How I wrecked my daughter's existence on Friday afternoon

Remember Friday? The phone call to the Department of Health with all that farting going on in the background? Long day, but you know, we finished early! Dr. McFussy finished early! Do you know how unheard of that is?? NO? Well, rest assured, it's rare. I happily buzzed across the street to daycare to pick up my darling daughter at the prime hour of 4:45 p.m. to be greeted by the following scene:

Me: (Bouncing in to Zoey's classroom, certain she will be thrilled to see me) Hi Zoey!! Mommy came to get you early!

Zoey: (Total look of annoyance on her scowling face) No! I want to watch the moobee! (movie)

Me: Well, but bug, Mommy is here, so it's time to go home...come on, let's get your blanket!

Zoey: (Tears are starting, as well as the shrieking) No! NO!! It's moobee day! I WANT TO WATCH THE MOOBEE!

Apparently, the last Friday of every month is Movie Day at daycare. And Zoey's mother, because she is obviously wicked and only out to ruin her daughter's life, had the audacity to show up before the movie started and prevent Zoey from having any fun in her life, ever.

Because that is so my job.

So anyway, after a lot of shrieking and kicking and juggling of art projects and thrashing and hissing-Mommy-voice and a well-deserved time-out in the hallway, I dragged my devastated child from her beloved daycare, wrangled her in to her carseat, and proceeded to listen to her cry and tell me she wanted Daddy to pick her up, not Mommy!! all the way home.

I was somewhat crushed by how this whole pick-up process had played out, but you know what I realized, after thinking about it like all weekend? I think I stress myself out about having Zoey picked up as early in the day as possible, because I feel like she'll be so unbelievably sad if she's the last kid standing in her big, empty classroom. Clearly, this is not the case. This is just another form of Mommy Guilt playing out--I feel guilty that she has to be in daycare for three long days each week, and I assume that she wants nothing more than to see her Mom walk through the door at the end of the day. What I forget is that my small child is nothing if not a social butterfly, and at an age where routine and consistency are key. If Moobee Time is what's on the agenda for the day and what she's expecting to have happen next, well, then we should all pity the mother who walks in the door to tell her otherwise, as this mother's life will be a holy living hell as she tries to re-route her daughter's plans. What I should have done on Friday afternoon was zip up the hill to Target for some much-needed Mommy time, returning to daycare at a more respectable hour and far past the start of Moobee Time, and we both would have been happy. She's not even three yet, but she's already got her own ideas of how she'd like to spend her time...and it isn't always with Mommy.

I guess that's okay.

Because your mind is the first to go

My birthday is coming up. One week from today. This thought truly did not occur to me until my mother called this week and asked if she could come down next Friday and cook dinner for me. (I totally refused. Or...not.) I mean, I guess I knew that October was coming up, and with it my birthday, and then Bryan's...but the only happiness this caused in my brain was the knowledge that we are one month closer to getting this year the hell over with and hopefully moving on to bigger, better, more employed things in the year 2010. (I actually told Zoey this week that I can't wait for her to turn three. Her birthday is December 8 and do you know that, at that point, we will be 23 days away from the end of the year?)

But anyway.

I was manning the recovery room yesterday when I got to thinking that birthdays mean renewing of medical licenses...and don't you usually get a reminder thingy in the mail, like, four weeks before your birthday? I didn't get one this year! Oh yeah...because we moved. So after settling in yet another post-colonoscopy patient I got on the internet and did a little research as to how I could renew my license online.

Washington, of course, does not have an online renewal option.

So, to the backdrop of someone farting REALLY LOUD in the background, I sat on hold for forever and finally got ahold of Tom at the Washington State Department of Health and explained my dilemna. Could I mail my payment in now? (*Loud, trumpeting fart in the background*) No, it wouldn't be processed in time. (*Long, low sad-sounding fart from bed #3*) What were my options? (*Bubbles. Lots and lots of tiny, musical bubbles*) Oh, you can drive down to Tumwater and renew it in person. And by the way, the cost has gone up from $70 to $90. (*What sounds like the loudest, most high-pitched, rivaling-any-old-man fart in the whole world*)

So next week, on my day off, I will be giving myself the gift of sitting in traffic to be the first one at the Department of Health in Tumwater (still not clear on where that is, exactly) where I will renew my nursing license in person, hand over a check for $90 (NINETY. DOLLARS. Do not even get me started on the $550 we have to come up with to renew Bryan's license three weeks after mine.) AND fill out a change of address form so this little problem doesn't crop up again next year.

