trying to stand. A bad idea? I don’t know – I mean when she’s so adept at building her own WMD’s would something built for purpose be so bad? I could utilize protective gear …. but I have a feeling that might make it worse by giving her even more fearless confidence. The one time we gave her bubble wrap to see if like most kids, she’d find popping it funny, she wrapped her head in it and butted the door. So, if ramming your skull into a wooden door doesn’t prove an enticing enough stunt, why not factor in suffocation? Would you like me to run you a bath and add a little drowning risk to spice things up some, baby girl?

So now we have this added danger dimension of the uncontrollable bursts if pure energy that could probably be used to neutralize solar flares or power hydro-electric dams if harnessed. I’m seriously considering a himan hanster wheel and some piwer cells. She can be gently dressing her doll or feeding her Kitty (named Itty Bitty Aunty Kitty Jess-eeee Kat ….. for short), and in an instant be on her feet running full pelt, arms flailing, death yell blaring, right at a wall. But for the thickness of the logs I’m sure there’d be a small girl shaped cartoon style hole and she’d be out and across the fields before I’d levered my old bones up off the couch. Starting these rabid runs don’t seem to be something she plans or even consciously decides to do. She tryly appears to be possessed and completely powerless to eesist their awesome might. And stopping certainly doesn’t enter her tiny soon to be hockey goon mush mind …. stopping’s what you do when you hit something harder and heavier than you apparently. Collecting any number of items along the route that either present a barrier and must not be allowed to impede, or a battering ram seems to feature prominently and add to the fun. So it’s not at all unusual to be adding milk to your tea in the kitchen nook only to see/hear/feel a screaming blur of naked flesh pushing a high chair loaded with bears, clothes, assorted crockery and other random shit at a million miles an hour towards the front door. Imagine the really thick but extremely strong kid in school pushing the scrimmage machine down the football/rugby field while the other kids hope to Christ he doesn’t lose focus and head their way, while a gleeful coach thinks he’s hit paydirt provided the kid doesn’t eat, sit on or hug any of his team mates. That’s my kid. Except she’s the skinniest little waif you ever saw. Just furiously tough and apparently without any concept of her own strength. I pray she doesn’t flesh out too much because we’ll be telling her to ignore the other kids calling her Lenny and saying “Tell me about the rabbits George.” And begging her, for the love of God, don’t hit ‘em!

I think in retrospect, playing Par Cour with her as a tiny baby might have been a mistake. It seemed funny at the time, running around the tiny apartment bouncing cute newborn feet off of walls, doors, furniture, yelling “Par Cour!” and pissing off the people holding ‘church’s downstairs. But those old crones may have had the last laugh because there is no surface in this house my daughter won’t scale, yell “Whop Hoo” and leap off. Now that sofas and tables are “Sissy height”, I have to be aware to the sound of moving furniture because it’s nothing to turn around and see a rocking chair being loaded onto the highchair, one crooked little leg already on the arm, the trailing one ready to boost her up. Unstrapping herself from any restraint has been a fait acompli for a long time and why wait to be lifted out if the highchair? She climbs in, ergo she climbs out. So this weekend we bought a booster seat with detachable tray that sits on the floor. We removed the straps as the Rain Man routine of doing them up and undoing them just drives us insane. So now she stands up with chair attached around the waist and waljs around with a tray full of food out front akin to an uce cream vendir at the cinemas if old. When she’s not rocking it back and forth on two legs or placing it atop something taller for a little added pizzazz. The bed bouncing has had to stop …. because it literally doesn’t stop until she’s sailing tbrough the air en route to a very hard landing.

