Why The Children Are Locked in Their Rooms...Forever.

This is another sad tale from The Mothers Grimm, about how sweet little children are lured by an angry, evil witch with candy, only to realize they are going to die because of their own greediness and addiction to high fructose corn syrup.

Oh, wait.  Wrong story. 

This is the tale of a fun college party girl who was lured by a dangerous, seductive fraternity boy who would be sure to piss off her father, married him, bore his children in excruciating labors, and then found herself sitting by the fireplace in rags, sweeping up the cinders and talking to the mice.

Um, that's not the story I meant either, sorry Current Husband.  I meant a different fraternity boy.  Of course I didn't have other children.  Are you saying I look fat? 

This is actually the tale of how a sweet, caring mother with no spine was lured by her Nutri-Sweet diabolical daughters into switching their bedrooms over the past weekend, only to discover that both of the girls are hoarders and should have their own reality show called "Mini Hoarders:  Youth in Training".

It all started on a boring winter snow day, when another 48 inches of snow and ice fell upon our fair land and the children were confined to their houses with their mothers, who had other plans until the school called.  But I digress.  Oldest Daughter (OD) and Youngest Daughter (YD) seemed to be getting along well...TOO well...and then they approached me together, which meant they immediately outnumbered me.

THEM:  "Can we get you more coffee, or a Xanax, Mommy?"
ME:  (suspicious) "NO!  You stay away from my Xanax!  What do you want!"
THEM:  "We decided we would like to switch rooms."
ME:  "Why?"
THEM:  "Because YD needs the bigger room for her gazillion small creepy fake pets with the big eyes, and OD merely wants to piss you off."
ME:  "OD, didn't I just paint your room for the second time in three years?"
THEM:  (because they are speaking in creepy twin-speak, like the girls in The Shining) "Yes."
ME:  "Why did you have me do that if you meant to switch rooms within the year?"
THEM:  "To test your love."
ME:  "You understand that if I let you switch rooms, I refuse to paint or decorate either room in any way.  You inherit the decor.  Capiche?"
THEM:  "Of course, Mother."  And then they both turned in their matching pinafores and walked away.  I had a small glass of Red Rum in the laundry room behind the boiler.

And so it happened.

We had a four day weekend off from school, and so The Great Room Switch began.  We put on some yoga pants (I found a use for them!) and some fun music and I poured a very large, beige coffee, and we started moving.  I told jokes, we laughed, we danced, we had a great time.  And then when that 30 minutes was over, I started yelling at them.  It sounded a lot like this:

"WHERE IN THE HELL DID YOU TWO GET ALL OF THIS STUFF!!?!?!"
"I AM TELLING EVERYONE NOT TO BUY YOU ANY MORE GIFTS!"
"WHY ARE THERE GUM WRAPPERS IN YOUR SOCK DRAWER!??"
"WE LIVE IN A HOUSE, NOT A DUMPSTER!  THIS IS CALLED A 'GARBAGE CAN' - FAMILIARIZE YOURSELF WITH IT!"
"WHY DID I AGREE TO THIS!? WHERE IS MY MERLOT!?"

The girls started avoiding me.  The Son realized he was not connected to the stress in any way, so he started asking if he could get me more coffee or cookies or knit a sweater for me, because he is a very clever boy and knows he has a birthday coming up.  In June.  But he's a planner.

OD put on her best Martyred PreTeen mask and began looking at me like a kicked puppy - one that plans to cut you when you turn your back.  She stalked up and down the stairs with her things, and stood in her room listening to music until I would appear in the doorway and then she would busy herself.

YD couldn't care less.  She was getting The Big Room!  Wheee!  And YD knows that Mommy gets angry, but isn't physically violent and it will blow over sometime around her next meal.  She sat upstairs and sang Hillary Duff in the karaoke machine OD bequeathed to her.  What YD didn't realize is that I took the opportunity of her absence to throw away all kinds of treasures:

• Easy Bake oven with the semi-melted and twisted cake retrieving stick.
• Huge pink plastic Barbie art center with all of the pictures colored in.
• Cheap rubber Tinkerbell fairy flower cap CH bought her at Disney on Ice two years ago.
• All McDonalds Happy Meal toys.
• Ripped Polly Pocket outfits.
• Barbie Island Princess puzzle with five pieces missing.
• The desk in OD's room, and with it, her soul.