I am not sure how this little matter of renewing my license fell off my organizational radar when we moved here in March. I am generally much more on-the-ball than this. I must be getting old.

Waving the white flag

My laundry room has waged a war against me.

And I am so losing the battle.

Did I mention that last week the fleas invaded? As in, tiny little almost-microscopic BUGS IN MY HOUSE? IN MY HOUSE?!?

That's right. Lack of funding has led to a lack of flea medication for our two cats and because pestilence has been, to date, one of the few remaining ways in which 2009 has kicked my ass, the fleas moved themselves on in late last week.

Which led to compulsive cleaning levels unheard of in recent months as I scrubbed, mopped, vacuumed, pulled apart, put back together, and scoured the entire inside of my house.

Remember the dining-room-table-turned-castle from my post last week? It was dismantled amidst many anguished cries (until I let the cryer crawl up on the table and help take it apart) so all the assembled blankets could be washed. All bedding was stripped and brought downstairs to wash. Extra blankets, throw pillows, cushion covers, you name it--if it's made of anything that resembles durable fabric, it's been washed in hot water and dried on mega-high-heat in the past several days.

Add this to the fact that Zoey has had an unprecedented number of mid-nap and middle of the night accidents in the past several days, and you can see why I am losing the Battle of the Laundry Room. Believe me when I tell you that I could convert all 40 of my outside-job working hours to hours spent slaving away in front of my washer and dryer and still run the risk of not seeing my laundry room floor by the end of the week.

So, just to recap, we've weathered unemployment, uber-budgeting, potty training, the stomach flu, fleas, a laundry room floor that looks like it's tiled in wet bedding, and the brink of insanity on my part, all in less than a year.

I'm penciling in the herd of locusts for October, a tentative Swine Flu outbreak in November, and the eruption of Mt. Rainier for late December.

I'll bet you all can't wait to read my Christmas letter this year.

Break out the Visine

I love having Wednesdays off.

This has been a particularly crazy work week (two 10-hour shifts so far, complicated by a three hour required class after work on Monday night) and it's nice to have a break in the middle of it all.

Of course, because it's an insane week, I'm totally striving to stock my freezer with homemade soups that will carry us through many harried work-night dinners to come. Because I can totally handle insanity like that.

Last night I glanced at myself in the mirror shortly after my batch of homemade Roasted Tomato Basil Soup was put aside to cool before going in the fridge to chill. My eyes were totally bloodshot. The red was offset by the dark circles underneath. I looked like I had pulled a few too many all-nighters in the casino.

Not pretty.

And because I'd like to show up at the playground with my daughter today and NOT look like I just finished smoking a bunch of weed, I went to bed at 8:45. I think I got approximately seven minutes in to my book before I passed out.

And the great thing about conking out shortly before 9 p.m. is that you can roll out of bed at 6:20 a.m. feeling somewhat refreshed and ready for a day of laundry, playing, cooking, freezing, and trying to convince a certain someone to be brave in the face of a flu shot.

The bags under the eyes are still there, but the whites have restored their whiteness. Thank God.

Do The Puyallup (on the cheap)

Here's how to enjoy the big ol' Puyallup Fair on less than $20:

1. Be lucky enough to be part of a family where your grandmother, who has worked in the Campfire booth at the Fair for 34 years, always gets you free tickets.

2. Eat dinner at home. Go to the Fair for dessert. I got my annual ice cream dip (with nuts!) and Bryan and Zoey opted for soft serve.