And the throwing! We taught her early on that before throwing a ball she has to yell “Catch!” And wait for “Ready.” This is because she has a mighty arm. At 18 months she picked up a Rugby ball for the first time at my parents house – and threw it the length of the lounge to smack my Dad right in the face. Over his stunned expression he said, with some pride, “Bloody ‘ell, she can throw!” Yes Dad, she’s American lol They call them footballs here but they’re the same shape and she’s been lobbing them at unsuspecting victims since before she could swallow a Cheerio. Which is why we taught her to check people are ready to receive before she throws ….. especially as she can pitch a baseball with even more force (though less accuracy), than a football! Now though we really only hear “Whop hoo – catch – ready?” as she launches herself at you from a great height. And believe me, even if you are empty handed, sans coffee, without dinner plate, you are never really ready to catch a hurling bundle of arms and legs and crazy flying hair that is the Bug full flight. She doesn’t travel like a missile, not even a cannon ball. It’s more as though she leaves the launch pad at one speed, clicks on some sort of skin and bone dynamo that turbo boosts her ascent, and then drops onto you with velocity that’s totally disproportionate to direction. Think spinning asteroid crossed with a squid tossed with a high powered rocket launcher landing with a shriek in your lap. It hurts. Just not her!

Which I have to say is becoming a problem. There is never a time when this child is not covered in bruises. She wears them as badges of honor already. I am beginning to worry about the level of desensitivity to pain. And the lack of fear in a two year old is downright terrifying to a parent. Especially one who lives in a log cabin with a sleeping loft. Oh did I mention that her bedroom us seperated from the ground floor only by a waist high rail and a great drop? There was some discussion about errecting safety netting, the kind hung behind baseball mounds to protect the spectators. But the only outcome would be a Bug scaling the netting. It’s only a matter of time until sh3 attaches bungy cirds and hurls herself over, crashing into the kounge like S.A.S forces repelling down buildings and swinging through windows. Which is why we have forsaken our privacy and moved our bed upstairs alongside the UFC cage, sorry ‘crib’. I have the finely honed auditory skills of a legally blind mother …. there’s no sound we cannot identify within a split second of hearing it at a range usually only perceptible to dogs and bats. It really pisses the kid off. The Bug has yet to figure out how I can be on the toilet and still yell at her to stop doing the exact thing she’s trying to get away with once she’s certain I cannot see her. That skill has so far kept her alive. I heard her last week escaping from the crib and flicking the button on the t.v on and off before getting herself back into bed as though she’d never been anywhere else. She was happy to demonstrate how she escapes but not the return journey. All the advice about removing the rail as soon as they can climb has to be weighed against the level if chaos she’ll unleash when free. From the moment we errected the first stairgate, she began the quest to climb it – something she mastered quickly. She immediately progressed to dismantling them. If all else fails, take a bigger run up is her go to strategy. Which is why we now sleep alongside because crib sides and stair gates sure aren’t stopping her and even if I were allowed to use the restraints and ‘cuffs her Daddy uses at work, her ability to channel the spirit of Houdini and escape any system within seconds, also has us outfoxed.

In short I have the most deadly combination of baby. A no fear, phenomenally strong, complete absence of pain, overly inquisitive, stubborn, thrill seeking hockey goon. Who now has an internal reservoir of chemical speed that’s released without warning throughout the day, sending her into a human tornadic, screaming whirling dervish stopped only when Mohammed meets the mountain and (in her words), the mountain “Goes boom!!!!” For no good wipeout should be without crashing sound effect apparently. We are so getting investigated by Family Services. And are so going to have to improve the Health Insurance ……

This Could Bite Me In The Arse

So finally I can’t stand the pain anymore. I’ve been in need of some serious dental work for a long time – like years – and I’d like to say toughness through incredible pain has kept me out of the chair, but in truth, it’s cowardice. Yes I’m afraid of the dentist. The girl who opts for no anesthesia during surgery is scared of the dentist. More so the dreaded drill. And even more, the bill! But I now don’t have a side I can eat on. I already take controlled substances for unrelated pain. I’m doing the rum mouthwash. And still I can’t eat, sleep or talk through the pain. I KNOW!!!! It’s THAT bad lol.

