All Creatures Creepy Crawly

On a Monday night a couple of weeks ago, I was just finishing the seemingly endless bedtime routine. Even though I hadn’t done anything strenuous that day, I was so ready to fall into bed, but after I’d fed the cats, one look at their favorite litter box in the laundry room told me I’d better not skip that step tonight.

I squirted my nightly dropper of CBD oil into one side of my mouth and held it there for the two minutes it took to scoop out a shocking quantity of pee clumps. The second box was empty, as usual. Dumb cats.

I swallowed the oil and scrubbed my hands thoroughly through two mental choruses of “Happy Birthday.” Allyson and I had already read the Bible and prayed, so in one more minute I could stretch out on my memory foam mattress, topped with a cool-gel memory foam topper. Ahhh, I sighed as I dried my hands.

On my way out of the kitchen, some motion in my peripheral vision stopped me in my tracks. It was CiCi, cavorting under the table. I smiled. As much fun as she was having, you would’ve thought we’d given her some catnip. What was she playing with?

Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had to lean in close to find out. Ugh! Here was her plaything.

We'll Figure It Out

Tonight I was missing you all and wanting to write, but I thought, "I just don't have anything to say." It's not that there were no stories, just that I have no energy to tell them. But then I realized I just have to share at least one story....

Just yesterday--or maybe it was 13 years ago--I was lamenting the fact that my baby was now a little man. Here he was on his very first day of school.

In front of the school, he looked ready to tackle any challenge that came his way, with the help of that backpack that was almost as big as he was.

And then, at the Kindergarten breakfast with Mommy and Daddy, he could hardly contain his excitement even as I batted away tears. 

But when he was finally on his own, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to do this.

I can relate to that feeling. I get it a lot, mainly when it comes to parenting. I always think, "Wait, I'm not prepared for this at all!" But of course, I don't get a choice. I have to learn on the job, often through painful mistakes that bring the most valuable lessons.

Scissors Can Cut Hair

One night last week, I was complaining to my friend Brandy about Allyson's fascination with scissors. I told her how Allyson had cut holes in the bottom of a reusable grocery bag that morning with her little craft scissors.

"You know what she's going to do next, right?" Brandy asked. I nodded as she continued. "She's going to cut her hair. You'd better keep those scissors out of her reach."

"I know," I said. "It's just that there really isn't any place that's truly out of her reach any more. But you're right. I was about her age when I cut a chunk out of my hair. Or maybe I was four."

I told her the story. My mother had been so busy taking care of baby Emily that she hadn't even noticed until I announced proudly, "Scissors can cut hair." Turning around sharply, she spotted an inch-long tuft of hair to the left of my forehead.

The first thing she did was spank me, and I think (based on the picture below) the next thing she did was cut a matching piece on the other side of my forehead. I guess she couldn't give me bangs because they would have covered too wide of a section. As you can see, it didn't look so bad....

Me, Age Four

After I'd laughed over the story with Brandy, I resolved to find a way to lock up the scissors; what I needed was something like a gun case where I could lock up all Allyson's craft supplies and my scrapbooking papers, too. That would stop her from cutting my best sheets into tatters AND protect her hair (and various household objects). Or maybe I'd just get another plastic doorknob lock and stash it all in the downstairs bathroom closet.

Despite my best intentions, I didn't get a chance to follow through. Would you believe that Allyson cut her hair the very next day?

I was on the phone with her Auntie Lisa at the time. Early in the conversation, I let Allyson have the phone, just after I'd explained to Lisa about my daily slump at 3:00, when I often melt into sleep. Allyson told Lisa she wanted to go to the park, and I could hear Lisa's reply: "Is it almost 3:00? You'd better hurry before your mama falls asleep."

"Oh, she's not sleepin'," Allyson said. "She only sleeps when I'm not busy."

"Ain't that the truth," I thought ruefully. "And if she does let me sleep, it's only so she can get really busy while I'm not looking."

Example of Some 3:00 Mischief

I had no sooner reclaimed the phone than Allyson started begging to talk again. I moved from my bedroom to the TV room, then back to my room, then to my closet. Allyson finally tired of following me around and retired to her room.

When she shut the door, little alarm bells went off in my head, but I was too engrossed in laughing with Lisa to take action. About five minutes later, we hung up, and I opened Allyson's door with trepidation.