3. Don't take any children over the age of three. Zoey wavered on whether she'd rather have her photo taken with Dora or ride one ride. That's right. One. She was totally
happy to ride the fire truck around in circles for approximately two
minutes, and only had a mild tantrum when it was time to get off. I escaped total conflict by telling her every child only gets to ride the ride once per year. She can ride it again next year. But I have a feeling next year she won't be buying that story any more.

4. Know somebody who works the scone booth. Be very nice to them. They will reward you with scones. Mmmmmm.

5. Animals are free, people. Spend lots of time in the barns. I wanted to have someone take a picture of the three of us (next week is Bring a Picture of Your Family Week at preschool and our last family shot was when Zoey was, I don't know, 10 months old) but by the time I remembered, we were on our way to the Exit gate, walking through the Clydesdale barn, and, well, I figured a family photo in front of a large Clydesdale ass wasn't the Christmas card photo op I was hoping for. Maybe next year.

6. I think we got out of there having spent $16 and some change. Not bad.

Welcome, baby Colton!

On Friday morning at 10:16 a.m. my best friend Rikki had her first baby, Colton Daniel! In her drug-induced post-c-section stupor, she still was able to call and leave me a message saying he had arrived safe and sound. Unfortunately, I could have sworn she said his name was Colby...so there's a handful of people that I now need to report back to with the correct information.

Anyway. He arrived by c-section after stubbornly refusing to revert from the butt-first breech position he had wiggled himself in to the week before. He weighed in at 8 lbs 5 oz and is nothing but sweetness.

I got there Saturday morning and oh my Lord, there is NOTHING LIKE holding a newborn baby! As I sat next to Rikki on the bed, trying to remember that Zoey was, in fact, this small at one point in the past, I started to get the itch. You know. That damn baby bug. Tick tock, and all that. Funny, there has to be something about Colton--he is at least the sixth baby born to one of my good friends in the past year, and up until now, no itch. Not even a twinge. But cradling his perfectly round little noggin (no conehead at all!) and watching how easily he was nursing and listening to his tiny little cries definitely made me think it might be time (finally) for Zoey to have a little brother or sister.

And then I walked down the hallway to the cafeteria in search of some lunch. And heard a woman behind a closed door screaming absolute BLOODY. MURDER.

Which took care of the itch. Mostly.







Congratulations, Rikki and Todd!

Because admitting you have a problem is the first step

Okay, so here's the thing. I think my biggest flaw may be that I have unrealistic expectations. Of, you know, pretty much everything and everyone. But mainly myself.

Case in point:

Last night as I was cleaning up the kitchen and getting ready for bed and already starting to panic and stress over all the things I felt like I "needed" to accomplish on my day off, I told myself I would just sit down and make a nice, reasonable list of items I felt I could realistically accomplish in one day. Anything that didn't absolutely NEED to get done wasn't going on the list--I figured that way I'd get things done AND have time to just relax and chill with Zoey. Who is seriously anxious to show off her mad skillz on her Dora training-wheel bike.

My list still had eight items on it. Eight. For a nice, relaxing day. As in, not counting all the things I would love to accomplish but am going to put aside like cleaning the bathroom and mopping my kitchen floor.

Which I think is why, at 5:17 this morning, I was lying wide awake and thinking 'if I get up now, I can have the laundry half done before Zoey and I leave to run errands!' Granted, Zoey had crawled in to bed with us and trying to sleep next to her is something like trying to sleep inside a popcorn popper. But still.

I never used to be a morning person...but I guess I am now. Because you can just get so much done before the day starts! It's such an efficient use of time! And if I knock some items off the list before 7 a.m. that means I can add more things to do while Zoey is napping! And by 9 p.m. tonight I will want to die from exhaustion! Because I'm crazy!

Reassurance

Did your parents ever offer to cut off an appendage as a way to "fix" an owie when you were little? I think mine did (mainly my dad because he's strange like that), although I had forgotten about it until I had the following conversation with Zoey yesterday:

Setting: Kitchen. I'm preparing a cup of hot milk and two syringes full of Motrin and amoxicillin. Zoey is slumped against the cupboard, all casual-like.

