The Lion, the Switch, and the Wardrobe

You know how we all get these epiphanies in our lives – which seem to come with greater frequency as we get older – when we realize how much our lives, expectations, and goals change?  I think for most of us, it’s not necessarily an entirely happy epiphany.  I’ve been having  lots of these lately.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe it’s in conjunction with a new year (although I’m a notorious scoffer about resolutions).  Regardless, I feel like I’m having one of those mini-Renaissances we all seem to have from time to time.  Some of it’s big things, some of it’s little things.  I just hope it continues.

For instance, I am owning and recognizing how differently my style of parenting is than I ever would have thought.  Hell, I never really thought about it until it was happening.  If you had told me that I’d be all about attachment parenting and co-sleeping, I would have laughed while I punched you in the ear.  Yet here I am.  I guess this is a thing now as we’re having one of those internal domestic spats in which a portion of this is up for discussion.  Essentially, Felix still likes to seek me out at night, usually around 4:00 AM.  Some nights he looks for me much earlier.  Some nights not at all.  But in order not to disturb Will (and to allow the most uninterrupted sleep for the whole household), the Dude and I will snuggle on the couch until either I have to get up for work or the kids start stirring.  Will hates it and thinks I should “pull the bandaid off.”

I don’t want to.  I’ll admit: snuggling with my little boy is one of my greatest joys, and it’s one that is coming to an end fast.  When he curls up against me, he’s all warmth and softness.  There’s none of that rowdy, loud, “pew pew” little boy crap.  He’s still my baby.  So as far as I’m concerned, that bandaid can stay right where it is.  I’ll even buy a new box.

See?  At night he's still and quiet and not covered with dirt and goo.

See? At night he’s still and quiet and not covered with dirt and goo.

Then there’s me.  Like most moms, I’ve let myself go, big time.  Not only is my appearance godawful, I haven’t done anything meaningful for and with myself in about 7 years.  So I started another stint on the Whole 30 Plan on January 2nd.  I have 11 more days to go.  As hard as it is, it feels good to do it.  I’m trying to move around more.  I’m trying to take more care with my appearance.  I read a book.  One that I wanted to read just for fun.  Y’all, that’s huge.  I used to be a voracious reader.  When Stella was born, that stopped.  Sure, I managed to slowly claw my way through the Game of Thrones books, finishing the last one shortly after Felix was born, but that’s it.  Everything else is either a kids book, a book on parenting, or stuff about groundwater contamination.  So dagnabbit (Felix and I both are working on our swearing), I’m making time to read.  I deleted a bunch of those goofy iPhone games which turn into obsessions and time sinks, yet yield nothing of value.  I’m thinking about experimenting with some sewing projects.  I’m knitting Stella a scarf.

And I/we need to shake off cobwebs and start doing more stuff – both productive and just for fun.  Today I’m on absolute cloud 9: I  managed to get Radiohead tickets for New Orleans.  I used to adore going to concerts.  I practically lived in New Orleans’ concert venues for about a decade.  Now?  I haven’t seen a concert since the Cure in 1998.  I’ve gotten rid of most of my old beloved concert shirts.  And dammit, I’m going to buy a Radiohead shirt.  I don’t care what Will says.new2

I’ve got to get productive about being happy.  I’m tired of just eking by.

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Chuck In the Middle With You

Last week, something kind of awful happened.  Stella came home bearing 2 birthday party invitations – both to Chuck E. Cheese, both the same weekend.  One Saturday, one Sunday.  Yikes.  That’s a lot of Chuck.  That’s a lot of tempting pizza I cannot partake in, as I’m only on day 18 of another round of the Whole 30.  That’s not one but two gifts to buy, right as we are attempting to make right the installation of our new AC system that went in last week.

The Saturday invitation was for Stella’s BFF, the little girl she’s grown up with.  That’s a no-brainer.  We will attend that one cheerfully.  But the Sunday dose of Chuck?  That was for a random girl in her class that I don’t know well.  And to be a bit snarky, her mother didn’t RSVP for Stella’s party, nor did they show up.  I’ve reached a point where that’s a big throbbing nerve within the etiquette center of my brain.


Last year, we would have gone.  We had such a shitty year in school – her behavior was often so gnarly – that I jumped at any chance for her to get together with her peers away from the Harpy.  We went to every birthday party we were invited to – quite a few, since we’re still in the “you must invite every child to the party” phase of school.  But this year?  Not so much.

