There Were Two Clothed Children in My Backyard a Minute Ago

Now there is just one.

In the time it took me to put (yet another) load of laundry in, a child of mine had removed all clothing and underpants, and was leaping and twirling through the yard. Any guesses as to which child this might be?

Dear God, please, please, please can we bypass the teenage years with this one - I don't know if my heart, or patience, or sanity can take it.

Speaking Of Piñatas

...I thought the life size Little Mermaid piñata was just a myth.

However, for Brynn's 4th birthday, my sister-in-law, Lori, informed me that she was going to bring a piñata over for the birthday girl. If it fit in her car. She drives a full-size SUV.

And that is how we became the proud owners of one of the largest piñatas I have ever seen. In fact, instead of making that dreaded trek to the mall for the kids to sit on Santa’s lap this year, I just set the piñata up at home next to the Christmas tree. The kids dictated their wish list to Ariel the Little Merry-maid while sitting on her paper mache’ and tissue paper adorned lap. I even put a santa hat on her mane of fiery red locks for posterity.

Now, she just kind of hangs out around our house. Mostly in Brynn's room, but every now and then she gets adventurous. For some reason, she likes to visit my bathroom. When I’m not looking. And wait behind the shower curtain. Patiently. Then, at the end of a long day, I go to take a nice, hot shower, and……

...she never fails to startle me. Every time. Each and every of the half a dozen times or so that she has played this little game. Oh, Ariel, you sneaky, sneaky girl.

She also likes to wait here in the middle of the night...

Disconcerting. To say the least. After the initial startle response (again), comes amusement. If one can be amused at 3:00 am when there is a life size piñata sitting on her toilet. At least I have a husband who likes to make me laugh. One who keeps me from taking myself too seriously in life. One who has an odd sense of humor. Seriously. Do you see Ariel sitting on my toilet? In the middle of the night? Someone had to purposely wake up after I had gone to sleep just to put her there. And that, my friends, is what I find truly disconcerting.

That, and the fact that if we are ever going to use this piñata for her true purpose, I’m afraid we might have to take out a small personal loan to fill it up with candy. Or maybe I’ll just pray that the kids will pass out from the sheer exhaustion of beating the heck out of a gargantuan piñata.

And then they will fail to realize they only got a few Starburst and a Tootsie Pop for all that effort.

Not Everyone Lives In A Castle

Brynn's Christmas morning was laden with Baby Dolls. And Disney Princesses. And Barbie Mariposa. And Tinkerbell. And pink. And my dreams of creating the “Best Christmas Ever” in spite of the whole economy thing.

Everything was all “Oh, just what I wanted…a new baby doll…and Tinkerbell, she’s so cute…and My Little Pony panties…oooh.” And then, within seconds of the last present being unwrapped, and I bet faster than ol’ Santa Claus could lay his finger aside of his nose, the inevitable interrogation begins.

“But what about the My Little Pony house? And the Barbie Diamond Castle Doll & Carriage? Why didn’t Santa bring me those? I really, really wanted them.”

Huh? What? Were those on the list?

Of course they were. With about 63 other random toys. How do you even begin to decide between the My Little Pony Ponyville Pinkie Pie’s Balloon House and the Littlest Pet Shop Get Better Center playset with its kinda creepy little dogs and cats that have enormous heads. And unreasonably large eyes. And disproportionately small bodies.

And then there’s Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Did you know that Barbie is the star of her own hour long movies? Barbie as Rapunzel. Barbie in the Nutcracker. Barbie of Swan Lake. Barbie Fairytopia. Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses. Barbie as the Island Princess. Barbie Mariposa. Barbie and the Diamond Castle. Ummm…at what point in my life did I let Barbie make it to my list of “Movies I’ve Seen”? And why can I recite the movies that she stars in from memory? Oh, Barbie, why do you haunt me so?

Anyhow, on the never ending list of desired presents were the "Barbie and the Diamond Castle Doll with Horse & Carriage" marketing castoffs from the movie. Because, hey, if you’re Barbie, you can’t be the star of your own Drama-toon without having some hard, plastic toys with lots of sparkle and dazzle to back you up.

