Girls Poo Too

C'mon, it's not that gross.

Why is it that a poop joke is always funny and it's fine for boys to do, but everyone gets all grossed out when girl's poop?  What is this cultural aversion to female feces?  I have to wonder what kind of a message Lou is picking up.  I know that when I was five and figured out that society didn't like girls to poo, I decided that I'd probably be best off just not getting married as I loved to fart but couldn't imagine farting in front of a boy.  What would I ever do if my husband had to go into the bathroom after I poo'd?  He'd totally smell it!

Thank goodness I got over that.  Life would've been lonely.

I went to high school with a kid who didn't find out until his junior year that girls pooped too.  Seriously?!?!  He finally found out because a girl pooped during a party.  Subsequent potty users ID'd the smell she'd left behind.  God we were immature...  Anyways, that's how he found out- not because his mother told him or anything like that.  And not becuase he lived with his mom and any normal person wouldn't go to such lengths to conceal their poo, nope, nothing like that.  Is this something that we're no longer teaching our boys?  Girls are human too and their body functions in basically the same way yours does...  Guess that's just not a popular message.

Instead we pretend that our little girls really are the flowers they're named after.

Well I, for one, encourage the enjoyment brought on by gaseous emissions.  I remind Lou that you're technically not suppossed to fart in public, but hey, we all do it so don't stress.  I tell her that most people outside of our immediate family probably aren't as impressed as we are by her "massive poo", but we think it's cool, so celebrate all you want inside these walls!

Poo is just something that we all do; no sense in fighting what's going to happen anyways, there's plenty of other things to do.

I know that things won't change overnight, it's never going to be socially acceptable to fart in public, and we're girls, so we're probably not going to promote the fact that we poo.  But we all do it, so let's stop stressing so much.

Let's remember that girls poo too, and that's just fine!

Field Trip Trauma

Today was the annual end of the year field trip to the Animal Farm for Lou's school. 

Of course it's been raining all week, making the already muddy farm even muddier, and creating puddles so large and delicious even I could hardly resist them.  Needless to say, everyone was soaked by the time we finally made it back to the parking lot, and the relief I felt when I saw my car and knew that I had the freedom to just leave was immeasurable.

But this thought occurred to me as I was wrangling stray children and herding them towards our tour guide: why is it that the only parents who came along are the parents of the children who don't need them there?  I know that if I were to send Lou on the field trip alone she would behave herself.  Sure, she'd still be a three year old, but she'd come back when you ask her to, she wouldn't barge into the barn if you told the kids not to, and she wouldn't push, shove, hit, bite, bicker with, bother, or in general harass everyone else.  Same could be said for the children of the other five parents who came along.

The kids you really dread taking out in public, those are the kids who are allowed to go on field trips sans-parent.  Why is that?  If my kid were half the problem that some of these other ones were, I would be too embarassed to leave her alone with others. 

Actually this lack of parent is probably why these kids are the way they are, but I'm trying to be non-judgemental here (not an easy feat for me as many of you know).

Are these parents that desperate for a break that they need an entire week of mornings off from their child, no matter the circumstance?  That they're willing to let their children traumatize other parents?  It's bad enough that the teacher knows what your kid's really like, are you sure you want everyone else to as well?  Maybe just living with such a whirlwind clouds the senses and dulls the part of the brain used for rational judgement.  Clearly, some of these parents weren't thinking when they dropped their tired crab-monster off at school with a bag lunch and sped back to the comfort of their couch. 

Honestly, if your kid is three, four, or five years old, then this field trip, one of only two the whole year, is a pretty big deal and if you're not working, then what's your excuse for not being there?  Why wouldn't you want to be there to take pictures and be in the loop when your kid starts retelling the field trip at dinner?

I'm not a parenting expert, but it seems to me that mostly what these frenzied maniacs want is for someone to listen to them.  They talk incessantly, and if it gets on your nerves, then try listening to it for a while.  Kids are more likely to shut up and take a break if they know that you'll listen when then open their mouths again.  They push because it makes you pay attention, and they run off just to see if you'll care enough to go get them.     

Problem is, that when it's not your kid, the knee-jerk reaction to a kid who's been nothing but a bully all day and shoves yours is to slap her across the face. 