Y’all, it sounds stupid, but this was a huge epiphany.  We don’t have to go to every stinking birthday party.  I can relax.  Stella is ok.  She’s more than ok.  Granted, she still is rather immature compared to many of her peers.  She still acts a bit nutty at times.  Maybe it’s the ADHD.  I don’t know.  Regardless, while she may not have lots of friends, she has some.  And sometimes she just digs being on her own, and I can totally respect and understand that.  


I ask her every single day who she played with at recess.  Sometimes I get names.  One day Sarah was her best friend and they played tag.  Other days she’s played ball with a group of boys.  But much of the time, she says she just hangs out by herself.  When the worried  neurotic mom asks if that’s because no one would play with her and ohglobtheyhateherbecausesheactsweirdsometimes, she always replies that she just felt like doing her own thing.

And it’s ok.

It’s like a weight has come off of us, at least for now.  For starters, maybe there won’t be as many Chuck E Cheese parties in my future as I expected.  On a serious note, I have no doubt as she gets older and becomes more aware – as the era of “you  must invite every child” comes to an end and she starts hearing of parties and events that she was not included in, there will be tears.  Hell, I’ll probably cry more than she will.  But she’ll be ok.

(Right?)

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Who, What, When, Swear, and Why

Now it’s the little one.  Remember we had a couple of incidents a while back in which Stella was really embracing her potty mouth?  Specifically, she illustrated the depth of her knowledge of the F-bomb, correctly using it in noun and adjective form.  Felix has discovered it as an interjection.

I discovered this yesterday when I picked him up at school.  His teacher said he had had an “interesting day.” It had started with a skirmish with his best friend/worst enemy.  Felix apparently was calling this boy a “stupid bumbo.”  I don’t know what a bumbo is, but it’s definitely stupid.  His teacher sat him down to explain that those were not nice words – we can only assume by context that bumbo is disparaging – and that he needed to choose different words.  He came up with “stupid” something else (I forget what).  His teacher once again tried to elicit a more appropriate verbal selection when Felix became impatient with the whole process and walked off saying “Fuck it.”

Y’all, I was so embarrassed.  I just faced the wall blushing and giggling like a 5th grader in health class on the first day of sex ed.  I mean, with Stella’s infractions, it would be a reasonable explanation that she has heard some of this on the playground at school.  She’s the youngest in her class, and I can tell you from all the hours I’ve spent up there that some of these kids are exposed to media that is not permitted at my house.  But Felix?  That one lands squarely on me and Will.

I really do try to watch the cussing.  I promise.  But sometimes things leak out.  And I’m sure my filter is not as secure when I’m in the comfort and privacy of my own home.  So yeah.  I/we have to own this one.

Maybe it’s a good thing that there are those articles about cussing that frequently make the Facebook rounds – that people who use profanity are smarter or more creative.  Just this morning – before today’s  version of the “fuck it” heard ’round the world – I read one which said that people who cuss are more honest, and the more cussing you do, the more honest you are.

So there you go.  It’s not all bad.  Now I just have to persuade my kids to tell their teachers they heard their neighbor cursing in their front yard.  Maybe they’ll be willing to lie just this once.

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Sweep It Under the Drug

Have you ever done something so absent-minded that you wondered if someone hadn’t slipped you some kind of mind-altering substance? (That’s foreshadowing, yo.)

I’ve mentioned it before, but I’ve been taking Wellbutrin for about a year after I decided I needed something to take the edge off of moods that had therefore been rather atypical.  I think it’s done it’s job.  It’s a mellow little thing, this Wellbutrin, but it’s been just enough.  Regardless, after a year, it’s become automatic.  Wake in the morning, grab a cup of coffee or strong tea, feed the cats, take my crazy pill.  Every day.

I keep my pill bottle next to the kitchen sink.  It’s in a little nook reserved for prescription bottles.  Over the Xmas break, we had a couple more than usual, as Stella was given a prescription tablet to try to treat the postnasal drip-induced cough that made her sound like she belonged on a TB ward.  Stella’s ADHD pill bottle is also kept there.

You can see where this is going.

I have no idea what kind of fugue I was experiencing a day or so after Xmas, but before I knew it, I had swallowed a Focalin capsule instead of my normal crazy pill.  Oh. My. Glob.  I didn’t know what to do.  Induce vomiting?  Eat a sandwich?  Take a shower? Call poison control? Was I going to wig out?  And holy crap would Stella run out of meds because her crazy mother had popped one of her pills (because y’all, these people are assholes about filling this stuff since it can be abused… yeah, by 6 year olds I guess)?  Would she have an all F day at school as a result of my carelessness?