Had YD realized even one of these items was being hauled to the garbage, she would've worked up her best Sweet Precious Last Baby face, asked sweetly to keep them, and then fought me to the death to keep them in the house.  So sing with Hillary, princess.  Sing it loud and sing it proud, because Mommy is cleaning house downstairs.  Mwah-ha-ha!!! 

However, it all came crashing down when we tried to throw out OD's desk.  It is Bulky Item pickup day on Tuesday, so this made it the perfect weekend to get this broken down white trash monstrosity out of our house.  It has two broken drawers and no knobs.  But when I asked CH to help me move it out of the room, YD began sobbing, "But I moved up here so I would HAVE THAT DESK!!!"

I said no.  It was going outside.  YD had other plans.

Soon, I heard her talking to CH upstairs.  "Daddy, I really love that desk, but I suppose we could get rid of it since Mommy said she would buy me a new one."  WHA?!?!  "We don't need to buy a new desk.  If you really want it, I'll fix it for you."  DOUBLE WHA?!?!  In the words of the King of Pop's sister, Ms. Jackson if you're nasty, What Have You Done For Me Lately, CH?  I can't get this guy to take out the garbage or shovel regularly, but he's going to repair a desk that's been broken for three months because Sweetness threw Mommy under the bus?  Yes.  That's exactly what happened.

So while Bob the Builder repaired the desk, I continued to carry loads up and down the stairs.  CH helped me dismantle the beds and carry them between floors and reassemble them.  (See, CH, I made it sound like you do stuff.  Mom and her two non-English speaking friends who read this blog know I am just kidding.)  And then OD started smiling and I knew there was something rotten in TeenWorld.

OD:  "Mom, this is great!  I just love it!"
ME:  (warily) "I'm glad you are...happy?"
OD:  "I think the dark purple and light purple accents I've picked will go great with the light green walls!"
ME:  "Back up the bus, sister.  What are you talking about?  Remember, we are not decorating these rooms!"
OD:  "Well I had to give my bedding to YD because it matched the room, but her bed is a twin and mine is a full, and her ballet princess comforter won't fit my bed.  And she had to take her rug and shades since they will go with her new room.  I e-mailed Grandma Jan and she is getting me a purple duvet for my bed for my birthday, and I figure I can use money or gift cards from the other grandmas for my birthday to get some other things."
ME:  "I've been out-maneuvered.  Well played, OD, well played.  I see a bright future for you in the legal field."

So YD is happy, as she gets all of the items she's coveted from her older sister.  OD is happy, because she gets a brand new redesigned room for the third time in three years.  Middle Son is happy because he didn't get yelled at, and assumes this means he is the favorite.  Who is unhappy?

Me.  Why?  Because CH and I realized the first night after the switch that OD, who will be 13 in two weeks, is now approximately twenty feet away from our bed, with only a thin wall and a door without a lock in between.  She stays up later than YD, and doesn't sleep as soundly.  Plus, she has already seen the "Growing Up and Liking It" films and had her middle school teachers dress up as ovaries and testes in class.  She KNOWS things.  Icky things.

After nineteen years together, CH and I are embarking on our first year of celibacy.  Or lots of nooners.  Or Nyquil for our teenager every few nights at bedtime.  I hope this story has a happy ending.



 

For the Love of Dog

February is the month of love.

Oh, George the Superpet!  How I love you.

George the Superpet is our 106 pound Standard Poodle/Human.  We are sure he is a dog/human mix because of his ability to casually burp and his disdain for laying on hard surfaces.  