I'm still debating whether or not that would've been a good idea.  Sure I'd probably feel pretty low right now, and true, it wouldn't be setting the best of examples for Lou, but if she's made it to the age of five and no one has yet taught her that that's just not acceptable, then maybe, in some ways, I'd be doing her a favor by teaching her. 

The point is, I can't parent your kid.  Neither can any of the other parents who came along, and Lord help the teacher who has to see that child every day.  I know, it's exhauting having a high-intensity kid, believe me.  But this is your high intensity kid, so get used to it, and start taking some control over the situation and both of your lives.  Even just pretending you're in charge can do wonders- for your self-esteem and your kid.  Try it sometime.  You just might find that being around your child isn't that big of a chore and maybe next time you'll tag along on the field trip.

Unless your kid is the shover.  Better to just cut your losses now and admit defeat.

I'm kidding!

Kind of.

Booger Cup

It's been a hell of a week.  I've got some extra time this morning and I thought to myself, I should really sit down with a cup of coffee and catch up on the news...

Since I'm half-blind before I have my coffee I poured myself the cup my Other Half has so thoughtfully left out for me and stumbled towards my desk.  I gingerly took the first sip, which is always too hot for me but I can never resist, clicked on Drudge and then wrapped my hand around the handle for a good gulp.

And that's when I noticed something sticky.  My middle finger was suctioned to the cup, held in place by a massive booger.

Gross. 

Although after three years of being a mother, it's not as gross as it once would have been.

I will bet you all I own that I know who put that booger there, although I can't even pretend I know why she did it.  Probably just because.  I'm often amazed at the places where they show up, but this is a first on one of MY cups.  If it were anyone else leaving boogers on my cup, this would be a really big deal.  Like a "you should really avoid mom for a while" kind of deal.  But since she's not here for me to see that smirk, I have no idea if this was done to be funny or if she just needed a place to hide her booger before dad saw it. 

What is it about our own flesh and blood that makes us so complacent in their abuse?  Ok, maybe abuse is too strong a word, but I think that in some countries, the crap I've put up with lately is considered abuse.

Like yesterday, when after a big day, she completely melted on the way to the car.  Had to be carried, kicking and screaming; strapping the car seat was an incredible feat of skill and speed.  She yelled the entire six minutes home that she just didn't love me anymore, her strongest insult since the word hate has been ruled out by a preschool of kids not allowed to express strong feelings.  Of course she got distracted once we got there and saw that Grandpa had mowed the majority of the field.  But I'm pretty sure that exposing the ear drums to a scream that high pitched for six minutes at a time is in fact a torture method used on terrorists. 

But I'm her mother so not only am I suppossed to put up with this crap, but I'm also suppossed to try and understand where it's coming from.  So I stayed calm in the car, resisting the urge to turn around and do my best impression of my dad and tell her to SHUT THE F*** UP! and willed myself to remember that she'd had a big day and skipped nap. 

Maybe it's those high intensity times that make the small things, like boogers on coffee cups, seem a lot funnier than they probably are.

There are a million ways to make someone smile.  And while a valiant attempt was made by my duo on Mother's Day, it's really those moments you don't expect that make life enjoyable.  And, of course, it doesn't hurt that boogers are easily removed. 

Wish the same could be said for those damn shower crayons...

Adding to the Collection

Well it's been almost three weeks since poor Pierre went up to fish heaven (aka our septic system).

He'd been pretty sad for a few days, moping around the tank.  Cinderella did her best to cheer him up, nibbling his tail and nudging him in an attempt to make him feel better, but to no avail.  I came home one day to find him quite dead.

Thankfully he was anchored near the bottom, wedged between a few rocks.  I was hoping he'd stay there until after Lou went to bed and my Other Half came home from work so that he could be the bad guy and flush the fish.  Unfortunately, Cinderella was still trying to cheer him up so when I looked at the tank a few minutes later she had dislodged him and he was drifting all over, even Lou would know he was was dead.  Therefore I would have to be the one to flush him, and quickly, before naptime was over.  Here's my dirty little secret: even though I've had a fish for about the last five years, they creep me out.  They're fine when they're in the tank, but I hate how the wriggle when I scoop them out to clean...  I used to stand outside my dorm room and wait for someone willing to scoop out the fish each week so I could clean the tank.  Then when the tank was clean I'd have to wait again for someone willing to put the fish back in.  