So time to give in. Now I’d rather have a tooth pulled than filled and I’ve left it that long, I think I can persuade a dentist they’re beyond saving. That said, American doctors of patients with even crappy State Employee insurance cover are worse than double glazing or second-hand car salesmen. And let’s face it, when you’re in the chair and the git holds the weapons of sadism in his hands, it’s hard to argue a shopping list and budget plans. The insurance company tells you to get a full write up of treatment recommended. Note I did not say needed. The insurer is only interested in recommendations that keep the patient alive for minimal outlay, not what will keep you pain free, pretty or is most cost effective in the long run – they hope by the time you need more treatment you’ll be someone else’s problem. Which is how millions of health (and patient co-pay and deducible) dollars are wasted every year. And why I have come up with a great plan to spend the minimal amount for the maximum relief.

You see I happen to know inmates in prison don’t get to negotiate care. They don’t get the “I think we can save it and let’s look at this, that and the other option …” spiel. Whip – It – Out is the ONLY inmate option. Now for obvious reasons, I happen to know where the inmates are taken to the ‘Extraction’s Only Dentist’. Guess where I booked into? The very sweet nurse/receptionist asked what I needed and I said an extraction and possibly a filling but I really only want extractions.” “OK,” she says. “That’s all we do. You’d have to go somewhere else for the rest if your treatment.” Rest? Ha!

The really funny thing is, when I last had my teeth cleaned in the UK, it was done by a Ukrainian dentist who was so disturbed at my blood loss just through cleaning, with an ashen face he kept asking if I wanted him to stop. As if! I’m in the chair, you better get it done in one go buddy! Still he kept checking and looked less and less well as we progressed. Toward the end, even the nurse was laughing … that poor dentist really looked on the verge of passing out. I couldn’t help but ask “Are YOU OK? Are you new at this? Did you spend a lot on your training because I think you might make a great florist?” At which point the nurse almost collapsed and the dentist laughed.
“I was dentist in Russian prison. I make patient bleed like that, they kill me!” he explained in broken English. Poor guy. I think now that I’ve actually chosen the prison dentist, that Ukrainian dentist might get the last laugh.

I’m due in on Thursday and for once my husband won’t have to take the patient handcuffed and with gun on hip. Though if the dentist is less good than the Bear tells me with the painkillers, both of them might wish he had the full restraint kit!

I’ll let you know whether I’m a genius or a complete moron later in the week.

She’ll Be Coming Round A Mountain …

… She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes … she’ll be wearing pink camo jammies when she comes …

We just had a really interesting weekend in the mountains of Western Virginia. And met some truly amazing people. Most of whom I understood and who understood me! Incredible. These years being a ‘flatlander’ and a ‘foothiller’ have stood me in good stead.

There’s a chance the Bear could be transferred out west to a new facility so we scaled the mountain to have a look see at our potential new home. And boy are we sold!

Which is a funny phrase. You all know our financial situation and buying a property would be impossible … even if we could find somewhere to settle for more than a year. And we do have friends in NY who we’d love to have as neighbors but that’s a situation in flux and could be a lengthy wait. In the meantime, a move to a facility more suited to the Bear’s way of working would be s happier place to wait on other plans.

So the funny thing about being sold on the area is that I contacted a local realtor, honestly explaining our situation and giving no illusion we’d be buying. And they very kindly invited us to stop by and get some local information. Well I’ve been a country girl long enough to know the value of being polite and personable and how well received that is. So, as well as invitations to dinner and church from the Mayor and Town Manager, we have a lovely, nothing in it for her, realtor determined to find us a home. Not because it’s her job but because she’s a lovely person, a genuine soul and is as excited about us moving to the area as we are to go. How could you not fall in love with a people like that? The fact they live in some of the most beautiful countryside with hiking, biking and kayaking trails all over is just a bonus. And music … lots and lots of live music!