This is how George spends most of his days:

We are kindred spirits, George and I.  He follows me around the house and lays on the softest surface he can find nearby while I work.  I normally get out of bed around 6:30 to get my coffee infusion and make the kids' lunches for school.  George the Superpet will stay in bed until he hears the sound of the peanut butter top being unscrewed, and then I can hear him scramble out of bed to see if he can get lucky.  I, too, have been known to get that excited about peanut butter.  I will tell George the Superpet that it is time to wake YD, and he will trot off to her room and nuzzle his nose under her covers to wake her.  (I know she's awake when she starts yelling, "Knock it OFF, George!"  Then she invites him on her bed and tucks him in until I arrive.)

Since George is a Standard Poodle, he actually grows hair instead of fur, and he doesn't shed, but he needs to get groomed every couple of months.  Since it's been so cold, I haven't taken him in for his regular grooming in a while, because I like him puffy and looking like a polar bear.  When I walked into my bedroom the other day, George was laying on my bed, smoking pot, listening to "Get Up Stand Up" and twisting his dreadlocks, so I made his grooming appointment.

This is what George looked like before his appointment:

 

Don't you just want to run your hands through that?

Here is George after his shearing yesterday:

  

It's sad, isn't it?

When he comes home from the groomer, he is always embarrassed and angry.  He goes outside to pee as quickly as he can, presumably so the Yorkie twins next door and the Golden Retriever across the street can't see him, and then he sulks in his chair.  He won't lay by me, and he gives me dirty looks.  And to this I say, "Welcome to the hell my other children experience every damn day, George.  Now suck it up and clean your room."

But I still feel a little bad.  So to George the Superpet, I say don't worry, it will grow out.  I am sorry.  And I still love you, even if you are pink and rat-like. 

 

Margarita Love

February is the month of love.

Oh, margaritas!  How I love you.

How do I love thee?  Let me count thy ways:

1. You are deliciously icy cold lemony-limey salty tequila-ey goodness.
2. You can salvage many an otherwise poor evening.
3. You cover the major food groups of Salt, Fruit, and Tequila.
4. You are so wonderful that you require a special glass.
5. You are the perfect compliment to Mexican food.

How does the magic of the margarita work?  Let me give you an example.

Last Friday night, a friend of ours who is obviously a sadist asked if all three of our children could spend the night at her house.  Her children are of the same genders and approximate ages, so I said, "Well, if you're sure..." and then dropped my kids off before she could change her mind.

This left Current Husband and I with no children on a Friday night.  I've read about these in Cosmo.  I believe they are called Date Nights.  My understanding is that Date Nights can be classified into two types:

Pre-Children - these nights involve dinner at a restaurant nicer than Taco Bell, a movie, a couple of drinks, some heavy petting and innuendo, lacy edible lingerie, refrigerator scene from 9 1/2 weeks, slow removal of lingerie, protracted sex session, broken furniture, sleeping in, possible pregnancy.

Post-Children - might get you Taco Bell and sex lasting longer than 5 minutes from start to finish.   

With no children to be found, I talked CH into trying a new restaurant.  A few friends recommended it as the best authentic Mexican food in the area, so I called to make sure they served margaritas.  Because unless you are Taco Bell, I don't do Mexican without Jose Cuervo on the guest list.

CH was not really convinced.  It's hard to get him to try new things.  The last three times he did, we ended up with babies.  Fool me once, shame on you.  Fool me twice, shame on me.  Fool me three times, you're knocked up again with kids in the house until after you're 50.  I told him they served drinks, and how bad can you mess up chips, salsa, and tacos?  Right?

We had to Garmin our way to the restaurant, as it was a bit out of the way.  As we pulled up to the old brick building with bars on the windows, CH said, "Charming.  Are you sure this is it?"  to which I replied, "These are the kind of places where you find the best food.  It will be great!"

We got out of the car and looked at the building.  There was no clear direction on how to get in.  We finally opted for the back door, which looked a like a place where you need a secret handshake and a mob connection to enter.  We walked in, and the eight people in the place turned and looked at us.  I smiled, walked over to a booth and sat down like I belonged there.  If you look like a regular, they might believe you are one.