Anyways, I put on my big girl pants and flushed Pierre.  And Cinderella has been lonely ever since.  So this morning as I ran errands I stopped by PetsMart to buy her some new friends. 

I couldn't figure out where they kept the smaller goldfish.  In the rows upon rows of fish the only goldfish I found were the large ones with puffy cheeks, and that's just too much fish for me and our small tank to handle.  I finally found someone who appeared to work there and asked where they kept the smaller goldfish.  The kid stared blankly for a moment or two before the lightbulb came on.

Oh, they're in the Feeder Tank!

The feeder tank?!?  Gross.  Remind me to never buy a pet that I have to feed live fish to, not that I'll probably need much reminding.  He walked me over to the feeder tank, a veritable clusterfuck of skinny goldfish in various colors and undetermined states of life and death, and told me to pick some out, he'd be back in a minute after he moved some boxes.  I had to walk away and check if the tortoise was still around, I couldn't handle all these fish crawling all over eachother.  He finally came back and asked if I'd picked any out.  Was he kidding?  It was impossible to see individual fish in there.  I told him I had a lonely goldfish, and could he please just scoop out two that looked reasonably alive.

With suprising disregard for the welfare of the fish, two living goldfish were quickly scooped up and put in a bag.  I also decided to get a male betta to put in a flower vase that's been sitting around here for months.  I never get flowers anyways, and we've been talking about how it would look cool to have a fish in that vase. 

 

Yeah, I know I have a collection problem.  

On the way home I wondered what Lou would name the new fish.  Chances are they'll be named Ariel and Belle, but I wasn't sure what she would name the betta.

I got home just before naptime ended.  Lou got up, came to find me, and spied the fish instead.

Oooooh!  Princess Tiana!!!  Mom, thank you so much for getting me a Princess Tiana!

Who would've thought that a thirteen cent fish could bring so much joy?  I think I'm going to stop buying toys.

The other goldfish is named Princess Belle, and the betta has been named Prince Charming because he's a boy. 

I'm not sure how long the fish craze is going to last, hopefully long enough for Lou to be able to scoop them out of their tanks when it's time to clean.  Either way, I'm stuck with fish for a while now.

Oh well, it's fun, it's funny to hear the names Lou comes up with, and entertaining to watch.

At least now the cats have a TV.

My Garden

I'll admit it, I got into gardening for all the wrong reasons.

I think I started because I thought that it was just something I should do- don't all good mothers have a garden?  I started out small, and had some success.  So I made big plans for the next year; which completely fizzled out because I had a baby, therefore no time to garden. 

It was better the next year, Lou was bigger and it was a perfect excuse to get outside and spend some time digging in the dirt, developmentally her favorite thing to do.  But I still had more garden than I could manage and by the end of the summer I had given up trying to pull the weeds that were literally growing like weeds and refused to stay under control.  Although it was overwhelming, it was worth it when I could finally cook with the things I had grown which is what brought me back the next year.  Lou loves tomatoes, picking them when ripe and eating them in the sun; she has no idea that kids aren't supposed to like them, she just knows that it's cool that she can finally eat something she found outside.  Isn't that a good enough reason to have a garden? 

And now I've gotten to a point where, although I'm always expanding, I have an established garden.  I have perennials that come back each year to get me excited for the explosion of color; to help me forget how much work it's going to be.

But I no longer loathe garden work.  I actually enjoy kneeling in the dirt and pulling out weeds, one by one.  Plus, there are few things as satisfying as finally sitting down to admire a newly weed-free garden.  I couldn't care less anymore when I accidentally unearth a worm.  Maybe these years in the garden have made me immune to them, or maybe I'm more confident in the protection of my garden gloves that become more of a body part than an item of clothing over the summer.  I can't wait for the first bloom, the first blossom that tells me I'll be getting a pepper soon, the first tomato that begins to turn from green to red...

Plus, I've got a lot of help these days.  Lou digs holes for the plants and loves adding the new black dirt.  She's an expert at watering, or more aptly, drowning the plants, and is always willing to pick some basil for dinner.  My garden is something I do for me, but it's also a source of food for my family, a way to spend time with my daughter outside, and a great bonding experience with the Hens who are always eager to gobble up any bugs we uncover. 