Zoey: Mommy? I don't want to cut my yeg (leg) off.

Me: What?

Zoey: My yeg. Don't cut it off!

Me: (slightly exasperated) Zoey! Who told you we'd cut your leg off? That's silly!

Zoey: Daddy! Daddy did! I had an owie and he said we cut off my yeg!

It took me several minutes to reassure her that we would not be amputating her leg any time soon. Which led in to a brief dissertation on remaining healthy and free of disease like diabetes that might require leg amputation. Because having a nurse for a mom hasn't screwed her up enough already.

The games we play...and the stories we read...

I've noticed that when Zoey is feeling under the weather, it means three things:

1. Less sleep than average (and oh how I wish for one of those small children who, when sick, want nothing more than to cuddle on the couch all day and rest)

2. The reading of one or two stories over and over and over

3. The "playing" of every small-person board game we own over and over and over

Last November, when Zoey was hideously sick with what turned out to be a kidney infection, I can remember sitting on the couch waiting for the Tylenol to kick in, reading Curious George Visits the Zoo repetitively, for days. This week, we've been all about Dora's Spooky Halloween, The Berenstain Bears Trick or Treat, Happy Halloween Little Critter! (are you seeing a pattern here?) and--my new favorite children's book--Llama Llama Mad at Mama. (Or, the "wama wama book". Depending on who you ask.)

As for games, we're very in to Memory (played with all cards facing up), Hungry Hungry Hippo (having no clue what the actual rules are, we just like the noise it creates when all those hippo mouths come crashing down) and Chutes and Ladders (again, no regard for the rules, just sliding the Sesame Street figurines up the ladders and down the slides).

I think I need to get out of the house tomorrow...

Leaving her mark

Today being what it is, I'm feeling reflective. And being reflective reminds me of all I have in my life to be grateful for...even when I've been at home for nearly three days in a row with a sick, cranky child and to say that I am going a bit stir-crazy would be an understatement. I am running out of closets to organize. So I started snapping pictures of items in my house that remind me of Bryan's and my greatest blessing--that cranky little girl who is napping sweetly at this very moment.

You know you have a toddler in the house when....

...This is what your dining room looks like. And has looked like for nearly three weeks now. Because every lady needs a castle, right?

(We've all logged plenty of hours in "the castle", keeping Zoey company, reading books, and listening as she disciplines her dolls ad nauseum. The best was when she asked Gigi--my 72 year old grandmother--to please get in the castle as well. Gigi chose to watch the action from the couch instead.)


...Or you go to take a shower and you have to remove all the strategically placed cups from the faucets, knowing full well you'd better put them back where you found them when you're done, or all holy hell will break loose later on.





...And this is the artwork you have displayed on your wall. She calls this one "A BIG lake! And a BIG storm!"






It's things like this that I want to capture and hold on to forever. Because if you had told me five years ago that THIS would be my life someday--furniture-turned-castle and finger paintings on walls--I would have laughed. But now that I'm here I wouldn't trade those cups on the faucets for anything.

At home...again...

Soooo...today I was one of "those parents". You know. The mom who kind of knows her kid isn't feeling well, but tells her husband to please give the child Tylenol before dropping her off at daycare so she can be sure she'll get at least four hours of work in before the daycare calls and is all 'hey, your daughter is crying in misery and maybe you could come do something about it?'.

Yeah. A new low for me.

I think it was nearly four hours post-Tylenol ON THE DOT that my cell phone buzzed in my pocket and, to be fair, I did squeeze FIVE hours of work in, not just four.

The problem (well, one of the problems anyway) is that I never used to be a mom with a family who was 100% dependent on my income. And I hated my old job. So calling in sick to stay home with Zoey was relatively easy. So was sticking up my nose at those parents who sent their children to daycare knowing full well they were sick, which in turn infected MY healthy child.

Irony is a miserable bitch.