I ran to wake up Will, since he’s taken about every kind of ADHD  med in the catalog.  He just laughed and told me not to drink too  much coffee.  Too late.  I had already had 3.5 cups.  He also said if we somehow ran out, there were ways around it.  Sometimes your doc could make a call because sometimes pills get barfed up or dropped down the sink, right?

As you can imagine, I survived.  I didn’t wig out.  I felt a bit more “awake” than usual.  And since my my reckoning, Stella missed a couple of doses over the summer, we should have a day or two cushion.  But that monkey is off my back, I swear.  Nothing but soft stuff like Midol and Ibuprofen for this girl!

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And Now Award From Our Sponsors

I’m about to commit a mortal parental sin.  I’m going to brag.  You see, I’ve just returned from attending my first ever honor roll assembly for my daughter.  I know it’s not a huge deal in the grand scheme of things.  It has nothing to do with the price of milk on Tuesdays, or who is going to the Superbowl this year, or when the next Beyoncé album will be released.  Shoot, in another year or so, I’ll no doubt be so over this kind of thing that I’ll force my husband to rochambeau for who has to go and sit through another one of these damn assemblies.  But not today.

Today feels like a huge victory.  Remember how we were tortured last year by one of the most vile, evil kindergarten teachers in America?  Remember how she insinuated that although my daughter read at an “inappropriately high level,” she actually didn’t comprehend anything?  Remember all the damn meetings I had to go to, feeling beaten, defensive, and oh so worried about my kid – that she was being bullied (and not just by the kids), that she would end up hating school, that she was trapped day in and day out with a woman who “never smiled” at her?  Remember the bewilderment of figuring out what the hell a 504 Plan was – a nebulous version of an IEP that doesn’t seem to do much at all other than keep them from kicking your kid out of class for “regular” offenses?  Remember my 4″ binder I kept, with every scrap of note, email, phone record, doctor’s record, journal article, and massive spreadsheet and trend graph based on the daily dots from the behavior chart – all ready to use as evidence if they tried to run my kid out of school?  Today, those are just really bad memories.

Today my kid looked radiant.  She was beaming, proud.  She was calm.  She felt wonderful about herself.  Best of all, the Harpy was also in attendance.  I didn’t look at her other than when she handed out the “hands and heart” award for her class.  I don’t think she’s qualified.  That woman has no heart.

I used to roll my eyes at those “my kid is an honor roll student” bumper stickers.  I used to laugh at loud at those “my kid beat up your honor roll student” bumper stickers.  Now, I want a bumper sticker, one that reads “my kid is an honor roll student, could kick your kids’ ass, and look gorgeous doing it all.”

Sorry.  I’m done.  Promise.  Oh, and I just got another email that my kid aced another advanced reader quiz.

Sorry.  I’m really done now.

pride

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Horton Hears a Poo

You know how I’ve lamented in the past about my kids growing up, time passing too quickly, and my aching uterus which will never bear another sweet baby into the world?  I’ve found the cure.  And in order to help my fellow woman-kind, I’m willing to share.  Please, come borrow a cup of cure for an hour or an afternoon.  Hell, I’ll give you an overnight.

You see, I’m potty training Felix.  Y’all, it’s awful.  I’ve become a firm believer in the “wait until they’re really ready” school of training.  Stella was kind of late for a girl.  I want to say she was about 3-3 1/2.  I should remember better but Felix was reasonably new to the household so it’s not like we were celebrating buying that final box of diapers.  I do know that I sent her to Oui Oui’s one night and she came home the next day done.  Felix hasn’t gone quite so smoothly.

Yeah, yeah.  I know.  Boys are different.  Boys are harder.  Boys take longer and wait until later.  Well we have – or are – ticking all those boxes in spades.  Don’t get me wrong.  He’s showing all those signs of “toilet readiness” (and how I hate these terms).  He asks to go frequently.  He stays dry for long periods.  There have been several days with either no or only a single accident.  But this weekend….(shudders)  Just yesterday I got to clean crap off my son three times in public restrooms, once after it had run down his legs clear to his ankles.  