I may have started out on the wrong path, but I have nothing but pure intentions for my garden these days.    

Girls Night

So the Girls came over this evening for Friday Night Movie Night.  Guess what movie we watched...

Lou's best friends in the entire world are a pair of sisters and these girls are about as good of friends as any three-year old could have.  They came over and everyone promptly changed into a new outfit.  Emotions ran high as Lou remembered that having friends over means that they get to use your stuff.  Sharing is a tough concept for an only child.  The Sisters reminded Lou and myself that, "when her is at our house her gets to use our stuff, so now her has to share hers."  Once we made it over the sharing speed bump they played as only three-year olds can.  Is there some unwritten law that small children can't remain clothed for an entire evening?  Every outfit in our dress-up arsenal was worn and passed around; and when we'd burned through them all, it was time for everyone to run around in their skivvies. 

After the Hour of Underwear, we were once again back to the dress-up clothes.  It was around this time that the melting began, so I quickly swooped in with the Chicken Distraction. 

The Chicken Distraction is this: when things get hairy, try to make everyone forget by pointing out how ridiculous the chickens are.  Works every time. 

So we looked out the window and laughed at the Hens getting cozy in the dirt.  And then we went outside to feed them some pretzels.  Once we got outside the Girls remembered that I have a great pile of dirt back there that's perfect for digging.  I'm starting to wonder if I should just scrap the garden and keep our farm version of a sandbox instead.

I'll admit that a part of me was thinking about laundry, specifically how much I had created in one evening by hosting a play-date, but I tried to make her be quiet.  Most of me was completely enjoying their enjoyment.  They got out every shovel and bucket and took off their shoes.  Honestly, there's nothing like the feeling of dirt in your toes.  And they have the rest of their lives to worry about clean clothes- and besides, I don't want to be the wet-blanket (this term is replacing "killjoy," as in when Cinderella calls the clock a killjoy, a word that I've been told falls under the category of "mean talk").

Goodbyes are always hard, and especially emotional, when you're three.  Our bedtime routine was tossed out and Lou was rushed into her bed shortly after the Girls' departure.  Instead of the usual drawn out collapse into sleep, Lou was out almost as soon as she lay down.  Hell, I'm even ready for bed.  She could sure use a shower, but we'll worry about that tomorrow.  As I sit here and look around my house, it's apparent that The Girls have been here.  The usual order has been replaced with the chaos that comes along with opening every drawer, box, and cabinet to find whatever there is to find in there.  I'm sure my compulsion will force me to pick up a bit before I go to bed, but the disorder is kind of nice.  Just like the dirt in Lou's toes, tomorrow it will remind us of how much fun we had tonight. 

There's nothing quite like a Girls Night. 

Fences Make Good Neighbors

And good gardens, and well behaved dogs; and I'm hoping, better looking plants.

My herb garden is situated so that I can look out my kitchen window and marvel at my green-thumbed success.  But when I look out at it now I become more and more dismayed as it is covered in massive craters created by the Hens as take their daily dirt baths.  Not to mention that our half-dog apparently loves chives because she's chewed off the tops giving them the appearance of having joined the army.  But what I couldn't figure out was why these craters have been steadily growing in size.  The Hens haven't gotten that much bigger since all the snow melted...  Turns out that they only started the problem, but they weren't totally to blame.

My lovely Chowder-puff apparently also enjoys a good dirt bath.  She digs herself a nice hole and enjoys the cool dirt on a hot day.  My Other Half tells me that she's always done this.

So I took a stand and I finally have the white picket fence of my dreams.  Okay, so maybe it's not exactly the fence I had once envisioned- the one that circles my perfectly manicured suburban cottage- but already, I'm in love.  It's a two-foot tall miniature version of that fence to protect my chives and keep furry feet out of my dirt. 

I never used to like the saying "good fences make good neighbors," it seemed so unfriendly and un-neighborly.  If you've got good neighbors then why would you put up a fence?  And if they're not good how can a fence help?  What I didn't realize was that when the boundaries are clearly communicated then no one steps over the line.  You don't have to be the bad guy and constantly tell people- aka unruly dogs and chickens- where they just don't belong.  Let's face it, no one wants to tell someone to back off, or to back out (of a garden, for instance), so let a fence do it for you. 

As it turns out, fences make for great neighbors, and house-mates.