The second problem is that my poor kid greeted me at the door of her classroom with a pale face, bags under her eyes, clutching her right ear and crying. I'm surprised they let her get out of the car in the parking lot this morning, let alone allowed Bryan to sign her in and LEAVE HER. A not-so-convenient trip to the Convenience Care clinic confirmed the suspicion of an ear infection. And now she is sleeping heavily for the first time in days, thanks to a generous dose of Motrin and plenty of snuggling from Mommy. (We were up every few hours last night and did I give her any Motrin? No. She wasn't running a really high fever...she could probably tough it out. Because I suck like that.)

Anyway. We have a prescription for amoxicillin that we'll fill tomorrow if she's still feeling crummy. And if we have another night tonight like we've had the past two nights, we'll be filling it whether she feels okay in the morning or not. Because at this point I might as well just have a newborn in the house, for all the sleep we're getting around here.

Because the Libra in me just craves a little balance, alright?

Can I just say how much nicer my life feels when I only work three days a week?

And by "nicer", I mean more manageable, less stressful, and far more balanced.

Granted, this week I am only getting off easy because of the Labor Day holiday. And Wednesday is my scheduled day off. But still...it's nice. I am refusing to give in to the nagging worry in the back of my head that likes to remind me "No work...NO PAY!" because my laundry is caught up, my child is napping peacefully, my floors are swept, and sometimes one's sanity seems every bit as worth the money you could make in a full day at your other job. Today, I am enjoying the better of my two jobs. Probably because, when asked which she likes better--school, or staying home with Mommy--my stuffed up, fever-y toddler replied "I just yike staying home with Mommy. I yike home the best."

Yes, Zoey. I yike home the best, too.

So, it would appear that I just need to figure out a way to get paid to do this--be at home, raise my kid, and fill my blog with random thoughts that occasionally crack people up.

But then I stop to consider that this line of work might cause me to cut back on things like showering at regular intervals and wearing anything other than yoga pants, and I realize that I need to keep a job on the side that requires me to maintain some semblance of personal hygiene. As it is, I have chosen a profession that requires a dress code that is marginal at best--scrubs, which are really just glorified pajamas, in a style and color that is pre-determined and requires only that I match the day of the week with the correct corresponding color.

I think I should probably get up and go take a shower now.

A few dollar store items I highly don't recommend

1. Dollar store toilet paper. At 33 cents per roll, it's even cheaper than the next runners-up (Costco's Kirkland Brand and Target's generic brand, Up & Up), which are 49 cents per roll. However, cheap doesn't often translate to "baseline amount of quality required to accomplish the job". Last night I caught Zoey itching her bottom for the third time in a week--the first time I immediately assumed she had worms or some other hideous intestinal parasite, which would be costly to treat and require a quarantine from daycare...and juuuust as I rounded the insanity-corner to thinking I would lose my paycheck as I stayed at home to de-bug my child, she informed me she had some tissue stuck in her bottom, and could I please help? 33 cents per roll is not worth retrieving shreds of toilet paper from your child's rear end, people. Trust me on this one.

2. Dollar store Kleenex. Unless you're in to exfoliating the skin around your nose with something that feels like sandpaper. And if you are, send me your address, and I'll mail you a "present".

3. Dollar store dish soap. I am pausing every few seconds to wipe the blood from my keyboard that's oozing from the cracks in my skin after washing a few loads of dishes. Okay, maybe not really, but you get the point.

So my budget-friendly trip to the Dollar Store last week essentially led to a not-so-budget-friendly trip to Target to replace the items I had already bought, as well as extra money spent on first-aid items to ease the pain of sandpaper-nose and the molting skin on my hands.

Consider yourself warned.

A Word on Potty Training (Because 'Potty' is the Theme of the Week)

So. Last night.

Lots of getting up repeatedly, trips to the bathroom, plus an accident that put the plastic sheet Zoey's mattress is zipped inside of to good use.

(Side note: When I went to Target to pick out a plastic sheet for her big-girl bed, I found these awesome sheets that are essentially plastic pillow cases for the mattress--the whole thing zips inside the contraption. And for a twin-size, it cost $7.99. Perfect. But as I was perusing the aisle a little more, I found a range of sizes, from twin on up to California King. How necessary is it to have a California King mattress zipped securely inside a plastic sheet? Do people seriously do that? Is bed-wetting more rampant that I am aware of, people never grew out of it and now have their grown-up mattresses covered in plastic? I got a good snicker out of the whole thing until Zoey started crawling in to bed with us every night and occasionally peed in our bed, making that Queen size zippered plastic sheet sound not so silly.)