I knew in advance that disappointment was sure to prevail if Santa made a visit without leaving Barbie and the Diamond Castle Doll & Carriage. But Target was sold out. As was Toys R’ Us. And even (dare I say I even looked), the Walmart. This is ironic, considering the fact that for the entire 6 months preceding Christmas, Princess B has spied this toy sitting graciously on the shelves, begging for it with each visit to Target. And we do a lot of Target visiting. A lot. So this toy must have been requested at least 403 times over the past 6 months.

But, I didn’t buy it 6 months ago. Or 3 months ago. Or even 5 weeks ago. Because it cost $47.99. Really? $50 for a Barbie? My Peaches n' Cream Barbie from 1985 only cost $8.05...and she was pretty fancy-schmancy for her time. Excessive price tag aside, the real reason I didn't buy Barbie and her Diamond Castle Carriage is that I didn’t know where in the world I would hide it, because, guess what, Barbie, not everyone lives in a castle.

So, I waited. Oh, I now see the error of my ways. For 3 days now I have been badgered about Barbie and the Diamond Castle and the My Little Pony house. Persistency reigns at my house. And employing the You-Should-Be-Thankful-For-The-Toys-You-Did-Get or the How-About-We-Just-Give-All-Of-Your-Pretty-New-Toys-To-Some-Little-Girl-Who-Didn’t-Get-Anything-For-Christmas techniques fall unheard upon material girl’s little princess ears.

It's times like this when I envy those single, 20-something girls out there who don’t have to spend all of their hard-earned money on things like My Little Ponies and a $50 Barbie. They can buy useful things. Like clothes. And shoes. Things that won’t be forgotten about and shoved under the bed by week’s end, never to be played with again…

Conversations with a Preschooler

Me: "Why are you taking your shoes off? We'll be to Trader Joe's in like 30 seconds."

Her: "Because there's sand in my feet."

Me: "Well, don't take your shoes off and dump sand in our new car, just wait until we get there."

Her: "Noooo! Anyways, there's no sand in my shoes. Or in my socks."

Me: "Well, I don't really want any sand in my car, so please leave your shoes on."

Her: "There isn't any sand in my shoes or socks, Mama."

Me: "Okay, then why are you taking them off?"

Her: "Because there's something between my toes."

Me: "Really...like what?"

Her: "Sand."

Bringing Up Brynn, Part I: Birth

So, rather than a novella-length post about my extraordinary little girl, I'm going to dole out my "Ode to Brynn" in segments. For your reading pleasure, of course.

Um, actually, let's be honest here...it's because I no longer have time to just let the thoughts flow freely. My life is now lived in segments. School here. Work there. Kids now. Laundry, housework, dinner...soon. Sleep....none. But it is now something like 45 days past Brynn's 4th birthday, and I haven't lived up to my promise. So here is her story. In segments.

Anyone who has been graced with spending any length of time with my daughter knows that Brynn is an individual. She does not fit into any shape, size,or color of box. Unless it's a pink box. Maybe then. For like 5 seconds. After that, she's outta there. Even if it is pink. She is her own person. And always has been. Right from the day she was born.

If you ask Brynn where she was born, she will assuredly reply, "at Aunt Lori's house." And she's right. She was born at home. Our "home" at the time being Aunt Lori's guest house. I did not plan on having a baby at home. Or in a guest house. Or with out a medically trained individual present. She decided. After hanging out in her baby cocoon a week-or-so past her due date. And giving me fairly gentle contractions for hours. And hours.

But, when the clock struck midnight - just like Cinderella - she decided she was going to make a run for it. Quickly. And as I was telling Tommy it was time to load things up and make our way to the hospital, that little bugger initiated a change in plans. Quickly. A *911 call was made to request an ambulance. Quickly. By the time the paramedics finally found their way to the house, Brynn had already blessed us with her presence. Quickly. Caught by Aunt "Ro-Ro." Quickly. Now laying in my arms with a pair of gym shorts hanging off the umbilical cord running between her and I.

Yes. Gym shorts. We were told by the lovely *911 operator-lady to find something to tie off the cord. The shorts were there. Tommy was there. They had a string. Seemed logical to him. Whatever.

