Parenting A Princess

Those of you who read the blog regularly, know that I have daily battles with both girls about what they're going to wear.  I want to be clear that these battles have nothing to do with me needing to exert control over them at the micro-level.  I don't care if what they put on matches.  I mean... when they come out with a pink shirt, lime green leggings and an orange skirt, I don't bat an eye. The other day, The Bean came out with her swimsuit on top of her jeans and shirt and I was just:  "Okay!  Ready to go?" Because otherwise, I'd never leave the house.  And I get it... there's so few things that they have control over, why can't they dress themselves?  Fine.  I'll roll with the punches as long as the punches are appropriate and don't hurt anyone.

Which is why I haven't brushed The Bean's hair in about a week. 

The problem arises because The Bird insists on wearing dresses every. damn. day.  It doesn't matter if it's raining or snowing or her face is on fire.  She wants to wear a dress.   I've accommodated her obsession by setting up ground rules that if it's raining, snowing or is cold outside, she has to wear leggings and a long sleeved shirt under the dress.  She's been somewhat okay with this agreement, but every once in a while, the wheels would fall off and we have a knock-down, drag-out fight.  This is usually because the leggings she wants to wear are nowhere to be found and those are clearly the ONLY leggings that she will allow to be worn with that dress.  And no... she doesn't want to wear another dress.  She wants to wear THIS dress and only THIS dress.  When I innocently ask if I should just get rid of the other dresses if she's not going to wear them, her face does, in fact, go up in flames. And at this point, I'll acknowledge it's really my fault that our morning veered so far off the track.  Because I am a stupid, stupid woman who is just stupid with the stupid questions. 

To further ruin our mornings, I've also put stipulations about what types of dresses she can wear to school each day.  Meaning that the super, fancy dress used for school performances is not an every day school type of dress.  Which drives her nuts.  She wants to dress up to the nines all. the. live. long. day... week... month... year.

There is no stopping this obsession.  It's like me with chocolate.  Only more maddening because chocolate is amazing and her dresses are the bane of my existence.

But here's the real problem.  It's not that she's wearing dresses.  I can live with the wearing of the dresses.  One of the reasons I loved summer when the kiddos were younger was the ease in which I could throw them into a dress and just be on our way.  No muss, no fuss.  And yes, the argument could be made that I've brought this on myself. And that argument will end with my punching you in your solar plexus because I. KNOW!

So, no... it's not that she's wearing dresses.  It's her behavior when she's wearing the dresses that makes me want to  put my finger through my eye, into my brain and swirl it around.  I'm not a fan. I've noticed that when she gets to wear her fancy dresses, or really any of her dresses, she doesn't want to play outside.  She'll stay in her room and change into 15 different dresses TWICE until she finds one she likes and then come out for 30 seconds before going back in and changing.  She hardly ever goes outside to enjoy nature and... what the hell is that yellow thing in the sky?  The sun???  And if she does go outside, she doesn't play like a kid is supposed to play.  She sits there demurely and watches other kids play.  She has princessized herself to the point that she isn't being a kid.  She's being a lump on a log, looking down at the other kids playing while she sits on her throne and blows on her nails while demanding I go grab her a sippy cup because she's parched. This is how I imagine Paris Hilton was as a child.  And so help me, God... I am not raising a Paris Hilton.  Death first!

The attitude that comes out when she is in princess mode is absolutely unbearable.  Holy mother of a headless goat, is she out of control. Even when she's not actually in the dress, she still has this insolent, spoiled princess attitude and makes demands the likes of which I, the 37-year-old with a college degree and a career, cannot and WILL NOT abide by.  Anymore. Mostly because she didn't say please.  But also because contrary to her belief, I'm not her servant and she can go get the damn sippy cup herself.

It is fair to say that I have not handled this phase of her beautiful childhood well.  In fact, last month I caught myself asking her if her legs were broken and if that's why she couldn't go get the blanket on the other side of the room?  You know... where she put it 30 seconds ago.  Because that's the adult way to handle something with your 4-year-old:  Sarcasm.

I also refuse to do things for her that I know she can do.  Like brush her teeth, chew her food and swallow her water for her.  Over the last few months, I have threatened her with taking away her dresses in order for her to understand that the behavior is just not acceptable.  I always give her a "last warning" and then forget that I've given her a last warning before giving her another "last warning".  And another.  And another.  Until my child has figured out that I apparently don't have the balls to take away her dresses because I don't want to deal with the ensuing nuclear fall out.

But last week... last week I'd had enough. Full disclosure, I was not at the top of my game last week.  I had been traveling. I was tired. I was irritable.  So, my handling of the situation was less than desirable. I admit this. And I'm sharing it with you anyway. Because that's what bravery looks like in 2014.  

To set the scene, let me explain that The Bird has rather sensitive skin and from time to time, we have to put lotion on the back of her hands to prevent some pretty painful dry skin issues.  As I was putting her to bed, I broke out the lotion that we use and was taken aback when she flipped out.  Her Highness was having NONE of it.  I asked, begged, pleaded and cajoled her until the little timer in my brain - the one labeled 'I've Had Enough of This Shit' - went off.