Twenty minutes later, an older looking woman stopped by our table and gave us menus.  She had already served menus, chips and drinks to the other group that sat in the booth behind us five minutes after we walked in.  That group brought the total number of tables with people at them to three.  We had resorted to staring at her and mouthing the word "parched" until she came to us.


HER:  "Here you go!" and started to walk away.
CH:  "Could we order some margaritas?"
HER:  Stops, turns around, comes back.  "Sure, sure.  You want salt?"
CH:  "Yes, and some chips please."
HER:  Sighs.  Looks at him like he's her annoying stepchild.  "Okay."  Walks away.


Man in chair not four feet from me lifts his left buttcheek.  "BRRRRTTTT!!!"


ME:  (whispering)  "Did you just hear that?"
CH:  "What?"
ME:  "That guy at the table next to us just ripped a huge fart!"
CH:  "I think that was his vinyl chair squeaking."
ME:  "Yes, because he just ripped a huge fart on it."
CH:  "Nah...people don't do that in restaurants."
ME:  "The hell they don't!  He just did."


Twenty minutes later, our margaritas and chips arrive.  CH stops waitress before she tries to run away again and we give her our order.


Tooter McGee lifts his left buttcheek, again.  "BLAAATTTT!!!"

CH:  "Okay, I heard that one."
ME:  "So I wasn't imagining it.  You are willing to admit I was right."
CH:  "Yes.  That was definitely a fart.  But I thought you just blogged that farting is okay.  You defended Jessica Simpson."
ME:  "If Jessica Simpson farted four feet away from me in a restaurant it would not be okay.  There is farting, and there is farting.  Farting near food is unacceptable."
CH:  "At least we have THAT cleared up." 


Waitress who hates us puts two plates in front of us.  Mine is a beef-filled corn tortilla so overdone it is splitting down the middle.  CH called after her that he wanted another margarita as she was running away from our table.  She is long gone, so I eat what I can of the dish, and pretend I am one of my friends who apparently eat delicious, authentic Mexican food at this place.


Phil McCracken lets another one fly.  "GRROOOONNNKKK!!!"


CH:  "Okay, this is getting both gross and hilarious."
ME:  "Do the women he is sitting with not HEAR that?  Are they legally deaf?"
CH:  "Or maybe scent-impaired."
ME:  "I can't believe that he isn't even TRYING to be subtle about it.  He is lifting his CHEEK!"

Soon, Gaston Leaksalot is letting his booze show.  He has been looking at a framed picture of Miss Illinois 2008, Katie Lopez, who is wearing a blue bathing suit, crown, and her Miss Illimois sash.  Her framed photo in the restaurant would indicate she has some sort of relationship, or at least a place of respect, with the owners of the establishment.  This is lost on Jack Daniels and his table companions, three women who look like they should be sitting in front of slot machines.


HIM:  "That is a fake.  It is such a bad fake."
WOMAN:  "What are you talking about?"
HIM:  "That picture.  You can tell that thing that says Miss Illinois (that would be a sash, dumbass) has been added by a computer or something."
WOMAN:  (turns to look) "Nah - that's really her.  You think that's fake?"
HIM:  "You can tell it's fake.  I've been looking at it a long time (Really?  A photo of a hot chick and a bathing suit distracted you from your dinner companions?  Shocking.) and that's not real."


Clearly, he is right.  Either the people who own the place want to make themselves look better by faking a photo of a woman to LOOK like she is Miss Illinois to impress their patrons, OR the woman in the photo electronically faked a Miss Illinois sash on a photo of her in a crown and royal blue standard pageant bathing suit to impress her friends.  I bet this flatulent, clever man works for CSI:  Miami or is in the FBI.

Our food is burned.  The second margarita has become just a dream.  Two young boys in the other room are now threatening each other with pool cues.  And Lifty Buttcheeks is...
CRRROOOONNNNNKKKK!  And that would be four.

That just did it.