She gave me a crooked, rather guilty smile, her craft scissors half hidden behind her back. Several six-inch strands of golden, silky hair lay in a pile at her feet.

"Oh, Allyson!" I wailed, horribly disappointed and exasperated at the same time. That very morning, two people at MOPS had commented on Allyson's gorgeous hair. Now, I was berating myself for not locking up the scissors when I had the chance. Maybe this was my punishment for being vain about my daughter's hair.

I had the same initial reaction as my own mother had; I gave Allyson a couple of swats. She wept bitterly, but I think she was more upset about my disappointment than about the mild spanking.

"Now we'll have to cut your pretty hair," I said. I held out the shortest strand, my fingers just grazing her shoulder. "This is how short it will be," I said.

Allyson was sobbing so hard she could barely speak. "I don't w-want to c-cut my hair!"

I took her to my room and pulled her into my lap on the rocking chair where I'd spent hours nursing her just a couple of years ago. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I held her close and stroked her hair. "It's going to be okay," I promised. "You'll always be beautiful. And your hair will grow back." Still she cried.

She cried all the way to the kids' hair salon where she'd had her first trim a few months back. When we got out of the car, her little body heaved one last quavering sigh, and then she put on a brave face.

As I was signing her in, one of the stylists gave Allyson a welcoming smile. "Do you need a haircut?" she asked brightly. Allyson broke into fresh tears, and the lady looked at me quizzically.

"She just gave herself a haircut," I explained. "We need you to fix it. Don't cry, sweetie," I pleaded. "It's going to be okay."

The stylist asked if she wanted to sit in the firetruck chair and watch a princess video, and a hint of a smile curved Allyson's lips when she nodded.

"Okay, let's see what we've got here." The top of Allyson's hair was still held back with an elastic band, so I took it down and smoothed her hair with my fingers.

"That's not so bad," the stylist said. "It's covered up now." Then Allyson moved her head to see the screen better, and the top hair swung to the side. "But you can definitely see it."

We talked it over and decided bangs and tapered sides would be the best way to camouflage the damage. "Would you like bangs?" she asked. Allyson stared at her blankly until she gestured to her own bangs, and then Allyson brightened.

A few minutes later, my little three-year-old looked like a young lady. I couldn't believe the transformation. "Oh, honey, you look beautiful!" I exclaimed. Allyson beamed.

Allyson's First Haircut (A Happier Occasion)

On the way home, Allyson had a sudden realization. "Now I have bangs like Olivia!" she announced. "Not Olivia the pig, Olivia my friend," she clarified. (Olivia the pig is featured in both a favorite TV program and a favorite library book.) "I wonder if Olivia got her bangs at the barber, too."

Since then, Allyson has told her story to everyone we've seen, always with a flourish of her gracefully tapered hair. "I cut my hair with scissors, and then we had to go to the barber and get some bangs," she explains.

I hope the joy of the bangs does not outweigh the memory of the initial horror. Maybe I'd better go buy that gun case.

Allyson's New 'Do

But Mama Lets Me Do It!

I was in the bathroom last night when I overheard the following conversation...

Bill: You want to do WHAT?

Allyson: I wanna poke holes in the bread with the pencil.

Bill: Huh? No, you can't do that to the bread.

Allyson: But Mama let me do it.

Bill: I'm gonna have to talk to your mom about that. That doesn't sound right.

Sitting on the toilet, I pressed my lips together to stifle my laughter. Oddly enough, Allyson was telling the truth, but it seemed too bizarre for Bill to accept.

On the way out, I closed the door quietly and then padded silently up the stairs to fold clothes. I figured if Bill didn't see me for awhile, he'd forget about the whole conversation, and I wouldn't have to explain why I'd allowed our daughter to poke holes in a piece of bread with a pencil.

My plan succeeded; both of us forgot the whole thing... until bedtime, when I spotted what I thought was some peanut butter toast in our bathroom trash.

"Did you know there's peanut butter toast in the trash?" I asked Bill, who was brushing his teeth.

He stared at me blankly. After he'd rinsed his mouth, he said, "Are you thinking I can tell you why the toast is in the trash?"

"Well, yes," I said. "You just fed her some toast for her bedtime snack, and I thought maybe you put it there. I just didn't want the ants to find it."

