Wishing they were home for Christmas

It's been two years since my Grandparents left for Utah--something I don't talk about much, mostly because I'm supposed to be funny. That's how I usually handle the serious that life throws my way. You know, with humor. I cringe when people tell me of tragedy in their own lives. Partly because I feel for them, and partly because I cannot function in these situations without trying to make light of them.

Anyway, I haven't found anything remotely amusing about Granny and Pawpaw's relocation, so I just don't say anything. I've been thinking a lot about them since Christmas, because The Kid unintentionally broke my heart on Christmas Eve. It was our third Christmas that we didn't go to Granny and Pawpaw's house for Christmas Eve, and even though the last few were something of a ritual, I can't forget that it's what I'm supposed to be doing.

We were sitting at our house with Mom and Dad after a Christmas light drive with the kid, trying to create new traditions. We ate pizza and opened one present each. I strategically gave The Kid her package that "Big Pawpaw" sent her, because I had already peeked and knew they contained a pair of Christmas PJs that she would love to sleep in that night. I also figured that for me, it would be the only small way I could pretend they were here.



When I told her who gave them to her, her face lit up. "Big Pawpaw and Granny?! Awwwww...I think he would like to see me. And I would give Granny a hug so she'll feel better." She doesn't know that there isn't a cure for Alzheimer's, but I sure do wish a hug would do it. Or at least that I could be young enough to believe that it might. Or at the very least that my child could give it a try. It sure wouldn't hurt.

I sat there, soaking in these statements "from the mouth of a babe", and I just wanted to die. I didn't even know she knew (or remembered, since it was apparently mentioned to her at some point) that Granny was sick. I went to visit in May, and all I told her was who I was visiting and that she couldn't go because she was too little for the airplane. If only I could be as sensitive as my child, then I might begin to deal with some things.

My dad called Big Pawpaw to let The Kid thank him, and I know he couldn't hear a word she was saying, but my heart was longing for him to know her. She told him she would like to come and see him, but she was too big to fit on the airplane. So she may have been a little confused on the reason I gave her...it was still better than "You can't come with me because 1) I can't afford to buy you a ticket 2) I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up with everything and you in the airport in Atlanta when I have to change planes alone and 3) I don't want you to remember Granny sickly and dying when you didn't know her before."

I guess when she's older I'll be able to tell her all about them. I was never as close to them as I wanted to be or wished I was, and if I had known how quickly they would be gone, I would have tried even harder. Maybe this summer we'll go on some bike rides by their old house. I might even take her down to the boat docks to feed the ducks. I know her memories of them won't be her own, but maybe some day we can share mine. Until then, I hope I can learn to share my daughter's ability to know just the right thing to say.

Ringing in the New Year "Alone"

Our plans for this fabulous evening kind of flopped and I've been in the funk all day anyway, so we're spending yet another fantastically exciting New Year's on the couch. Just another reminder (the day after my birthday, conveniently) that we're getting old. Well, I decided I was going to combat this funk with some "me" time. Hmmmmm...I have a portable DVD player and new bubble bath. Twilight and the tub were calling my name.

I arrive upstairs and am chatting with my newly neglected Matriarch cat while I park the DVD player on the sink. I reached down to start the bath water and realize I've been in this funk long enough to result in a really nasty film in the tub. Darn. There goes some of the joy of my me time, sucked right down the drain with the comet.

I finally got some scalding water running into the clean tub and was just about to start pouring the bubble bath when in bounded the offspring.

"Mommy! What are you DOING? I don't want to go to bed!"
"This isn't for you, it's for me." I replied.
"Are you going to take a shower?" She inquired.
"No, I'm going to take a bath." I answered.
"What?" This is how often I've had time to enjoy a bubble bath in the last three years. The concept is totally foreign to her.

"I'm going to watch!" She declared, quite proudly.
"Punkin, Mommy really wants to take a bath alone. And besides, this movie I'm watching will scare you." I mean, she's scared of Veggie Tales sometimes. Surely she won't endure Twilight, which was kind of the idea.
"That's ok, Mommy, I'll be alone with you." My hope of enjoying my bath was closely following the comet.

So I spent the next twenty minutes "enjoying" a bubble bath to the tune of Twilight in the background of a two year old "washing" me and throwing rubber ducks into my bubbles, accompanied by the intoxicating fragrance of "stress relief" mint bath foam. We ended our year's vacation with a "swim" in Bill and Connie's garden tub in our bathing suits, so I'm not sure why I expected to end the year any differently. Oh well, at least she's cute.

Oops...December got away

Wow. Joy Haser fussed at me last night for not writing (thanks, Joy, I needed that!) and I signed on to realize that I do indeed suck at life and have not written during the entire month of December. That is lame. Just want to throw that out there.

