Here’s something I’ve never understood. With birth control pills, why don’t they give you a few spares, just in case you, say, drop at least one pill on the dirty bathroom floor or into the toilet every three months or so? I’m sure it has something to do with the wicked insurance companies, or the folks who think women should be nothing but incubators. Whatever the reason, yesterday I found myself on my hands and knees, scrounging my in-need-of-cleaning bathroom floor (potty-training and all) for a little pink pill that never made an appearance.

Irony is, yesterday showed me just how much I need those little pink pills. We did our playdate, which was great, as always. Afterwards, Little Eddie stayed with us for a few hours. Little Eddie just turned two, and I love him to bits. I mean, how could I not?

He’s damn near family, this one. Except he’s much better dancer than the rest of us.

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I’ve got a terrific headache, the kind that should be preceded by some form of debauchery. Not the case, unless you count giving my mom a swig of my pink vodka punch debauched. No, this is sinuses, stress, teeth-grinding, with a smidge of exhaustion.

Normally at this time of day on Monday, I’d have a houseful of friends and kids for the weekly playdate. This week, I postponed to Tuesday because I thought my parents were going to be in town today. They left before 7:30 AM, though. It’s all just as well. I’ve got mountains of laundry to do. Honestly, there are only three people who live in this house, and only one of us loses control of bodily functions on a regular basis. I have no idea where all the laundry comes from. It’s an age-old conundrum, I know.

Plus, an extra day at home without company provides another day of potty boot camp.

This morning I got word that one of my good friends and Monday playdaters had a death in her family yesterday. I haven’t talked to her yet, but I know she’s probably having a really, really shitty day, and I’m sad for her.

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Courtesy of Fluid Pudding, who brought me a six-pack of the season’s first batch of Schlafly’s Pumpkin Ale last night, when I needed it most. I think this sums up the whole pinkening experience:

Off-kilter, clashing with the decor, and still pretty darn pleased with everything.

Did you honestly think I was going to dye my hair some ridiculous shade of pink, one that’s so permanent not even industrial-strength bleach will remove it? A pink so ferocious that it can only be removed with dark brown dye or scissors?

Well, I totally did.

I’m not a quitter, even though that’s all I thought about doing today before my appointment with the wonderful Erin at Bouffant Daddy. This whole time I’ve been excited about the pinkening, until today. Today, I was too nervous to eat lunch. I was so nervous that I required some yarn therapy. At least I bought yarn for a Christmas gift I need to start making, so it was productive and practical retail therapy. But I was really nervous, despite my mantra regarding everything in life: Everything’s temporary. Even permanent hair color. Read the rest of this entry

My lord, I’ve had it. I’ve really, really had it. Not for any big reason. I think I’m having the usual attack I have towards the end of a season when I’m so ready for change and every little thing drags on my nerves.It’s a great time to be potty training. Almost as great as it was last August, when I was potty training the same child I’m currently potty training.

It’s all about control around here. Stubborn, powerful control. I read some rumors today that Fidel Castro may have finally passed. If so, I think my daughter can take his place. Anyone who can exert that much control over her bodily functions can surely exert a despotic level of power over a small country or three.

Here’s how Thursday transpired. I didn’t blog about it at the time because by the end of the day the entire entry would have been nothing but dolphin-like chirps and squeaks. Which, I have a story about those, too, for later. Anyway, the control. Yesterday she sat on the potty … and oh my God, I’m so sorry I’m writing about goddamn potty training … and nothing happened.

Put her in a Pull-Up (yes, I know, she needs big girl underpants and I’d love it if you’d refrain from reminding me that thanks). Ten minutes later, it’s soaked.

Since we were staying home, we agreed that perhaps nudity would be a good option. She tends to not pee on the floor or furniture, and I’m sick to death of spending $14 every ten days on motherfucking Pull-Ups.

She went hours without peeing or pooping. Hours. She spent one of those hours, broken into two incriments, sitting on the potty where nothing happened. After these hours passed, she informed me she wanted to take a nap and needed a Pull-Up.

Bravo! Asking for a nap is awesome! Unless, of course, you ask for a nap solely so you can have a Pull-Up and ten minutes later you’re shrieking that you’re not sleeping but damn if you don’t have an entire day’s worth of urine in your pants!

Another day like that, and I’m going to have to start wearing diapers because I swear, something in my brain is going to misfire if I keep having battles of the wills with a three-year-old over her bodily functions. The therapy bills for both of us are going to be fucking ridiculous.

As for the squeals and shrieks, we went to Cooperella today, along with every family with at least one child under the age of five in the states of Missouri and Illinois. I’ve never seen it so insanely busy. Good thing they’re expanding in the next few weeks, a fact that thrills me on so many levels. Today, the main level of me that was thrilled with this news was the one that really, really wanted to get away from the unattended girl-children who communicated with each other solely in Dolphin-speak about a foot away from me while their mothers dined in peace on the other side of the restaurant.

