Stroll me right to the psychiatrist’s office. I need medication.
(image from babyjunctionga.com)
I’m passive-aggressive about cleaning, even in my car. I’m all casual and “go with the flow” until something drives me over the edge. Today, I was driven over the edge. I took the girls outside to play, and decided I’d do something productive. So, I attempted to “throw a little trash away” from my car. Well, once I opened the door, I realized it was worse than I thought. WAY worse. Toys everywhere, clothes everywhere, food everywhere. So much food, in fact, that our kittens kept repeatedly jumping into the car to grab a snack. “Oh Lord,” I muttered. No, really, I needed the Lord’s help for this one.
Trash was thrown away. Large crumbs were tossed into the yard for the chickens …
Yeah, I know I look rough. But I had to get up in the middle of the night to write this.
Sup? What, you didn’t know I could talk, let alone type? Well, I can. I can do a lot of things. But you wouldn’t know, would you? It’s always “my preschooler this,” and “my older daughter that.” Like the time she danced and people laughed. Woop-di-freakin-do! I could totally take her in a dance off. Anyways, it’s time you know the truth. I’m tired of living in the shadows. Tired of only being the subject of maybe 20% of my mom’s blog posts. That’s right. I exist. Maybe you didn’t even know that. Sure, my mom may have mentioned she has two daughters, but why doesn’t she ever talk about me? It’s always …
She struck this pose when they announced her name. WHERE did she learn that?
After five weeks of not paying much attention in dance class (and no practice at home), my daughter seemed rather nonchalant about her first public performance. We bought the outfit (ouch), styled the hair (not so bad) and skipped the makeup (I’m that mom who just won’t allow that yet). My expectations were low. After all, she’s only three, and if she made it out on stage at all it would be a small miracle. We stood behind the band shell in our hometown park, practicing and preparing to perform for a couple hundred friends and neighbors at our annual Fall Festival. She whined, “I don’t want to dance anymore. I’m tired of it!” Was this really how she felt or …
The following is my external/internal dialogue while riding the tiny Ferris Wheel with my preschooler at our small town carnival.
Why am I smiling? Because it’s over.
Oh look, honey, our car is purple! You like purple.
Ohmygosh, that thing is tiny. I’m going to die in a tiny purple Ferris Wheel car!
Ok, sweetie, we put this seat belt over our laps. It will keep us safe. And this bar will, too.
No. It won’t keep us safe, we’re going to fall out and die!
Here we go. It’s going to be so fun. Are you excited?
I don’t want to go. It’s not fun. I’m terrified!
Whee! Look at all the lights!
Craaaaaap! Look at how flimsy this thing is!
Ok, we have to stop for a little bit up here so other people can get off …
This was a GREAT suit for my youngest. Provided coverage, but allowed for easy diaper changes.
I’ll be the first to admit I don’t always make the healthiest parenting decisions. My kids probably watch too much TV (even if it’s educational, it’s probably too much), I KNOW they drink too much juice, and on nights that we’re really tired, get home late, or fall asleep on the couch, we don’t always brush their teeth before bed. So, before I get on my soapbox, let me assure you that I am not a perfect parent, by far.
That being said, there is one thing I pride myself on. Being a prude. Raising two daughters in this overly-sexualized world is tough, but I’m trying to navigate these waters the best I can. I’m not trying to keep them …