So, the day after meeting her, the realtor sends me details of two homes. One, a single wide so far up in the mountains the term backwoods needs a new adjective. The ride up ‘roads’ best travelled by mountain goats and oxen was exciting and stunningly beautiful but with the Bug needing school at some point and quite possibly a med evac in a chopper if her dare devil stunt trend continues, that option probably isn’t the smartest choice. And those who know how rare it is for me to be practical, you’ll know how close to being located in an eagle’s erie this trailer was!

The second house was a beautiful renovated home on the edge of the small town the Mayor, the Manager and the Realtor reside. Perfect. A beautiful old home with ample room for friends and family to stay. I’m already mentally furnishing it from yard sales and Craigslist and Pintresting the crap out if it. Which is heartbreakingly sad as we wouldn’t transfer until Fall and this place has probably already been snapped up. But with our wonderful new friend on the case, I’m sure we’ll find something. I wish I didn’t fall so hard and so fast but I left my homeland to marry a man I’d never met less than z month into an online friendship. When I know, I know lol.

So tbe new plan is to get back up in those mountsins as soon as we can. Not the mountains of NY but s good place to hang out in the meanwhile. And yes, we would be backwoods, hilljack mountain folk and you bet your life you’ll hear banjos … it’s on Virginia’s Crooked Road and the area is rich with Blue Grass heritage. So yes I’m pretty sure you could find the cast of Deliverence up there in those hills or down in the hollows but it seemed to me you’ll also find a wonderfully warm and neighborly people too. You bet I wish we could start chucking things in boxes right now.

But on the other hand, a few months will give me a chance to get working on my Duck Duck dynasty worthy beard …. and saving for the U-Haul

The Man In A Can … I’ve Been God Spammed :)

Wow, that’s almost Dr Seuss-like isn’t it?

I had to laugh this morning when I received a message from a fellow blogger here at WordPress.

This blogger had ‘liked’ one of my entries and as is the way with WordPress, I received the standard suggestion to go check out her blog. Which I did – some of the best reading material out there is found by someone liking one of your own blogs. This particular blogger uses photography and poetry to spread the word of God. She has some pretty lovely photos and when I thanked her for liking my blog she very honestly sent me a message to say she randomly liked posts so that people would visit her blog and she could share her view of the world with her God in it. I had to laugh … I’d taken the time to apologize for my profanity (not that I believe all Christians or religious people are offended by my language – just being polite), and all that had happened was I’d been spammed!

Now this amused me, I love innovation and I absolutely loved her honesty … I’m sure there are those who go around liking everything just to get views and are far open about their motive. I’m also used to being asked about my religious or spiritual views and really don’t mind – I know, very un-English of me lol. I don’t often share them but am never offended by the question – when you go round advocating diversity as I do, sometimes people are genuinely interested. Often however, they don’t like or understand my response and as I never seek to influence other people’s beliefs, I prefer to be met with the same respect. And certainly don’t want to lose a friend over the voicing of theorums I’ve not yet completed … my views are shall we say a work in progress. That said there are those who really know me and understand my vague and morphing viewpoints and with whom I can have really good debates and share suppositions without causing or feeling offense.

And I live in Virginia … where a polite invitation to church is as commonplace as mentioning your daughter is cute and to date anyway, has never been received by me as anything other than a pleasant offer. Sure I’d rather be invited for coffee and cake with no prescribed topic of conversation but any invitation is nice to receive. I’ve never been banished by not accepting – I rarely respond with a positive or negative, just a Thank You. I do have good friends here who attend churches of varying denominations and I know I (and the members of my family of different faiths), are always welcome. That’s a nice thing to know I think. It’s also great that those friends have never taken issue with me for not having taken up the invitation as yet, and when I feel the need I know I can. I’m not too keen on vociferous doorknockers because I personally feel that’s overustepping a little, but I’m not rude unless I receive a sales pitch when I’ve indicated Im not interested, mainly because I know a lot of those knocking aren’t always that comfortable with this obligation themselves. My old friend Alex was a devout Jehovah’s Witness and part of practicing his faith was to actively spread the word. Which is why J.W’s are required by their church (not, I personally believe, their God but that’s academic), to knock on doors with copies of the Watchtower. It was the only part of Alex’s practice he ever felt uncomfortable with. His church required members to actually record time spent ‘spreading the word’ and it used to make me laugh that whilst his church elders may have believed that given the amount of time Alex logged speaking to me, they were close to nabbing a new recruit, his Man Upstairs knew that was never going to happen. And for Alex and I, that was just fine. Other door step visitors with a more aggressive approach have wasted hours of time on smartarse people like me, who love nothing more than tying in knots those disrespectful enough to attempt forceful projection of their own beliefs at the door of someone’s home!