I, being a practical woman and all, probably would have spent the extra half-second or so to find something "prettier." Like a hair tie. Or cutting off a strip of the sheet. Or the pretty little bow tied around the teddy bear's neck. But definitely not dirty, sweaty, gym shorts. I will never, ever, EVER understand how efficiency can possibly ever outweigh the benefits of aesthetics. Even in the immediate seconds following birthing a 7 pound baby. Naturally. In a guest house. In the middle of the night. I still would have passed on the gym shorts.

Gym shorts aside, it gets worse. Never mind the unplanned nature of the home birth. Or the associated hodgepodge of messy that comes with it. I also had the opportunity to have three - or four - or twenty-five of Tucson Fire's finest Paramedics grace me with their presence. In the glory of less-than-three-minutes-after-giving-birth. Fantastic. Words simply cannot describe the amount of discomposure I felt at that moment. Oh, and when I say Tucson Fire's "finest," I'm pretty sure I mean just that. Not as in "skilled" or "well-prepared" because that they assuredly were not - at least in the whole labor-delivery thing. But if you're rating them on looks, they fit the good-looking Firefighter stereotype. To a "t." A nice tight, navy blue tee. All of them in a 12 x 12 room. With postpartum me in the bed. With newborn and her former home all hanging out for the world to see. Awesome. Awesome. AWESOME. All. Kinds. Of. AWESOME. (read with as much sarcasm as you can muster, please. For my sake.)

Gym shorts. Hot paramedics. Home delivery. Not only was this not going as planned, it quickly became apparent that, other than (maybe) a five-minute condensed, crash course in L&D that came somewhere between learning to operate the jaws-of-life and getting to do some training on the really-cool-ladder-truck-thingy in firefighter school, the only time these young men had been anywhere near a birth was their own.

But they had a "newborn kit". Great. At least we have a kit. With a laminated instruction list (complete with pictures, I'm sure). But somebody must have used the kit before. No scissors to cut the cord. Isn't this probably one of the more important components of said "newborn kit"? No problem, let's grab Tommy's mustache trimming scissors. Again, practicality reigns. Umbilical cord clip. Check. Blanket. What, no blanket in the kit? No worries - there's one on the changing table. Cool. Cap. What? We need to put a cap on the baby (rummage, rummage, rummage). What? It says we need to put the cap on the baby. *sigh* There's one in the right side of the top dresser drawer. Cool. Oh, dear Lord, please let this be a really bad dream. What about me? Can I please have a blanket? Can I have cap? Or a big, brown paper bag to put over my head? Can you please take me to the hospital now? Thanks.

To their credit, I am sure that these young men could have flawlessly rescued me from a burning house. Or extracted me from the wreckage of a car. Or resuscitated me if I had accidentally drowned in the toilet. But labor and delivery, or postpartum care? Not so much.

So this is Brynn's birth story, and my new little baby girl arrived healthy and with spunk. She came into the world on her own terms. With chaos. And confusion. And me just wondering what the heck is going on. And she continues to live life as such every day. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. But I do like a vaction from it every now and then. It helps preserve my sanity.

Me? I got over the whole 25-hot-young-paramedics-in-the-guesthouse-turned-birthing-center-thing. I am just forever grateful that not a single one of them was someone I knew or went to high school with (there most certainly is a God).

Let My Love Grow A Child That I Want To Hug & Kiss One Mintue And Then Flush Down The Toilet The Next

It is with much regret that I announce the quick departure of the congenial creature formerly known as Brynn. It was a lovely, soul-soothing 19 hours, 34 minutes, and 12 seconds. But as with all good things, they must come to an end. A turbulent and bitter strife.

If the transition were played out on the big screen, we might have the Beatles' "Helter-Skelter" accompanying the pandemonium that is Brynn going from my "sweet little bean" to the writhing creature that has arrived straight from the depths of the fiery pit that is borderline-toddler-personality-disorder. Oh, I kid. I think.

