I did the one thing parents are never supposed to do.
And now I’m paying for it, big time.
Quite a while ago, I made a generalization about parents who use leashes in this post.
Of course, that was before I was pregnant with the Munchkinette and had the smugness of a parent who thinks she is done raising her kids.
I should have known better than to tempt fate like that.
Because I looked at my husband yesterday and said, “If I don’t buy a leash for this child, she is never going to be able to go out in public.”
Stubborn, defiant, and reckless do not even begin to describe her. When we are out in the front yard playing with big brother and the neighbors, her favorite thing to do is zoom toward the street at full speed, laughing and looking back at my panicked face the entire time. Thank God we live on a cul de sac that gets little to no traffic.
Never mind that I have told her a bazillion times not to go into the street. Never mind that I constantly try to hold her hand and she impatiently tries to shake me off every single time.
And she’s only seventeen months old, so this entire process is only going to get worse.
I tweaked out my back from having to constantly stoop and chase her around, and that was just for an hour and a half in our own yard.
So after I write this, I am pretty sure I’ll be going online and searching for a kids leash that she hopefully won’t try to pull off.
Now, where’s my fork?
Last week I asked what method you used the most in your cell phone communications, and multi-tasking squeaked out a win, with 35% of you saying you both text and talk. Texting, though, came in right behind at 33%. 19% of you prefer to talk, and 11% of you don’t have a cell phone. Don’t feel bad, I only left the ranks of the cell phone-less last year. I definitely prefer to text, if only because it seems so much more convenient for all parties involved. I constantly text my husband throughout the day, and as he drives around on patrol for ten hours a day, it is much easier for him to answer a text whenever he has the spare time than to try to pick up a call, or even more annoying and time-consuming, call his voicemail. I can send pictures/videos of the kids and all sorts of fun things. Texting FTW!
Today I want to talk about the buzz surrounding Abercrombie and Fitch’s latest padded bikini top offering. I’ve no problem with padded bikini tops, except that these are made for their children’s line, which is marketed to girls as young as eight. It seems that when they first came out, they were advertised as “push up” tops, but that has since been removed. So sneaky, A & F!
The Wiggles certainly have their place in any child’s music catalogue, as does Raffi. But for my daughter’s go to dance music, it’s gotta be TMBG. I was never a huge fan of theirs when they were producing regular old pop music, but when they started recording the kid stuff, my fangirl status was cemented. They mix humor along with education, and who doesn’t like that? Nobody, that’s who.
I can’t stand the faux-folk, stripped-down, guitar-driven stuff that somehow has become so popular on the toddler circuit, and the female singers are the worst offenders (Elizabeth Mitchell and Lisa Loeb, I’m lookin’ at you). I don’t know why, but listening to them does not make me want to shake my thang, rather it is akin to having your hair ripped out of your head, strand by strand. I appreciate percussion instruments, that’s all I’m saying.
So I’m going to post this video from TMBG that is my daughter’s favorite, and I promise you will be singing it to yourself for the rest of the day. Yes, its that catchy. And cuter than hell, too.
Oh, or in case I’m pulling a “Xerox,” adhesive bandages.
A couple of days ago, I rather stupidly grated the top part of my finger along with the block of medium cheddar cheese. Note to self, next time you get close to the end of the block, just throw the damn thing out instead of trying to get every last shred out of it!
Anyhoo, I wound up needed to put a bandage on that sucker because it just would not stop bleeding.
After dinner I washed my hands, and what do you know, the bandage practically leaped off my finger. Cursing the fact that my husband had seen fit to buy a cheap drugstore brand, off I went in search of the good stuff.
Good stuff, applied.
Washed my face before going to bed. Needed another freaking bandage.
The next day I went through no fewer than six bandages, all of them committing hara kiri when I even so much as waved my hands in the direction of the sink.
As a kid, I remember having bandages applied to my skinned knees and actually dreading the moment I would have to rip it off. Unless it was reeaallly bad, I wouldn’t even want a bandage. Because back in the day, the bandages literally became one with your skin. Your cut would be totally healed and yet days later, extreme measures still had to be taken to get the bandage off.
The best place to bring the pain was the bathtub after you’d been in it for a while. Then, with your knee submerged, you would start to rip off one corner, and then yelp in pain. You knew you needed to just do it in one grand swoop, as your mother would remind you, but the pain of doing so was enough to almost make you pass out. Then, after much grimacing and the dramatic sucking in of air through teeth, you finally managed to remove it, along with the top three layers of epidermis. Then you would also have to deal with some of the little dark adhesive nubs (for lack of a better word) that refused to come off, unless you were willing to apply some elbow grease and alcohol. Which I never was.
Am I remembering things correctly, my friends? Were band aids indeed super-glued to your skin in the good old days?
Or have I stumbled off Memory Lane and onto Delusional Drive?