I suppose I would consider Zoey to be potty-trained. For the most part. And for a not-even-three-year-old, I think she's doing quite well, although nights like last night leave me feeling exhausted. I know that most kids don't even get the message from their wee brains to get up and GO potty in the middle of the night until after they turn three, so we're doing well. Plus, with the early onset of cold and flu season at our house, the first set of sniffles have arrived (thank you, daycare!) leaving both Zoey and I feeling scratchy-throated and icky-nosed. So between the "I need a tissue!" and "I'm wet and no no no, I need my MOMMY to change me, not you Daddy!" we were up and down I think four times last night.

Can you see why bringing a newborn in to this equation might leave me feeling as if I'll never sleep again, not ever?

But anyway, potty training. Erin asked me to comment on this topic, and I'm happy to recap. Here are the highlights:

Best Advice: From my mom--resolve yourself to staying at home for a good week. Seriously. Don't go anywhere, and if you do, don't make it very far. Stay home, hit the potty hard, and they will get it. Venture out slowly, stay close to home, and carry many changes of underwear.

Length of time it took: I'd say a good two weeks before she had the whole potty-during-the-day routine down pat. We kept her in diapers at nap time and bedtime for at least two months after we started the process. At first, the prospect of wearing big-girl panties to bed at night seemed to terrify her, so we didn't push it. Eventually, we just kind of forgot to put her in a diaper at night, and found that she was staying dry most nights of the week. Once it seemed like the thought of wearing big girl panties to bed wasn't going to put her in to therapy, we sent all extra diapers in the house to my sister and to daycare. Did it pain me to give up a nearly-full extra-large box of expensive diapers? Hell yeah. But it's a good feeling to live in a house with no more diapers, I have to say.

Best investments: Several packages of Hanes Her Way big-girl panties (because only one pack will mean you are essentially chained to your washer and dryer 24/7), Costco-sized containers of laundry soap and fabric softener, many, many packages of stickers.

Because a sticker chart in the bathroom, right next to the potty? Best reward system. Ever. She was so proud of herself every time she got to put a new sticker up on that chart.

Biggest surprise: Urine before poop. Doesn't that sound strange? You'd think it would be easier to recognize when your body needs to poop, as opposed to when you need to pee. Not so. We got plenty of experience shaking our poop from the panties in to the potty. Remember that?

A plug for daycare: Say what you want about putting your child in daycare, but I never would have realized just how ready Zoey was for the whole potty training routine if her teachers had not pointed it out to me. Kudos to Ms. Berna and Ms. Mybol.

And now, if you'll excuse me, the washing machine has just beeped and that means all our wet sheets are ready to be transferred to the dryer. And I need that second cup of coffee. And possibly a nap.

Not so fast, Auntie

My sister Abby left a comment on my last blog post, something to the effect of pointing out to our mother that Zoey did not pick up her trash-talking pirate mouth from HER. So there, Mom! Just because Abby has been swearing since she was in second grade (at Catholic School no less) and rarely censors anything she says regardless of the age-appropriateness of her audience, her niece still learned to swear from her MOTHER, not her aunt.

The fact that Abby lives in Georgia at the moment, while we are across the country in Washington, might have helped with that. Because GOD ONLY KNOWS what Zoey would be saying to Destiny at school as she kicks her down the slide if Abby lived nearby.

But the funny thing is, shortly after I whisper-hissed to Bryan on Saturday morning that every other word out of Zoey's mouth made her sound more and more like a sailor, the first thing he wanted to know was "when did she talk to Abby last?".