Yes, I kid. Brynn just likes to exercise her control. And independence. And obstinance. And tenacity. And control - did I already mention that? She throroughly enjoys testing her parents coping skills. And patience. She likes to enforce the strict rule of keeping us on our toes at all times by delivering inconsistency 24 hours a day - that's our Brynn. And we love her. To no end.

While the child may cause me to have severe panic attacks and raise my anxiety levels to disproportionate levels, I know that one day she will be a strong, independent young woman. That is if I don't flush her down the toilet first.

Let My Love Grow A Spark

don't you ever ask them why
if they told you would die
so just look at them and sigh
and know they love you
-Crosby, Stills, and Nash; "Teach Your Children Well"
The boys have gone fishing, and I've had the pleasure of spending a day in the life of Brynn -without her big brother. There have been no meltdowns, no screaming, no aggression. It has been a beautiful day. Her love really does shine through like white light when given the opportunity.

But daddy and T.J. can't stay away forever. I'll just have to wrap these few days up in a little corner of my mind, keeping them tucked away for when the road gets rough. Just to have them there for safekeeping. To pull out and remember I need to have a little faith in the girl. I know the love is there and I know she loves me - even though her actions and words often say quite the opposite.

Sweetie, I will hold you up, forever and always. I love you my little "bean."

Sister Scuba

Through my daughter's eyes, I am reminded that it is not what you look at, but what you see (Thoreau). Do any of us still have that wonder that is a child's imagination?

Being able to turn a pair of smashing, funky, diva sunglasses and a pastel pink kitchen spatula into a scuba mask and snorkel, and then proceed to execute a frontward roll entry off the side of the couch into the depths of the laminate wood ocean to rescue "Lil' Brown Puppy" from her awful demise is a beautiful thing.

Marketing Geniuses

I don't know if any of you are aware, but two great marketing geniuses have formed an alliance that is making mom's around the world jump and shout with joy. The kind of joy that inside is really a mixture of dismay and a handful of repulsion, and just a little bit of awe and admiration.

That's right, Campbell's SpaghettiO's meets Disney Princessess. Really, who are the ad wizard's who come up with this stuff? Little, slimy, gooey noodle-heads in the shape of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and Belle - swimming in an red-orange sea of high-sodium synthetic tomato sauce. Yum.

I don't know which is the bigger marvel - that SpaghettiO's can actually be made into the shape of a Princess head and/or crown, or that the Disney empire has actually aspired to infiltrate the canned goods market.

All I know, is that every few weeks, I now receive special requests for "Princess Pssketio's, please..."

And What About a Pink Roller Coaster?

What about a pink roller coaster???

Random.

Even more random as an interjection to the conversation about the fishing trip with Daddy this weekend.

And completely irrelevant to fishing. Unless maybe it's a three-year-old's attempt at an elaborate metaphor for fishing. Yeah, that's it. You know, "pink" to represent the breed of fish known as the "Pink Salmon". And "roller coaster" to represent said "Pink Salmon" swimming upstream?

Pink Roller Coaster = Pink Salmon Swimming Upstream

I know, I know, it's definitely a stretch and I'm attempting to make my daughter sound like some sort of child genius. That, and the fact that they are going nowhere near a river that has Pink Salmon. Rainbow Trout, maybe. Catfish, possibly. Pink Salmon, definitely not.

So, I guess we should just call it what it is: random.

Not Exactly What I Had In Mind When I Decided To Have Children...

Let me start off by apologizing. I have committed a major parening faux pas and for the very first time in my blog history - which has spanned a whole 1o months if you've been counting. Which I know you have. I am sure this here blog is read by at least tens of people every two years - oh, yeah, back to the "first-time-in-Candace's-blog-history-moment." To get the full effect of what went wrong when I decided to have children, I must include a "naughty" word. A "wash-your-mouth-out-with-soap" word. Sorry. But, it has to be done. I am just here to report the facts. And if a curse word is part of the evidence, then so be it.

Ok, content warning now out of the way. I am (still) so not getting the Mom of the Year Award. Ever.

So, let's set the scene: Loving Grandmother outside with her incredibely cute but sometimes ill-behaved grandchildren. They are doing the "green-hour" thing and are outside in Granny's yard watering plants and working on the lovely backyard fountain. A beautiful spring day in sunny Tucson. Can you picture it?