CH and I are giggling hysterically as we pull on our coats.  Just then, The Accidental Waitress puts a margarita in front of CH and runs away faster than you can say "Check please!"  But there sits a margarita, glistening in its salty icy goodness, beckoning us to stay for just a little bit longer.  We share this last margarita.  It is bliss.


We pay $50 for the privilege of eating in this lovely establishment, and go home.  And despite the fact that we are belching burned tortillas and getting the smell of man fart out of our clothing, we still have no children in our home, and we still had our margaritas.  All told, the night was a success.


And that is the magic of the margarita.

It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 14

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word culture. Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic:  Leaky Pipes

One quick non-whorish topic - my book club read "The Help" last month, and I just finished it at 1 a.m.  I wouldn't probably have read it if my book club hadn't picked it because of The Hype, but I'm really glad I did.  An amazing book, and a first novel, no less.  Well done, Kathryn Stockett!


So, on to other woman topics.  Have you ever just flat out wet your pants?  I'm talking about after you were five years old.  And not during one of those misguided "Dime Draws" night at the bars during college.  I'm talking about "After The Baby Comes And Your Girl Parts Are Never The Same".  My name is Julie.  I'm a wife and mother of three.  And I wet my pants.

(Okay, Internet Porn-Trolling Freaks, you got your free visual.  I am not going to pee on you.  Move back to the Dark Side of the Internet.)

I am not alone.  I have one college friend who said she was washing dishes at the sink one day in her kitchen, and out of nowhere she did what she called "an Old School piss myself moment".  Another friend told me she was at a college football game waiting in line for the Port-O-Johns and just couldn't take it anymore...she stood in humiliation as she wet her pants in line.  Awkward!  Another one was at a stadium concert and really had to go - there were 10,000 women in line for the bathroom and she knew she wasn't going to make it, so she did what she had to do.  She squatted in the bushes outside of Soldier Field in front of about 5,000 people instead of walking around in her own urine-soaked clothing.  She picked the lesser of two evils.  What do we all have in common?  We are vaginal birthers.

I don't really flat-out wet my pants.  It's just a little bit.  Enough for me to know, but the world at large to remain ignorant.  It happens occasionally when I laugh or cough too hard, or when I've hit a golf club into the ground (have I mentioned what an excellent golfer I am?  "We're hitting balls, not sod, Julie.")  I thought this was my post-labor life until I met my high school OB-GYN friend for a night in Chicago when she was at a Coochie Conference (not the actual name) and she re-introduced me to the Kegel.

By the way, you can get cool stuff at a Coochie Conference.  All of the materials have uteruses (uteri?) and fallopian tubes and ovaries all over them.  I am sure there are pens and buttons and Post-Its with vaginas all over them.  Hook me up, OB-GYN friend!  (Another friend whose husband is a doctor gave me a Viagra pen, which YD accidentally took to school and the teacher sent back, and a Cialis pen that was bent in half, and when you click it, the end (shaped like a penis, of course) would rise up.  It is awesomeness squared.)

Anyway, back to the Kegel.  They are your friend, and they cure a multitude of ails.  Here is the fast definition from The Mayo Clinic:

"Kegel (KAY-gul or KEY-gul) exercises strengthen the pelvic floor muscles, which support the uterus, bladder and bowel. If you do Kegel exercises regularly and keep your pelvic floor muscles toned, you may reduce your risk of incontinence and similar problems as you get older. Kegel exercises can also help you control urinary incontinence."

Here is a picture of your pelvic floor muscles:

 

OKAY, now that the remaining men are gone... 

I actually wrote an informational article on Kegels not too long ago, and here is what OBGYN friend and her PT said about them:

"A proper Kegel can be done easily and without detection.  While you are sitting or lying down, try to contract the muscles you would use to stop urinating or to hold gas.  You should feel your pelvic muscles tightening or closing, including those around your urethra and your anus. You should be able to do this without tightening your buttocks or squeezing your legs together.  If your lower stomach muscles tighten or pull in, that’s correct. It’s very important that you are able to actually breathe while keeping your pelvic floor muscles up and in."