Potty-trained Potty Mouth

1. Zoey is nearly 100% potty trained. Like, even at night. Like, to a point where I am so very confident in her lack-of-accidents-a-majority-of-the-time status, I am sending all residual diapers and wipes in the house to be donated to the daycare. Tomorrow will likely be the day she comes down with the stomach flu and I find myself dealing with diarrhea mixed with big-girl Dora panties. Because that's just how 2009 is treating me.

2. On Saturday morning, nearly every other word out of Zoey's mouth was 'shit' or 'damnit'. Those of you who know me understand that this is likely all my fault. (Although she tried to blame it alternately on her classmates AND her Grandma Heather. With all the praying going down at school, I'm guessing it's unlikely that potty mouths are tolerated long enough for it to spread like wildfire to the rest of the class, and I think that in the 10 years I have known my mother-in-law, I've heard her swear twice. But it might have only been once. But I digress.) Several hours of coaching on acceptable substitutes for bad words seems to have done the trick, as I heard her mutter several times yesterday 'shoot' or 'darnit'. My specific instructions to her on the way to the birthday party were: "Be nice and play gently with the other kids, let the birthday girl open her presents, AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE DO NOT SAY BAD WORDS."

3. But the sort of funny part about the whole things was the way in which she was swearing--exactly like me. As in, under her breath, quietly, thinking nobody would hear her. Her train track wasn't cooperating with her? "Damnit, tracks!" Because when Zoey is choosing not to cooperate with me, what is it that I typically mumble under my breath? "Damnit, Zoey..." I thought it would take many, many years before I would hear my own voice mirrored in my daughter's. So much for that idea.

Weekly Wrap Up

You guys? I've been up for 30 minutes...by myself. I made coffee. Started laundry. Got all those jars of homemade tomato soup in to the fridge. And still, she sleeps.

Now, you KNOW it was no small feat to extricate myself from the big bed without waking her. And I actually wondered why I was bothering with the effort as I climbed over Bryan (who woke briefly just as I was about to fling myself over his belly, looked hopeful for just a split second, then conked back out), put on my dirty socks from yesterday so I wouldn't open the closet and risk waking Zoey (so gross, but so far, oh-so-worth-it), and tip-toed out to the kitchen. I thought for sure she'd wake up moments later, shriek in horror that MOMMY IS GONE!, and come pitter-pattering out to the kitchen to find me. This, to be honest, is one of my favorite times of the day...when Zoey wakes up and immediately comes to find me, looking all rumpled in her jammies and requisite tu-tu (Oma bought her a pair of pajamas with ballet slippers on them, and they came with a tu-tu--now, the tu-tu is worn with ALL pairs of pajamas), and we sit together downstairs, she with her hot milk and I with my coffee.

But she'll be up soon, and in the meantime, I have some time to write. Ahhhhhh.

It's been a busy week, highlighted by the return of my Wednesdays off. For the past several months, my day off has rotated, leaving us scrambling to find daycare on random days like Tuesdays or Thursdays, or Fridays...but really, hasn't "scrambling" defined my life these past few months? Anyway. The month of August I had Fridays off, which sounds lovely in theory, and if I were child-free it might be dreamy to have three-day-weekends all the time. But four days in a row of 10-hour-shifts left my child clingy and grouchy and the sheer weight of four days worth of laundry coming through the laundry chute at one point nearly left me unconscious. So a break in the middle of the week is ideal for me, right now. (Ha. Actually, two or three days at home is what's ideal, but we're redefining ideal until Bryan gets a job. It's all relative.)

Thursday was Parent Night at Zoey's daycare, and since she has recently been promoted to the three-year-old room, this means her official preschool education begins this fall. I was excited to go, as I had yet to meet Ms. Nicole, who's shift always ends before I can make it to daycare to pick Zoey up. And after the whole I-booted-Destiny-down-the-slide incident on Monday, I was bracing myself to hear that I am the mother of the classroom bully.

I couldn't have been more surprised by Ms. Nicole's feedback. Apparently, Zoey is a very sweet, quiet little girl while at school, always listening to and following instructions to the letter. (My sister Alisa asked if, at that point, I clarified that I am Zoey Angove's mother, and perhaps she was confusing my Zoey with another Zoey in the class?) I was thrilled to hear this. At least she's behaving for someone, right?? We couldn't leave until I had signed up to contribute something squishy to the Sensory Table and also volunteered to make the classroom supply of Play-Doh for October. And December. Because I need more things to do.