"She ate all her toast," he said.

I'd already removed my contacts, so I leaned in closer to investigate. "Oh, it's not peanut butter toast," I said. "It's just a plain crust from...." My voice trailed off, and my lips started to twitch.

"Where did the crust come from?" Bill asked, eyebrows raised.

"Remember when Allyson was telling you about poking holes in the bread?"

"She was telling the truth?" he asked incredulously. I nodded. "What did...? Why would...?" he shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Then the whole story spilled out between giggles.

I'd been rushing around to get us ready for the gym that morning--why do so many of my adventures begin that way?--when Allyson started waving around some new racecar pencils that she'd pilfered from Ethan's room. She was muttering something about making a traft [craft]. She might have mentioned something about bread also, but I didn't really hear her because I was too busy constructing a makeshift door hanger out of twisty ties and an old rubber band for my note to Ethan, who was late coming home from a sleepover.

So I did what I always do when I can't figure out what Allyson is talking about: I agreed with her. "Sure, honey. That sounds fun. But we'll have to wait until we get home from the gym. It's time to leave now." I figured she'd forget all about her plan by the time we got back.

The first thing she did when we walked back through the door was grab a shiny new pencil, still unsharpened. "I need some bread, Mama."

My reaction was pretty much the same as Bill's that evening, but Allyson reminded me that I'd promised she could make her traft when we got home. I didn't want to break my word to her, so I pulled out the heel from a loaf of bread and handed it to her. "Just this once," I said. "We can't do this any more after this."

It pained me to waste a piece of bread, even a rather stale crust, due to my mild food-wasting phobia. After all, I could have frozen that crust to make homemade croutons or bread crumbs. (I always have a giant Ziploc bag of crusts in my freezer.) "It will be okay. We have enough to eat," I told myself in my calmest, most soothing inner voice.

"What are you going to make?" I asked cheerfully.

Allyson sat down at the kitchen table with her racecar pencil and her bread crust. "Watch!" she crowed, her excitement contagious. She proceeded to poke neat little holes all over the bread. "See?" she said proudly when the bread had just the right array of randomly placed holes.

"Very nice!" I called after her as she carried away her prize. "Don't eat it!"

Of course, I should have followed up to see what she did with her bizarre "craft," but I have to confess that my attention span is pretty short. I didn't think of it again until I heard her asking Bill if she could do it again. Obviously, she hadn't heeded my admonition that this was a one-time deal.

Bill stared wordlessly after I'd finished my story. "Weird," he said finally, with a shrug.

I laughed sheepishly and kissed him goodnight.

Even Worse Than the Emergency Outfit

Today I learned that the only thing worse than an ill-fitting, mismatched emergency outfit is... no emergency outfit at all. First thing this morning, I baked yet another six loaves of Amish Friendship bread, and consequently I was in a huge rush to get to my 9:30 Pilates class. (Okay, so I'm always in a huge rush to get there--or anywhere else for that matter.)

Anyway, that was the reason I forgot to check the diaper bag to make sure Allyson had a change of clothes. It was also the reason that I didn't take Allyson to the bathroom when we got to the gym. She never goes then, but normally I always take her just in case.

I had finished my workout and was lying on my mat, listening to soothing music and waiting for my head and shoulder massage, when a jarring voice interrupted the silence. "Sarah! You're needed in the childcare room."

Now I suppose I should have been worried that Allyson had hurt herself or gotten sick, but the first thought I had was, "Oh, please don't let it be poop." She was wearing her big-girl panties--the Dora the Explorer mermaid panties, to be exact--and I flashed back to the incident a few days before when I'd had to bring the Poop Spatula back out.

Thankfully, she was only wet. She and the sitter were standing in the bathroom, Allyson's panties and jeans in a soggy heap on the floor. The young lady was rifling through the bag. "I couldn't find any extra pants," she said.

I was so embarrassed! How could I not have brought an extra pair of pants for my potty-training toddler? I searched again for good measure. I found a pair of training pants, some big-girl panties, a Pull-Up, and a cloth diaper. I found two extra shirts and a pair of socks. I even found part of last week's craft from story hour at the library. But there were no extra pants of any kind.