(She said, "Anus".  Heh-heh.)

Okay ladies, let's all do one together.  Tighten.  Hold.  And release.  Excellent.  Still not convinced?  There are six good reasons to do them:

1. Better sex.
2. Less 'leaking'.
3. Less bathroom time.
4. Less back pain.
5. A flatter stomach.
6. Your uterus won't fall out.

Because your uterus.  Can.  Fall out.  OBGYN Girl (Hey!  She's a superhero!) does LOTS of vag overhauls, because that pesky uterus is sneaking around those weakened birthing muscles and ...Peek-A-Boo!  Your uterus is getting a look at the world outside.

"PARTS ON THE GROUND!  PARTS ON THE GROUND!  LOOKIN' LIKE A  FOOL WIT YO PARTS ON THE GROUND!"

 Hopefully, you are now scared shitless about your parts dropping out of you like candy out of a broken PEZ dispenser, so let's do another Kegel.  Tighten.  Hold.  And release.   
You just participated in a group Kegel!  This can be your naughty secret.  Do one in church.  At your parent-teacher conferences.  On the phone with the cable guy.   During sex...but then it won't be a secret anymore.  You should actually try to do three sessions of 10-15 per day.  That's a lot of private vaginal action, you naughty monkey!

Happy Whoreticulture Friday!  Have a terrific weekend!  I have a date tonight with CH, we are kid-free!!!  Whoo-hooo!  If you are a writer, please visit my friend Anissa's blog, Anissa Off The Record, which is covering some great writer topics this month.  She is RocknRolla, so if you like it, click that Follow button and get on with that novel already!  

 

When Third Children Go Bad

There are many ways to screw up a child.

• One could blog about them.

• Tell dinner guests how your son cried in a store when he was 2, and when the clerk asked him what was wrong, he said, "I'm sad because girls don't have penises."
• Get a great deal on a floor model of Barbie's Partytime RV at ToysRUs on Christmas Eve Day, and then when Santa gives it, the recipient realizes some of the stuff is missing and it's a little rough, thereby making her wonder how bad she had really been that year.  (That was an oversight, I swear.  She was FOUR, how could I know she had the commercials memorized?)
• Know they love turtles and then not catch them in time when they eat the beef jerky at Grandma's house, only to find out it is, indeed, Turtle Jerky.  ("Do you mean...I...just ATE...a turtle?!?!"  And now she is a vegetarian.)

I don't care how awesome you think you are, you are going to give the kids something to discuss in therapy someday.  You may rock the organic treats, but make them wear stupid-looking boots.  Go ahead and take them to Disney, but they'll remember you sent crappy cookies for the Valentine party.  Go to every intramural basketball game, but you didn't decorate their room like the PB Teen catalog room.  These transgressions are generally between you and your offspring.  The trick is to not let others on to the possibility that you are perhaps not June Cleaver material.  As Andre Agassi once said, "Image Is Everything,"  and he said this whilst adjusting his mullet wig and doing crystal meth.  Very clever.


My older children are lovely, funny beings who want to please us.  When they do something we don't want them to do, it truly pains them.  Youngest Daughter, on the other hand, is studying the works of cult leaders so she can run her own compound someday.  (For those of you aghast at how I can say such a thing, of course I love her.  Please redirect to the Dr. Spock "How To Raise a Perfect Child" Homepage, A Day in The Wife is not for you.)  I go into her room at night to tuck her in and she is reading "The First Grade Primer Guide to Mind Control", with all of her American Girl dolls lined up, looking at her with these emotionless, blank eyes and seemingly frozen smiles.  It's already working.


We knew something was...different...when she was about 3 months old and giving us dirty looks from her car seat.  Current Husband would turn his head toward me without breaking eye contact with her and say, "Do babies usually make faces like that?" and I would say, "Should I call a priest?" 

 

YD expressing displeasure, about 2 years old.