Friday night we had dinner at some new friends' house, Rutchie and her husband Sam. We met them through Bryan's cousin Sara, who also came over for dinner. Rutchie and Sam have a three-year-old daughter named Sara and a one-year-old named David. Zoey and little Sara hit it off immediately when we met at a BBQ last weekend, and picked right up where they had left off when we arrived on Friday night. I am so incredibly thankful that grown-up Sara introduced us, because seriously? We need some friends with kids. Especially normal, down-to-earth friends who also like to drink wine. I have a feeling this is the beginning of a long friendship. You know. For the kids.

The long-awaited birthday party yesterday was a huge success. As far as one-year-old birthday parties go, I was very impressed. A clown was there doing a magic show and making balloon-animals for all the kids, and the cake was a HUGE pink and yellow (beautiful) three-tiered monstrosity that was soooo yummy. Fun times were had by all.

Today is the day Zoey and I will head down to Vancouver to visit our friends Kendra, Matt, Ari, and new baby Finn. Ari is Zoey's best friend in the world, Kendra is one of mine. As soon as I can complete four loads of laundry and bake some zucchini bread, we'll get on the road. Bryan will stay behind to do some more work on his mom's rental house. I won't lie--having him work odd jobs all the time means he works mainly evenings and weekends. To say this has seriously affected "Family Time" would be a gross understatement. It's taking it's toll. We're still holding out hope that he'll find a 'real' job...soon.

Happy long weekend, everyone!

Get your party on

Scene: My bed. 6:48 a.m.

Zoey: Mommy! I want to go to the pawty!

Me: (Thinking she has said 'potty', and wanting to avoid another early-morning-peeing-the-big-bed adventure like the one that happened yesterday) Then go! Get up and go potty! Before you have an accident!

Zoey: NO! Mommy, I want to go to the pawty. Yet's go!

Me: Oh. No, Zoey, the birthday party isn't until later...like, after-your-nap-later.

Zoey: (Apparently crushed) Nooooo! We go to the pawty NOW!

I love starting off the morning with a big, huge meltdown. Really sets the tone for the day, don't you think? It took me 15 minutes to talk her off the ledge and assure her that, YES, we are going to the party, BUT NOT BEFORE MOMMY HAS HAD A LOT OF COFFEE BECAUSE YOU JUST WOKE ME UP AT 6:48 ON SATURDAY.

One of the doctors I work with has a little girl who is turning one today. Zoey has never met her. This is of little concern to Zoey--all she cares about is the fact that we are going to the party, and you know what parties mean, right? Cake. And presents. Singing Happy Birthday. And the earlier the better, right? Who doesn't want to party down at 7 a.m. on a Saturday? RIGHT?

Because you can't "accidentally" shove someone with your foot, Zoey.

Setting: Mommy's car, on the way home from daycare on Monday

Me: How was school today, bug?

Zoey: Good. I pwayed. (This could mean 'played' or 'prayed'. Either option is standard daycare material. I was fishing for something more interesting, to be honest.)

Me: Soooo...what did you play?

Zoey: *Pause* Destiny went down the yellow shwide (slide) on the pwayground.

Me: Um. Okay. That's...nice.

Zoey: 'Cause I pushed her.

Me: ZOEY. You pushed her? Why? Pushing isn't nice!

Zoey: (Matter-of-factly) No, Mommy! It was an accident! I just pushed her with my foot! On accident!

I'll bet you twenty bucks it was no "accident". Just because my child feels free to barrel down any slide, any time, face first, with no regard for her own personal safety, she expects this same caliber of behavior from her friends. Another twenty bucks says the way the situation ACTUALLY played out was Destiny working up the nerve to propel herself down the slide, Zoey deciding Destiny had had quite enough time to work up her nerve, and giving her a nice shove with her big ol' foot. You know. On accident.