This is another one of those “oh shit what do I do” mom moments.  You can’t put your 6′ tall preschooler, smeared with crap, on the fold-out changing table in the ladies’ room which is clearly designed for infants.  You haven’t carried a diaper bag in years, so you’re trying to manage some kind of biological Macgyver sanitation operation using only cheap toilet paper and those brown paper towels that feel like sandpaper, all the while crouching on the floor of the stall, desperately trying NOT to think about what manner of germs and filth is on that bathroom floor and now on the knees of your jeans – which must clearly now be incinerated.  Your son will not be still, causing the further smear of the offending biological foulness he has wrought up to your wrists. 

And then what to do with the ruined clothing?  On the first occasion you reluctantly throw away a pair of his new Star Wars briefs, as you clearly can’t place shit-crusted underwear in your purse.  The second time – same venue – you send your husband out to the car for supplies, including a Walmart bag, so you have a place to put the smelly clothes, opting to pull the first pair out of the trash so you can save them.   

The final occasion, hours later, is an “I told you so” moment for your husband, who gave you shit for wanting to put your kid in a diaper just while you’re at the museum.  He offered to take one for the team “next time.”  Yeah.  Didn’t happen.

What’s that smell?

I am so tired of this, y’all.  My one solace is that this is the last time I’ll have to do this.  It’s shitty.

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The Ingrate Gatsby

I don’t have a whole lot of cute Xmas pictures to share of my children’s delight at Santa’s efforts, or the joy of opening the most amazing toys ever.  Don’t get me wrong:  Santa did his best, and the gifts were pretty damn sweet.  But one of my children was possessed by the spirit of Francis from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure.  You know, the spoiled bully who constantly acted like an asshole.

I know you are but what am I?  (Photo courtesy of a Google search I did)

I know you are but what am I? (Photo courtesy of a Google search I did)

I suppose it started several weeks ago when we took the kids to that Xmas carnival with the cool rides and Santa.  The Santa visit was great (she asked for a Fur Real puppy thing that’s seriously creepy) and the rides were a hit.  On the way out, however, she saw one of those stands they set up at all of these types of things which sells items for about 3,000% of what they’re actually worth, given that they’re made in a far-off country with zero regard for VOC emissions or the lead content in paint.  There was something there – a “squeaky puppy-” that caught her eye.  She immediately began whining for it which we shut down.  We had just take the kid to see Santa and ride rides.  She was about to get a whole slew of new toys.  Surely the “squeaky puppy” wasn’t that important.

I’ll be damned if “squeaky puppy” didn’t stick in her melon.  She added it to the Dear Santa letter she wrote.  She also asked for some Shopkins and a Fur Real creepy puppy thing – oh, and some Legos for Felix.  Santa hoped that in the magic of Xmas morn, “squeaky puppy” would be forgotten in favor of the Fur Real creepy puppy thing and the hula hoop and the Wonder Woman doll and the bulging stocking full of candy and Shopkins and all other manner of delightful girly things.

Xmas morning came.  The kids were up early (6:15) yet luxuriously late compared to the past 6 years.  Felix was up first, and I managed to send him to wake his sister before he saw too much.   I was incredibly excited because Will actually got up.  Y’all don’t understand.  Will is about as much of a morning person as Count Dracula.  He’s never up to see the Santa portion of Xmas.  Hell, last year I slept on the couch so I wouldn’t miss it.  This year, he rushed out and had his iPhone ready to video the happy moment when Stella emerged.  This was going to be storybook, a Xmas to remember.  I could feel it.

She immediately made the ugliest, most wretched face a kid can make who isn’t actively throwing up.  Where was “squeaky puppy?”  She had asked for “squeaky puppy!”  In the meantime, she was almost sitting on  Fur Real creepy puppy thing.  Will looked at me in bewilderment, stopped videoing, and said “I’m deleting this.  And next year I’m sleeping in.”  I couldn’t argue with that.  And y’all, it just got worse.

Merry F'ing Xmas.

Merry F’ing Xmas.

My brother got her a Simon game at my suggestion, because I knew she would love it.  Here she is opening it.  Now, she'll gutterstomp her brother if he even tries to push a button.  It's been probably her favorite gift this year.

My brother got her a Simon game at my suggestion, because I knew she would love it. Here she is opening it. Now, she’ll gutterstomp her brother if he even tries to push a button. It’s been probably her favorite gift this year.