I tried to do some research on Third Child Syndrome to see if anything could be done about YD to make she doesn't hurt anyone mentally or physically.  Here is an accompanying photo on a birth order article describing the bitterness between first and second born children:

I think these little girls are more disturbed 

by these dresses than their birth order.

Wikipedia, my usual go-to source (because let's be honest, I'm not concerned enough to move from this chair to research) only had an article basically outlining the bickering between prominent psychologists about the effect of birth order, all obviously first-borns.  MSNBC.com had this to say about it:

"The baby of the family basks in the sentimentality of being the last child, and are basically spoiled rotten. The youngest children tend to be most affectionate, and more sophisticated than their peers without older siblings to show them the ropes.

Having a third child also means a changed parenting style. Here you must move from one-on-one to a zone defense. You no longer have one parent per child and everyone gets less individual time and attention. You have to double-up and the logistics get more complex."

This sounds like I need weaponry.  I need logistics?  A zone defense?  She'll be spoiled rotten even though we are raising the first two Methodist and YD as Amish?  All of the other links were mom blogs saying "Don't have three children!" or "How do I reign in my third child who is spoiled rotten?"  or "How do I run a zone defense?"

Here is a picture of YD at the zoo two 

summers ago, before she got her way:

See the other two look at me for direction..."Help us".

Here is YD after she got her way:

 

See?  Sweetness and light.  And unmitigated power.

Last one - we took a picture this year for the Christmas card.  YD didn't know, but the premise was about spiking Santa's cookies because he gave them coal in their stockings the year before.  (He didn't - that whole Barbie RV thing got us Scared Straight.) All I told YD when setting up this shot is "someone has made you very angry."

 

Oy.  Please don't let it be me.

So now perhaps you get the idea.  

Last year, YD saw a girl in her school with a cast on her arm.  But it wasn't just ANY cast.  It was a bright fuschia cast that everyone signed.  It was like a neon arm that said, "I run this joint.  Worship me."  YD told us she wanted a cast for her birthday.  We told her that she had to have a broken arm to get a cast.  She asked, "How bad would that hurt?"  

YD, thankfully, did not get her arm broken, but she does still ask me to wrap ribbons around her arm so that it looks like a "cast".  I do it, and tell her how bad a broken arm hurts the entire time I am wrapping.

Just a couple of weeks ago, she was helping me make dinner, and we had the following conversation:

YD:  "Oh, Mrs. K told me that I should get glasses because I squint while I read." 
ME:  "Do you have a note?"
YD:  "No, she just told me to tell you."
ME:  "Well I need a note from a teacher about something like that."  

I thought that would be the end of it.  The next day, she brought home a piece of lined notebook paper on which the following was written:  "YD said I need to write a note to tell you she needs glasses because she is squinting when she reads.  Mrs. K"


The operative part of this note is that it said "YD said I need to write a note" not "YD needs glasses".  I recognized this, and told her that we would get an eye exam at her physical next month.  I thought that would be the end of it.


A few days ago, I was at the school and saw her teacher, and had this exchange:
ME:  "We are going to get YD's eyes examined at her next physical to see if there is something to the squinting."  
T:  "I didn't think those were reading glasses."
ME:  "What?"
T:  "She's been wearing glasses the last few days.  She said they were her new glasses."
ME:  "What do they look like?"
T:  "Purple frames, sort of tinted lenses."
ME:  "Those are her sister's sunglasses.  She does not have glasses."
T:  Snickers.  Understands I have no control over my children.  Again considers exercising her Mandatory Reporter duties.  Decides I'm not worth it.

Here are the "reading glasses" YD self-prescribed, 

acquired and reported to her teacher and classmates:

I'm sure everything is much clearer now.

Like how to bend multiple adults to her will.

But I will confess - I am just like the MSNBC article said.  I am letting her bask in the sentimentality that she is my last child (please God let that be true).  And she is incredibly affectionate, and incredibly cute.  She is a big hugger and still wants to sit on my lap and thinks I am the funniest, prettiest, most gracefully stylish person on the planet, which she knows damn well is the key to the kingdom.  She has me figured out.  I'm keeping her.