Said grandson is working diligently on the task at hand - cleaning out the fountain, wondering how much money he'll be able to talk said grandmother out of today. He has probably already asked her at least 17 times how much money he'll be making. He charges by the minute.

Said-granddaughter is doing the same - working that is. Or, more likely, just standing there trying to look busy and pretty at the same time, but really just plotting her next attempt to completely eradicate any and all attempts her mother has made to raise a well-mannered, gracious little girl. Don't worry, it won't take long. She's a mastermind at working out these evil schemes of hers in a matter of milliseconds. In fact, I think she came pre-programmed with an arsenal of them at birth.

"Granny," she says "this is a f---ing man's job!"

Oh, no...there it is. Seriously, when will she understand that feminist remarks like that are just not tolerated in this household? And how dare she call her grandmother "Granny." What was she thinking?!?!?

And I really do have a hard time understanding her pronuncitation of the the "---" sound. It kind of sounded like "uck" when everyone knows that hyphens really make an "ountain" sound. Come on, how could I have failed in teaching her that basic skill? I am afraid that speech class is in her very near future. That, and a bar of soap. In the mouth. For at least a minute. For Daddy and Mama.

Grace: A Study in Contrast

My daughter is quite inventive. Oh, yes she is, that one. And, she is ALWAYS on the cutting edge of fashion. I am pretty sure that Prima Ballerinas all over the world (because, as I am sure you are well aware, they are my biggest readership base...is that a real term, readership base...oh, I digress again...) are shrieking in horror at the sight of this little girl in her soft, pale pink ballerina outfit and, um, are those Daddy's dirty, grungy running shoes?!?!?! Why, yes they are. Stylish choice in footwear, my little ballerina!

Reasons to Wake Up Before 6:13 am, Reason #16

And then there was the morning I realized that the Pretty Princess Make-Up Kit from Aunt "RoRo" needs to be kept under lock and key. At. All. Times.

I just know that Tammy Faye is so proud right now. I mean who wouldn't be envious of this stunning makeover? Soft, supple, smooth skin and creamy, bubblegum pink makeup - it's like a dream come true!

What Is Love

I received a little bit of affirmation that I must not be too big a failure in the whole childrearing department when TJ took on the question of "What is love?" -- and why does that awful dance hit from the 90's pop into my head whenever I say that (and if you have no idea what song I'm talking about, then you are oh-so-blessed for never having heard this little not-so-great byproduct of the 1990's).

Tangent...Tangent...Tangent - back to the question at hand, "What is love" - it brought tears to my eyes when my little man said "Love means that you appreciate someone." Oh, if I could just wrap that little voice up and keep it in my pocket forever! I'm very sure I'll be needing it desperately in about 10 years!

Normally, I would say that the kid is just good at answering deep questions on the fly, but he was able to convey the exact same answer to both to his teenage cousins AND his teachers, so I think he definitely gets the concept! Yay - chalk one up for me! Oh - wait...

Today, on the very same day T's teacher doled out compliments on my parenting, Princess B's preschool teacher informed me she is still having "Anger Management" issues. In one fell swoop, she shattered my parenting pride. I am also pretty sure I heard a little bit of accusation in the tone of her voice. Or maybe that was my own guilty conscience.

Anyway, forget about that whole "in the lead with childrearing" thing. But, honestly, there are days I wish I could just bonk certain people on the head with a My Little Pony and get on with my day, too!

I Don't Know About You, But I LOVE Cake!

Bite ONE:

Bites TWO - TEN:

Yum, Yum, Yum...Delicioso!

Mama, I'm Hungry...

You just ate.

But I'm still hungry.

You should have finished the food on your plate.

But I'm still hungry.

Here, have a piece of fruit. Yogurt? Raisins?

No.

Well, what is it that you want, then?

Chocolate.

No.

But I'm Huuuuuunnnnnnggggrrrrryyyyyyyyyyyy!

No! (as I inwardly curse the Trick-or-Treating festivities that gave way to this daily conversation)

Reasons To Wake Up Before 6:13 AM, Reason #31

6:30 am: Walk into bathroom to wash face.