Don’t even get me started on the Lord of the Flies incident that involved eight or so kids, whacking each other with large foam strips while their parents sat not five feet away, completely ignoring them so vehemently that one of the employees had to come out and break up the melee.

While I was at Cooperella I got a copy of my favorite rock star/barista’s band’s demo. Check out Ten9Central. I haven’t had a chance to listen to it yet, what with the eardrum damage caused by The Porpoise Girls, but if his music skills rock as much as has sandwich-making skills, well, we’re all in luck. Maybe they’ll be on the shuffle next week.
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• My pal PKB had both of her email addresses hacked today. If you get an email from “Fister Montgomery” bemoaning that her credit card was decline for a $3 purchase, it wasn’t. And for good lord’s sake, People, if you get such an email asking for money, I don’t care how much you love them, don’t give money to a third party on their behalf until you check with them first.
• A better name for Lotawata Creek Southern Grill would be Lotacoronarydisease Grill. Tonight I witnessed my husband eat an entire 10 oz. hamburger smothered with three kinds of cheese and a mountain of fried pickles. I’m thinking about making him sleep in the bed of the truck tonight.
• Today I introduced Clara Jane to the kitty adoption holding pen at PetSmart. I’m amazed we managed to come home without another cat. Or another three-year-old, since there was a three-year-old boy also checking out the adoptables who wanted to pay the adoption fee and take my kid home with him. He even tried to hold her hand, and she looked like she might deck him.
• I’m not acquiring any new pets until Clara Jane’s old enough to take responsibility (at least partially) for them. Our cat Romi, however, might like it if we’d get another cat just so she can have a little wiggle room:

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It looks like B. has fixed my RSS feed. If you’re still having problems with getting my feed via Bloglines, well, there’s a good chance you’re not reading this. But if you are, you might need to unsubscribe and resubscribe.

You want a hair update, don’t you? Despite not having been washed since last Thursday, my hair still looks fabulous. More amazingly, I can’t believe I haven’t clawed off my entire scalp.

Did someone say fun? Right. That was me. Mondays have become so fun of late. At the beginning of the year I decided that, on Mondays, Clara Jane and I should go to Hartford Coffee on Mondays so we can ease into the week. The second week we were there, I met Beqi and her son, Little Eddie, and we immediately started meeting there every Monday. And occasionally on other days of the week, and at other locations.

But recently, some events that I won’t detail right now angered us with The Coffeehouse I Shan’t Name Again So You’ll Just Have to Re-read the Previous Paragraph to Know Which One it Is. We really don’t feel like going back, as it stopped being fun. Well, here I am with this lovely new rumpus room, so a few weeks ago we started spending Mondays at my house, along with my friend Jill, her daughters (ages 3.5 and 1), Robin Up the Street, her son (age 2), and Raquel, who has no kids but isn’t bothered by ours, and never, ever takes it upon herself to tell us how to parent our kids. That’s why we discourage our children from punching, pushing, biting, kicking her, or writing on her with un-washable crayons even though she’s already covered with ink.

The kids can wildly rumpus without anyone coming from the other part of the building to inform us that our children are annoying. A member of management won’t suggest that perhaps our children should cry outside in the 90-degree heat so that everyone can enjoy the space. I’m the management at this-here place and I say that all tantrums should be thrown directly in the middle of the rumpus room for all to see! This allows important socialization opportunities for the children in building their repatoire of fit-throwing techniques.

The kids are learning good things from each other. Like today, I witnessed what is, without question, the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Children were scattered throughout the house while us moms hid in the rumpus room. I went upstairs for something important – more iced coffee – and thought I should do a little check to make sure all limbs were still attached.

As I came upstairs I heard what is the most wonderful sound in the world – two little girls giggling, a sound that came to an abrupt halt when I rounded the corner into the living room. Clara Jane and Mattie, who’s Clara Jane’s junior by 22 hours, were on the couch with a toy stand mixer and a quilt, grinning at me. When I asked what they were doing, they just looked at me, looked at each other, and laughed.

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A little-known fact about me you might not know: I was what’s called a “craft show orphan” when I was a kid. My mom started working in a craft shop when I was in fifth grade, which led to her taking painting classes, which led to people saying, “Hey Mac, you’re pretty good at this painting stuff. You should sell it,” which led to my mom and dad getting in to the craft business. Before long, they spent most of their weekends traveling around the midwest with their wares and setting up booths at craft shows. Sometimes I was left at home with relatives. Sometimes I was hauled along to spend my weekends hauling tubs of painted wood to and from the booth. I wasn’t delighted with either option. While I thought it was great that my mom had her own business doing something she enjoyed, I pretty much swore I’d never set foot in another craft show after my mom quit the business a few years ago.

You know what happened, don’t you? I wound up befriending a bunch of crafty types like Allison and Beqi;. Lo and behold, I’m back to the world where women run their business and create all of their merchandise while balancing jobs and husbands and kids. But it’s slightly different.