I guess the most interesting event for the month has been the new addition to our family. The offspring played us like a bunch of fools and was rewarded with a kitten for Christmas. Since Thanksgiving she has asked for nothing else. When I tried to convince her that Santa could not carry live animals on his sled and suggested she pick a special toy as a backup, she replied, "I don't really need any toys, Mommy, I already have a lot. All I really need is my own kitty." Player.

Friends tried to help:

Liz: "Gracie, you already have a kitty. What about Polly?"
Grace: "No, that's Mommy's kitty, I need my own."
Liz: "Well, you can have your own dog. Nobody else likes Daisy." (I'm sad to say that she nailed that one.)
Grace (complete with eyeroll): "I can't hold my big dog. I need a little kitty."

Thanks anyway, Liz.

So the days flew by (without any blogging) and I finally figured we were stuck and better get over to the pound. I realize the child doesn't have to have everything she wants, but it was real hard not to succumb when there was only one thing. Plus, I love cats. I mean, it's not like her request was for a pony or her own island in the Caribbean or something. So...the hunt began December 21 and ended with Diego on the 25th.



Who names a cat Diego? A two-year-old with a Dora fetish, that's who. How do you think Polly got her name? From her two-year-old previous owner, who apparently wanted a parrot. But in the grand scheme of things, Diego turned out to be a pretty good name considering all the alternatives.

See, the kid waited till Christmas Eve (after aforementioned male feline had already been secured from the local shelter, tested negative for aids/leukemia, and gone into hiding at Grammy's) to mention to us that she wanted a girl kitty. Through clenched teeth I muttered "You should have told Santa you wanted your kitty to be a girl!"

Christmas morning came, and when I heard the child waking up, I hurried to stuff the live present into its carrier and toss it under the tree. It hated this process and began screaming. Yes, I said screaming. And no, I didn't mean meowing. I ran the kid downstairs and she walked with wide eyes slowly toward the tree.

"What is that, Mommy?"
"I don't know, Santa brought it, what do you think it is?" I asked.
"A cat."
"Probably so!"
"I'm scared of it."

Awesome. Maybe we won't need to keep up the Santa charade if she's scared of the gifts he delivers. Christmas just got cheaper! We finally let Screaming Mimi out of his cage and do you know what the first thing she asked me was? (That is, after the initial shock and terror wore off.)

"Is it a girl kitty?"
"No, baby, you didn't tell Santa you wanted a girl until he already left the North Pole with this boy kitty. What should we name him?"
"Maggie." I spent the next thirty minutes combating every girl name she could throw at me and trying to steer her in the direction of boy names. It finally came to this:

"Honey, these names you're picking are all for girl kitties. Can't you think of any names a little boy might have?"
The answer was epic:
"Yeah...ummm...casserole."

Seriously? It's been months since we've even eaten a casserole. Where on earth does she come up with this stuff? It seems by popular opinion that we should have kept the name. I just didn't think I could do it. Luckily my mom talked her into naming some boy cartoons she watches, since her brain is apparently void of all possible choices of male names. On this prompt she responded with "Diego" so Diego he is.

I'm sure this event in our lives will prompt many blogs in the future. Hopefully something will prompt more than I wrote in December...

It'll be 2010 in a little while...let's try this again, shall we?

Of new babies and dogdom

A friend of mine who has two daughters around my pumpkin's age just had a new baby, so today I was explaining that she was just born and next time we saw them the baby wouldn't be in her mommy's belly anymore. This was examined thoroughly by the small one.

"Will she be little?" she inquired.

"Yes, she'll be very little."

"Can I play with her?"

"Not really. You know how Elijah's little sister just lays in her seat?" (This is what I refer to as the "hotdog" stage)

"Yeah..."

"Well, the new baby will do that, too. But we can still go look at her when she gets big enough to come home."

"And I can sing her a song and play with her toes?" Now she's getting it. I encouraged this and other age appropriate interactions for a few more minutes and then she decided she had more questions to clear up.

"Is the baby Ryleigh's sister?"

"Yep! You're right!" I answered.

"Where's your sister?" She continued.

"Mommy doesn't have a sister." I start sweating.

"Where's my sister?" Now I'm sweating profusely.

"You don't have a sister either." The child has already asked for puppies and kittens for Christmas. I'm sure a baby is about to be next, and I just don't feel like discussing that one with her. She spent so long coming up with this reply, I almost threw up:

"I do have a sister. My bear is my sister." Phew. Works for me! And we're right on to the next subject:

"Mommy, was I little?"

"Yes baby, you were almost as little as Ryleigh's new sister."

"Awwwww," she replied. Then followed with: "And I used to bark when I was a dog!"

Wow.

Still Cruddy...