6:30:23 am: Faint smell of something...what is that?

6:30:29 am: Really, what IS that...I know that smell but can't seem to place it. Weird.

6:31 am: Do a lightning-speed flip through the little rolodex of odors in my head. Cleaning product? No - not strong enough. Toothpaste. No - not sweet enough. Burt's Bees Beeswax Lip Balm. No - not minty enough. It is more chemical, more...

6:31:10 am: Then I look down. Oh - nail polish...that's the smell that absolutely does not belong in my bathroom at 6:30 am. In "Rose to the Occasion" pink. On my ceramic tile floor. With a little trail leading out to the hallway. Awesome.

6:31:19 am: Follow the bright pink trail of lacquer to the second bathroom where a little girl is frantically scrubbing her tiny little fingers with a tiny little piece of toilet paper covered in a whole bunch of Kandoo Jungle Fruits soap - extra foamy. Fantastic.

6:31:23 am: Process a plan of action to clean the streaks of "Rose to the Occasion" (and boy did she ever) off of her legs, her stomach, her face, fingers, and toes at a time of the morning when I can hardly manage the monumental task of actually removing myself from my down comforter that is oh so comfy...

6:31:30: A sponge bath with nail polish remover ought to do the trick. That and training myself to wake up before Brynn. Her internal alarm clock (which she never, ever hits the snooze button on) goes off at 6:13 am - everyday, rain or shine, late-to-bed or not - it's amazing! But early. Early.

I have to give the diva some credit where credit is due, however. She did manage to remove the nail polish cap without spilling it all over the floor (otherwise, this story would have a dramatically different tone). And if you look close, she did a fairly decent job of full coverage on her nails.

And the cuticles. And in between the fingers and toes...

Fashionista

Brynn can be quite the little diva...this is what she would wear to school everyday if left to her own devices. Well, she MIGHT put on clothes (but only if it's a dress or skirt), and she may even treat her admirers to some highly fashionable knit purple or pink polka dot mittens - worn on either the hands or the feet, and I am pretty sure she would don her crown so that nobody would mistake her for anything other than the princess that she is!

Happily Ever After...The End

Phew...we just completed a three day celebration of Brynn's 3rd birthday...I did not realize until this evening that my daughter (at least at this age) will never grow weary of princess themed clothing, toys, stickers, napkins, plates, cups, utensils, coloring books, shoes, etc, etc. I didn't know there was really that much "princess" stuff out there!

She partied with the Treiber's at Aunt Lori's house: pizza and a blue-and-pink Cinderella ice cream cake...lots of adorable ballerina-themed outfits and gear, two really pretty dresses, and Ariel the Little Mermaid!

Daddy and brother took her to see Ratatouille on Sunday - wonderfully kind thought, but without any really girly characters, and definitely no princesses, she was sorely disappointed (but she got to wear a pink tutu skirt out with Daddy, which has never happened before...I still don't think Daddy was to keen on the outfit, but hey, it's her birthday)!

We rounded out the celebration at Granny's house with a pink cake (inside and out), pink ice cream, and the winner-of-the-most-cherished-gift-by-Brynn award: a big, poufy, Cinderella gown with matching glass slippers that have blinking blue lights in the heels...she already asked if she could wear it to school tomorrow!

Pink...Princesses...Ballerinas...Dresses...Shoes...what more could a little girl ask for?!?!?!

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

My Friend Cinderella

Brynn has started greeting ladies at the mall, the grocery store, and pretty much anyone we meet with "My name is Brynn...do you know my friend Cinderella?"

It's funny, but most of them just kind of look at her, head tilted to the side, and don't respond - really, it's a simple question, but I think many adults just forget how to engage in imaginative conversation with a 2 1/2, almost 3-year old...it's kind of sad in a way...

Anyway, she loves her Cinderella - the stories, the movies (yes...there are at least 2 sequels to the original), and dolls - I really hope she loves the real-life Cinderella just as much when we meet her at Disneyland in a few weeks! She can be unpredictable, though, and I would not be surprised in the least if she either ran away screaming or hit the poor princess!