Last night Angela and I went to CraftaNostra, Beqi’s most recent pet project, hosted by the STL Craft Mafia. Do you live in the St. Louis area and sell crafts? Then why haven’t you joined them, already? Go. Do it now. It’s worth your while because let me tell you, the crafty goodies last night had the cold hard cash flying right out of peoples’ purses, mine included. Wanna see what I got?

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No, I’m not going to talk about my hair for this entire post, other than to say Day Two of the new hairdo was a winner. That’s a rarity. Usually the day after a new haircut is a very bad day.Did you know that The Cuz no longer has hair? It’s awesome. And in a week, my hair will be pink. And that will be awesome. Well, aside from all the crying Granny Viv’s going to do because of what Wendy and I have done to ourselves.

Speaking of awesome women with 1/8″-hairdos, my pal Rachel has made an interesting challenge. Because her friend Deborah (never, ever Deb or Debbie) did some really kind things for her this week, Rachel’s paying it forward:

I will send a handmade gift to 3 random people who leave a comment on my blog requesting to join this Pay It Forward exchange. I don’t know what that gift will be yet and you may not receive it tomorrow or next week, but you will receive it within 365 days, that is my promise! The only thing you have to do if you like, is in return pay it forward by making the same promise on your blog.

Rachel, I’m taking you up on your challenge. I, too, will send a handmade gift to three people who leave a comment on this post, and I encourage all of you with blogs to do the same. Or, if you don’t have a blog, just pick three people and send them something that’ll make their days. I’ve been on the receiving end of a great deal of generosity lately, and I definitely feel like returning the favor.

Blog hairiness: B.’s taking a crash course in RSS feeds so we can figure out why mine aren’t working.

It’s finally cooled down to a chilly 90 degrees, allowing Clara Jane and me to spend more than 20 seconds outside without her bursting into flames. We celebrated by partaking in what I’ve gathered is a Prettytown summer necessity: we went to Eckerts and bought cantaloupes the size of a Toyota Prius for a dollar apiece. Unfortunately, because we had that horrible freeze back in April (oh, the irony!) all of the peaches from this huge peach-supplier had been shipped in from West Virginia. No homemade peach jam this year. But it was fun, wandering around the country store with our melons and our Peaches n’ Cream cake and our Applewurst.

It’s cooled down enough that I’m considering taking my iPod to the front porch tonight for the first time in ages. I’m also considering sleeping above ground, instead of in my bunker. They had autumn decorations at Eckert’s today, and Clara Jane got down-right giddy at the sight of ceramic pumpkins. We’re both ready to get to the time of year where I can shut up about the shitty weather and return to actually living a somewhat interesting life. We’re shuffling our way there. Eventually.

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Clara Jane turned three and a half yesterday. How many times has she been to a babysitter in that time? None. My pal PKB has watched her a few times, but that’s PKB, which means it’s different. She also did nearly two years of weekly daycare, which ended back in May when she became hysterical about a fly on the playground.

I opted to not put her in a program this summer because of the stress and timing of the move. And now I’ve opted to wait at least a semester until we give preschool or daycare a shot again. This time because I’ve convinced myself that she’ll never be potty trained if I disrupt her schedule with education.

I feel a little like I can’t make a good parenting decision anymore. Or maybe I was never able to. I’m not sure.

Anyway, after being together nearly all day, everyday for two months, something had to give. My friend Jill, whose daughter is 22.5 hours younger than Clara Jane, is a professional childcare provider. She lives nearby. How perfect is that? Jill and I met when we were pregnant. Clara Jane has seen Jill and her girls quite a bit since we moved to their neck of the woods. If I’m going to have a babysitter, I’d prefer to give my kid and my cash to a friend I trust who definitely knows my kid and the ways of her peers? Perfect, right?

Perhaps it would have been perfect if I wasn’t so easily manipulated. First by the tears as we left the house. “I just want to stay with you, Mommy! I want to go where you go!” Second by the cold-hearted way she turned on me en route to Jill’s. “Daddy takes me to Old McDonald’s every day and we get french fries with sprinkles and Daddy and I love to go to Sonic without you, Mom.”

For the record, that’s not true. While he does take her to “Old McDonald’s” for fries that never rot more often than I approve, they haven’t been to Sonic since we moved. She was simply trying to prove that it didn’t matter that I was abandoning her because her father’s the Best Parent Ever.

Once at Jill’s the hysterics started nearly immediately. I’ve seen some whopper tantrums in the 3.5 years of parenthood, but nothing like the one today. We’re talking crying, screaming, bargaining, flailing of limbs, shrieking, shirt-pulling, leg-tugging, and in one potentially tragic moment, flinging herself battering ram-style out the door as I tried to leave, nearly throwing herself down a flight of stairs in the process.

That’s when I officially lost patience and left her ass. Word is she stopped the fit before I got out of the drive. Regardless, I felt like a terrible parent but dammit, I had places to be. I had good hair to get.

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