I really do try to raise my kids right – to have manners, be polite, be kind, and not act like assholes.  Usually people comment at how well-mannered they are in public.  Felix was fabulous.  As a matter of fact, he could have unwrapped a box of post-it notes and been ecstatic.  Case in point, Xmas eve we always let them open one wrapped gift.  Crispi had gotten Stella one of those wonderful personalized books that’s been making the rounds on Facebook, “The Girl Who Lost Her Name.”  It’s the cutest thing.  Crispi, understandably wanted Stella to open that without the competition and hubbub of other toys.  It was a hit.  I chose for Felix one of the boxes from my dad – a Dinotrux toy, I thought.  It was shoes.  I was braced for a huge tantrum.  Instead, Felix put them on, ran through the house in his “new big boy fast shoes,” and I damn near couldn’t get them off his feet at bedtime.

Felix acting like a kid who's actually happy it's Xmas.

Felix acting like a kid who’s actually happy it’s Xmas.

I have no idea what happened to my daughter.  She whined and moaned through gift opening.  It got so horrible that we sent her to her room to think about her ungrateful behavior, and yes, we’ve talked about how so many kids don’t get nice Xmases or have enough to eat; we donated a nice bag of new toys to Toys for Tots.  I threatened to take the rest of her wrapped gifts and send them back to Amazon.  I also said Santa had a rule that if kids acted like turds about what he left them that he would come back the next night and take them back.

She sniveled the rest of the day.  Just yesterday, she was griping that Santa only brought her one thing she had asked for.  What an asshole.

So y’all please tell me: has this ever happened to you?  Have your children ever been possessed by the Ghost of Xmas Ass?  What did you do about it?

And Felix is still having fun...

And Felix is still having fun…

 

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Stop, Caltrop, and Roll

I hope each and everyone of you out there had a wonderful magical Christmas.  I suppose we are in that odd holiday purgatory, floating between Christmas and New Year’s eve. No one is quite sure what day of the week it is at this point. Bedtimes are nebulous. Eating schedules are all out of whack.  The kids and I are currently in Meridian, Mississippi, along with my mother, for a visit.  For whatever reason, this only seems to add to the confusion.

I guess when it’s all said and done, I haven’t had much of a chance to really reflect on Christmas.  I know it was busy. I know I spent a lot of time in the kitchen cooking. I know that, most importantly, there was no drama.  There’s one thing that’s eating at me – which will be covered in another post at another time – but for now it’s just simmering somewhere in the back of my mind.  As with anything though, every major event serves to teach me some new lessons. Here is what I have learned this year:

  • Children really don’t need presents. No matter how hard you work trying to find the perfect gift, at the end of the day, a skein of yarn is just as glorious as a remote-controlled Dinotrux toy. 
  • It is absolutely possible to double the magic. Stella lost her first tooth on Christmas Eve day, meaning that the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus would both be visiting the same night. I daresay both magical creatures managed to pull it off without stepping on each other’s toes.
  • Santa Claus really ought to reconsider leaving Nerds candy in stockings. When the boxes spill, which they inevitably will, they become the equivalent of invisible tiny caltrops on the floor. Will is still bitching about tiny bruises on the bottoms of his feet.
  • Use your stocking stuffers responsibly. Santa brought Felix some small old style cap-guns in the shape of rockets.  Felix promptly named them bombs and the bombs became Precious.  They slept with him/us.  There’s nothing like waking up with a diecast rocket in your armpit.  Anyway, apparently the mere ownership of such things turns one into a terrorist.  Felix first suggested bombing the chihuahuas next door -not that I can blame him, but next thing I know, he’s talking about bombing buildings and bombing people.  I can only hope that Bomb won’t be a Precious for too much longer.​
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Season d’Etre

So tonight is the big night.  I just saw the Santa tracker on Facebook and he’s over Australia right about now. And thanks to that awesome airline passenger that posted the video of Santa passing in front of the moon, my daughter is now firmly convinced that Rudolph is, in fact, real.

In all seriousness, we’re ready to go. All the gifts are wrapped, the turkey has been bought, and now we’re just settling in waiting for the big show.  As you might expect, my kids are bouncing off the walls. It’s going to be a fun day but a long day also.  This is why I’m blogging from a playground – hoping these little people can burn off some noise and energy before we have to go back home and I start cooking.  I have my oven schedule made and ready to go. Don’t pity me. I secretly love it, although I’d love it even more if I had a double oven.

We did Christmas at my in-laws’ last night.  The gumbo was absolutely delicious (my father-in-law’s gumbo is the best in the known universe) and the gifts lovely – and certainly whetted the appetites of my children.  