Well...the kid is officially tired of fending for herself. When I drug myself into her room to get her out of bed this morning, she said "is Grammy here?" When I replied "Nope," she said "Where's my daddy?" I informed her he was working, and she made me feel a LOT better:

"So it's just you?"

Thanks, kid. Thanks a lot. She at least asked if I was still sick and said she's get some cream to make me feel better.

I guess we'll be in front of the tv again today.

First Crud of the Year

Today was supposed to be an adventure. It's one of the last warm days that we're supposed to have for awhile, but I'm pretty sure I have the crud that the rest of my family has already had. Mom has been coughing up...well...everything (I think there was some lung tissue in there last time I checked) for about two weeks. It all started with a sore throat...which I now have.

So today our adventure consists of endless episodes of Little House on the Prairie and Veggie Tales. Oh, sure, we could turn off the TV and read some books. Still a pretty sedentary activity...except the part where I have to use my brain. Considering that everything from my brain to my big toe aches, I have ceased all activity that isn't life sustaining for the child. (Like throwing food at her occasionally.) It's a good thing she can "do it herself." Today I will not argue with that statement.

**Side note: I'm so lucky that I have a two-year-old that loves Little House. And she really does. She knows all the characters by name, much of the plot line, and can even sing the theme pretty accurately. (Which is more impressive when you consider that it has no words.) I really appreciate this about my child, because I would watch it all day long. Wait...I have watched it all day long before. Dad bought mom the whole wagon of DVDs last year for Christmas, and me and mom have watched them straight through to season seven. I don't know what I'll do when we finish season nine. I think a little piece of me will die. I mean, it's such a good show, and in the words of a dear friend, "that Michael Landon sure isn't hard to look at either." Anyway...

Back to my original ramble: My soreness was tripled this morning when I fell down the last four steps of our staircase on my way to the kitchen to throw a poptart at the kid. I was carrying her at the time (of course.) But she fared quite nicely, because I landed on my knees and elbows with her cradled safely against me, baby bjorn style. I don't think her robe even touched the ground. Of course she cried anyway. Not that I can blame her. It must have been terrifying for her, considering I didn't even know I was falling until I realized "Man! My knees hurt!" and then noted my odd position. "Hm. I must have fallen. This isn't what I normally look like when I finish coming down the stairs."

Maybe today will be adventurous after all.

The Veggies are wrapping it up. Time to change DVDs and throw some cheese and raisins. (I wonder if she can reach those herself?) I may have to drag myself back upstairs and dry my hair. I can't decide which is worse...the ridiculous weight of my wet hair or the effort it takes to hold a hairdryer. One thing is certain: this upright position at the computer is going to have to stop.

Trick or Treat!

The wonderful sugar high holiday we all used to love finally came for the little one. This is actually her third...but I don't think she was aware I was using her to get the goods the last two years...

We went on our traditional trick-or-treat through our neighborhood on Thursday. She went as a "mama" giraffe because I found the costume at the flea market for five dollars. Even though she wanted to be a monkey (that junk cost 25 dollars!!), she was adorable and had a great time anyway.

Our neighborhood was PACKED OUT. I bet close to 500 kids came to our house. I was very glad my mom joined us, because our little giraffe was almost trampled by a herd of big kids more times than I care to count. I felt like knocking a few of them out and yelling "HEY! We're walking here!" Maybe if I had made an example of just one...

And the sweet little giraffe had the best attitude about it. She was saying "excuse me" (and NOT in the same way I was saying it in my head.) to the hoodlums. She was going very carefully and saying "I have to wait my turn" while fifty middle school kids cut in front of her. While the other kids were running by so fast they could barely complete the phrase "trick-or-treat", Mama G was stopping on each old lady's porch to say "I like your pretty flowers." or (the best) "I like your pretty goose!" (You know the ones...they make clothes for them...)

My highlight of the evening (besides the massive amounts of candy scored!) was my little pumpkin reading a word. Seriously. We walked by a house that had blow up ghosts in the yard, and each ghost was holding a letter. As we walked past, she said "Mommy? Does that say 'Boo'?" After I collected myself off the sidewalk, I agreed that it did, indeed, say 'Boo'. Upon further investigation, my mom and I learned that the ghosts were holding the letter 'B' and after that came 'o,o'. Whoa. It was quite a moment. I kept waiting for something to ruin it, like a favorite comedian of mine who rejoiced over his toddler son's declaration of his wishes to be a doctor. In half a breath, the dad was crushed by the follow-up statement, "or a DINOSAUR!"

I drug my poor little accessory all over creation for the entire two hour trick-or-treat window. Five minutes prior to cut off time, we were already back in our block when I noticed a house we had missed with the light still on. I asked my sweetie if she wanted to go there before we went in and she replied:

"No mommy, that's ok. I have enough candy."

Who is raising this child? I mean, really.