So in a world where people stand on street corners becrying the end of the world, churches post funny and fearsome messages on boards to entice or threaten you into their pews and door knockers persist in the mainly thankless task to bring people to the Lord, ‘going viral’s was always inevitable I guess. Well, if colleges, financial organizations, diet manufacturers, and dating services can invade your privacy every time you log on, why not the messengers of God? At least this blogger was original …. and honest. And God Spam … well that is kinda funny. Considering an omnipotent force really doesn’t need any delivery system at all when you think about it.

Back Off Bitch … My Baby’s Flipping Out Here!

OK so for those who read my Facebook account, this will be a familiar theme – this is not the first time I’ve complained about the willingness of other people to get in your face with advice on how to raise your child. The child you conceived, carried and gave birth to. Not them. The child you spend every day nurturing, loving and disciplining. Not them. The child you know inside out and …. and they’ve just laid eyes on and have absolutely no knowledge of let alone responsibility for.

Can you tell I’ve been to Walmart today? Can ya, can ya? You can certainly tell I live in a nice rural area bestowed with a high level of public safety because if I lived in the city, or in a rougher area, I could probably steal half the store, beat the crap out of my kid and someone else’s and then catch fire, and still people would walk by pretending not to notice. Only in the safety of rural Virginia can several bossy bitches deign to interfere in your private life in a matter of minutes without fear of getting beaten, stabbed or shredded like coleslaw. Silly women …. I’m on the brink and you really oughtn’t feel so comfortable.

As a ‘privilege’, the Bug is allowed to walk in the store if the trip is a quick in and out and IF she obeys the rules. The rules are suitable for a two year old. Hold hands and don’t pull crap off the shelves that we have to pick up, pay for or take you to the E.R to repair you from. Today she decided to empty a stand of sunglasses then attack a display of large china money banks. Now you may beg to differ, but given that she was doing this with both hand’s, she’d broken both the rules. So, items safely replaced, we headed for the checkout where she was given a choice of standing still, sitting in the cart or being held. She opted to be held (oh my old and aching arms) but wanted to leave the store. Well don’t we all? Now I’ve read the BabyCenter advice that tells me to cut chores short or go outside to have a calm down. But frankly I think that given these circumstances, that’s bollocks. Firstly, the Bear has the only debit card we possess and I had to sign the WIC check I was using. So no, leaving the store was not an option. Nor in my opinion was it appropriate. That would simply tell the Bug, “OK, when you’re tired of Walmart, throw a hissy fit and we’ll give in to your tantrum and give you exactly what you want. Everytime you decide to employ this freakout tactic.” Explain to me how this is good parenting again would you? My kid is smart. She’d be screaming as we pulled into the car park – Gawd knows I want to!!!! There was no reasoning to be done in this situation – she’d been asked to stop, she’d been warned and was made aware of the consequences if she ignored me. So now we were in consistent, follow through parenting mode and the fact she was screaming whilst in my arms, having her back patted because yes, I agree her meltdowns can be as scary for her as passersby. And despite sounding like a crazy bitch, I am really as soft as shit and adore my kid and the thought of her being afraid kills me. BUT I agreed to the role of motherhood, am lucky and honored to have that job and so I take the rough with the smooth and sometimes have to be the bad guy so she doesn’t turn into a complete sociopath as well as a feral critter! It is hard to hear her lose it … birds fall midflight, (a poor kid up front of about seven actually had his hands over his ears whilst glaring at us along with his mother – yeah you tell me he didn’t ever do it, you lying cow), but so are a lot of things in Wally World and we’re trying to teach her tantruming will not yield results!