In typical Louisiana fashion, it’s near 80°. That freak cold snap we had last weekend was just that – freakish.  My kids are out at the playground sweating in short sleeves. I think tomorrow it’s supposed to be warmer. That’s OK. We’ll have Christmas anyway  as evidenced by the jingle bells tied in my son’s ponytails. Don’t ask. He wanted some and I couldn’t say no.

This is one of those times of year where I suppose a person takes stock.  I think 2016 will go down as a rather tough year for many many people.  It seems like it brought more than its fair share of death, sickness, and disaster.  As heartbreaking as it’s been, I have to admit that my household has weathered it better than many. I’m grateful for that.  There are still thousands of people in my area that cannot be home for Christmas due to their flooded homes.  That thought weighs heavily on my mind – especially today.  I hope each and every one of those families finds a way to have their own Christmas miracle somehow.

I also hope that each and everyone of you has a wonderful Christmas. Despite the fact that I’ve never met most of you, y’all always give me the sense that I’m not alone in this world.  And that’s a true gift.

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Guilting at Windmills

Our weather was particularly schizophrenic this weekend, with Saturday topping out in the low 80’s and Sunday never making it above 45°.  And since freezing us cold-intolerant Cajun pansies isn’t enough, the temperature drop was accompanied by a really horrible cold rain all day Sunday.  I know.  I shouldn’t bitch.  We get maybe 4 days of “cold” a year.

Anyway, knowing that the weather was going to be crap, I had arranged for Stella to have a friend over.  Her mother and I had decided that instead of exchanging gifts this year, the girls could bake ugly cookies and do arts and crafts.  As y’all know, I excel at ugly baking.  And I had the perfect idea for the kids; on Facebook, I had seen one of those Pinterest-y video clips of someone’s hands rolling sugar cookie dough into perfect little balls, then rolling the perfect little balls into beautiful sprinkles, then jamming popsicle sticks in, baking, and producing perfectly round, cute cookie lollipops.  You know how I always say my cookies end up looking like tumors?  These were tumors on a stick.  It wasn’t anything the girls or Felix did.  We were duped by online charlatans.

Anyway, after baking and ornament decorating, Stella started to unravel a bit.  I’ve noticed that both she and her father tend to be pretty sensitive mood-wise to major barometric pressure changes, and boy, did we have a lulu that day.  I’m not sure if pressure sensitivity is a recognized thing or not, but I definitely see it in my household – the onset of extreme bitchiness and orneriness when the weather flip flops.  Anyway, Stella started with a lot of whining, yelling, and back-talking.

After several calm warnings, including one whereby I pulled her to the back of the house to tell her that her behavior was unacceptable and I would send her to timeout if her bullshit behavior continued, I finally had to send her to her room.  She screamed, she cried, she kicked the door.  She was missing the fun, and couldn’t she complete her sentence once her friend left.  Nope.

When she emerged a few minutes later, the friend and Felix were eating some ugly cookies and popcorn, watching the Grinch.  Stella was moody as she rejoined the party.  When her friend’s mom came to pick her friend up, she continued to cut up.  It was the worst day ever, and she hadn’t had any fun.  Total drama, y’all.

Yeah, the weather makes this one edgy...

Yeah, the weather makes this one edgy…

I got a bit irritated, and said wow, I knew that play dates were horrible, as was cookie baking and arts and crafts.  I must be the worst mother ever.  Stella agreed.  I told her that maybe Santa would bring her a new mother for Xmas.  She looked horrified.  She told me I was beautiful.

And I felt like a total asshole.  The biggest asshole in the world.

"Mom, did you really just say that?"

“Mom, did you really just say that?”

See, I adore sarcasm.  It’s my language.  It’s what I do.  I’m not even aware of it most of the time.  But Stella?  She doesn’t get it.  At all.  Maybe it’s carryover from her language delays.  Her semantic/pragmatic sense of language isn’t the best.  “W” questions don’t come easily for her, especially “why.”  Sarcasm may as well be uttered in Mandarin.  And I had used sarcasm to threaten her with a new mother without even thinking.  I felt like a monster.

Parenting fail.  I apologized to her for making a really bad joke.  She said OK, but referenced my “bad joke” the rest of the day.

Maybe I can consider this payback to all of the really awful knock-knock jokes I’ve endured and been forced to participate in for the past 8 months?

No, sweet girl. I'm not going anywhere.

No, sweet girl. I’m not going anywhere.

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