I put her in the Pull-Up, though she protested that she wanted to wear the My Little Pony panties. "No, ma'am," I said. "No big girl panties when you wet your pants."

I looked at her thoughtfully. What should I do? It was still pretty cold outside, and I didn't want to take her out with bare legs. I finally decided to put her in my fleece jacket, which fit her like a potato sack. I had to roll the sleeves halfway up. She looked ridiculous, but so cute, in her evening-length jacket and socks and shoes!

Well, as far as embarrassing parenting moments go, it could have been much worse. It could have been a messy poop. It could have happened at church. She could have been 3-1/2, like Ethan was when he finally got trained.

The Bad Mommy Diaries

Do you ever have those days when you feel like a bad parent? Here are a couple of excerpts from Allyson's journal chronicling some of my less stellar parenting days.

Is That Finger Paint? 3/31/08 (22 months)
One of the nicest things as you've gotten older is the way you can entertain yourself so well, for longer and longer periods. This definitely comes in handy when I need to take a shower or cook dinner.

Last week, I was taking a shower while you happily read books, played with blocks, and pushed your Little People bus around the steamy bathroom. When I got out, I was delighted that you continued to entertain yourself while I completed my five-step Swiss Arbonne skin care regimen. Since you were happy and staying out of trouble, I decided to press my luck and spend 10 minutes styling my hair.

As I basked in the warm air from the blow dryer, I noticed that you were now snooping in Daddy's vanity drawer. I figured you'd throw everything out on the floor, but I let you keep playing since you were having so much fun, and since I only had a few minutes left before my hair would be perfectly coiffed.

Just as I finished the last flip and dutifully unplugged the dryer so that you couldn't drop it into the sink, I noticed that you were smearing something on Daddy's cabinet door--something red. Had you somehow found a lipstick?

My heart started to pound when I leaned closer and realized that you were literally finger painting with your own blood! You had obviously found Daddy's Mach 3 razor, and you were mesmerized by the steady flow of blood from the tip of your index finger.

I started to panic but caught myself; you weren't even crying, and you were watching me to see how you should react. "You have an owie," I explained calmly as I grabbed a T-shirt off the floor and applied pressure to slow the bleeding.

After about five minutes, I gently washed your finger, blotted it dry, and quickly wrapped a Band-Aid around it. I held your finger firmly while I read you a story....

You were fascinated with the Band-Aid, which formed a long, skinny point like a witch's hat. You kept pointing at things with that tip, and you also liked tapping or poking yourself with it. "Allyson - owie!" you kept repeating, waving your pointy Band-Aid.

It wasn't until the next morning that I could see the parallel double cuts on your poor finger. No wonder it bled so much! It didn't get sore or infected, though, and it healed very quickly.

Needless to say, we have moved the razor safely out of reach. I felt like a bad mom to have overlooked such an obvious danger, but you just grow so fast! What was out of reach yesterday is perfectly accessible today. I'm just thankful that you didn't seem to suffer any pain.

Poor Little Monkey! 4/30/08 (23 months)
Recently, Daddy couldn't find you anywhere, though he could hear you giggling in Ethan's room. He finally found you hiding in the corner of Ethan's bunk bed. He was shocked and horrified. How had you gotten up the metal rungs of the ladder?

Since then, we've found you up there several times, always laughing. It's so hard to get you down! You're very heavy when I lift you up over my head. We've had to start keeping Ethan's door closed.

A couple of days ago, you were having a rare grumpy afternoon. You kept fussing and fussing. You wanted to play with the fancy piggy bank from Nordstrom's, and I wouldn't let you. I stepped into the hall to distance myself from your whining, which only made you cry harder. I tried to tune it out.

Suddenly, I began distinguishing words from the incessant crying. "Help me, Mama! Help me!"

I whipped around and found you dangling from your quilt rack, hanging by your armpits! You were frantic. I think you were trying to scale the quilt rack to reach the forbidden piggy bank.

I carefully extricated you from the rack and then held you close while you cried hysterically. I felt so bad for ignoring you--even for a moment. It took a few minutes to calm you down, poor little monkey!

Daddy with baby Allyson--quilt rack and tempting piggy bank in background

OK, so here's what I want to know.... Does anyone else have bad mommy stories? It would make me feel so much better to know I am not the only less-than-perfect mom. Kindly comment with your stories!