Now of those things I don’t want to hear are:

“Slap her!” No … she’s being two. You on the other hand are being reckless with your personal safety and if this kid changes her mind and opts for the cart, both my hands will be free to grasp you by the throat and commence slapping you. OK? Good.

“Why doesn’t that woman do something?” I am idiot! The fact you don’t understand what we’re doing is of no concern to me because I don’t know you nor am I answerable to you. See above for what I could be doing should my daughter’s hissy fit conclude sooner than would be beneficial for your wellbeing. Like to see what I can do when not actively and patiently parenting my child? No? Really?

“Oh but she’s just a baby. Aren’t you baby?” This doesn’t sound too bad does it in the overall scale of stranger interference? But this was said by a hideous old crone inches from my baby’s face today. Cigarette breath and frizzed out orange candy floss church hair rammed in her face. Which is why she went from angry and crying to traumatised and screaming in seconds. Why wouldn’t she? I didn’t want the crumple-faced, over-rouged, pee smelling old hag in my space either and I know one flick of my finger and her dust brittle bones would have crumbled and she’d have evaporated into a cloud of foul smelling dust like a Wizard of Oz witch under a bucket of water. To the Bug she was a fearsome menance and not the “I’m telling your parents off for having the audacity to teach you respectful behehavior” ally the old bag thought she was being. And is why the mild mannered Bear yanked the cart out of that line and joined a longer one at the other end of the store. Turns out, whilst my hands were full of terrified Bug, his were free and not to be trusted. Rare for a man who deals with gangbangers and inmates all day, never once losing his cool.

So let’s be clear, the difference between advice and opinion is that you’re asked for advice – your opinion is what you feel entitled to walk up to a stranger and proclaim. The difference between a precisely placed fist in your face and assault …. well is just plain unfair. Which is why I am going to stop tolerating the interefering bullshit of meddlesome ‘I’m also a mother and am therefore somehow permitted to interefere’ (yup, it’s NEVER men, ALWAYS women), and start treating them with the same aggression they’re treating me. Because make no mistake, when you walk up to someone you’ve never met and tell them what they should or shouldn’t be doing with THEIR child, no matter how passive your voice, you ARE being aggressive. So unless you’re stupid enough to give me unasked for opinion in a private place, no witnesses, no cameras (as in no evidence), in which case I will insert my foot in your face, you will see me take a step away from my child’s ears and say in a quiet and calm voice that should terrify you, “Open your judgemental trap and utter one more word and I may just be forced to follow you home.” On a bad day I’ll take that same step and tell you to “Fuck right off and take care of your own shit lady.” Because what my husband does for a living and the years I spent working mental health tells me that at least some of these know it all mothers have effed up royally themselves and are in no position to give anyone advice. I never did as a childless person despite sometimes having opinions because I thought as I hadn’t walked that path, I didn’t know enough to judge. Now I’m on the path with enough friends on the same but very very different road (as per their own kid’s quirks) and I KNOW I don’t know enough to judge ir give advice ir opinion. In fact the ONLY thing you’ll ever hear ne say to another parent in that situation is “So glad mine isn’t the only kid who does that. I feel your pain – keep at it buddy”. But more likely I’ll mind my own damned business in the hope that others will mind theirs!

Jen, Carole, Kit, Sarah, Jess, Meg, John, Sharon and Tracey … you’re exempt and for the love of God don’t stop with the advice and opinion! We won’t make it without you.