And cue the excellent parenting in 3-2-1:

"Alright!  We can either put on the lotion and you keep your dresses...  Or, I take away the dresses and THEN I STILL PUT ON THE LOTION. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO?  EITHER WAY... YOU'RE GETTING LOTION!!!!"  

Sounds super Silence of the Lambs, doesn't it?

Given my previous history, it's no wonder she decided to take the risk that I wouldn't follow through.  Except... yea, I did.  I may have been overly dramatic as I grabbed her dresses out of the closet, tripping on her dolly stroller on the way out of her room and throwing them into my room.  I may have scared her as I picked up the dresses that fell out of the first load and threw them in my room with the rest of them.  But that was it.  I was done.  D-O-N-E. Done.

Of course, the consequence for my consequence was miserable for everyone.  She was heartbroken. I was a huffing, puffing monster angry over lotion.  LOTION. Yea, I was mad... but seeing my little girl so heartbroken?  Not my favorite memory.  I was Mother Gothel, Ursula the Sea Witch and Malificent all rolled into one.

It isn't my best look.

Once we had both calmed down, we had a heart-to-heart.  I explained to her that her behavior was no longer going to be tolerated.  I had to explain behavior and tolerated to her, so that took an additional LIFETIME, but we got there.  I then explained that she would get her dresses back.  Some day.  But she would have to earn those dresses. Meaning she needed to be on her best behavior.  She needed to do what I asked. She needed to be kind to her sister and be happy.  No more crying over what she wanted to wear in the morning. And then... well, then we'd see.

The next morning, she woke up and asked if she could have her dresses back.  Because she missed them.  Cue the clarification that being on your best behavior while you slept didn't count and she'd get her dresses back after she proved that she deserved her dresses.

That was a week ago.  And in that week... OMG has this child been the best kid ever. And not just because she's trying to get her dresses back.  She was playing like kids are supposed to do.  Climbing trees, riding her bike, getting dirty, picking up garter snakes, playing with the dog and her sister... all without worrying about getting her dress dirty or tearing the fabric when it got caught on a branch.  She even started wearing her sneakers again... without complaining. 

Is it bad that I like my kid better when she doesn't have dresses?  My mornings were amazing for an entire week (minus the meltdowns over the placement of her piggy-tails... but cutting her hair seems like it would be too traumatizing for both of us so we'll just have to figure something else out).  

I won't lie... I have considered NEVER giving her dresses back.  Again... not because I'm anti-dress.  I'm just anti-princess-attitude and I'm pro-mud-pies, pro-snake-wrangling, pro-scrape-your-knees, pro-run-through-the-sprinklers-fully-clothed, pro-climb-a-tree, pro-bike-riding and pro-Get-Out-And-Live.  All things that the princess wasn't doing.  Until last week.

Yesterday I got my Mother's Day gift from The Bird.  She made it at school and drew the pictures all by herself.  She was very proud of it.

As I read the story about why she loves me out loud, I almost choked on the third point.  I was further taken down a notch when she corrected what her lovely teacher had so clearly edited for my benefit:

"No mommy!  You take away my dresses and MAKE me go to sleep.  MAKE!"

So.

The Bird got her dresses back today.

Because I think we have all learned our lesson.

Nytro

Finding my cat's old collar in the console of my car last week got me to thinking about her... and I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.  

I got Nytro from a shelter in Huntsville when I was in college.  My roommate and I both decided that if no one would date us, we may as well start being the Crazy Cat Ladies and really sell the crazy.  And yes, we also started The Boys Don't Like Me Club.  I believe I was President because I was the oldest, and I'm told that's how things work.

It was a good plan.  

Shortly thereafter, I met Benny... who wasn't exactly a fan of Nytro (nor she of him) but because they both loved me, they found a way to make it work.

I had her for 13 years.  She died in 2010, when I was about 6 months pregnant with The Bean.  

A lifetime ago. 

The day after she died, I went to the coffee shop with my laptop and big belly, and poured my heart into a blog.  Cheap therapy.

When I found the entry today, it made me think about things from a different perspective than I had before.  I guess that's what growing up does for you.  

I had Nytro for longer than I've been married, and yet... I got too busy for her.  When I became a mother, she became an afterthought.  I began rushing through so much of my life, that I didn't notice parts of my life were being neglected and withering away.  As I read this, I realized there are so many things in my life that I haven't been attentive to.  When you've got two kids under the age of 4, well, you get caught up in just living that life.  Surviving each day.  You're trying to soak up every moment ... and at the same time, trying not to let those moments drive you insane.  And it just seems like we need to slow down.  We need to take care of the things and people around us who matter.  Who sometimes become a low priority because you've got kids who need you to wipe their butt or their nose, who need you to 'watch diss!', who need you to feed them and read them a story and cuddle with them and take care of them when they're sick.  They're the vocal ones. They NEED to be vocal to survive.  You just can't ignore them because they won't LET you. You're not allowed to have adult conversation in front of them because it's all about them.  But there are others - other people, other things - that don't speak up.  They may not be dying, but you're losing touch with them.  You're losing touch with things that fulfill your soul and help make you complete.  Gardening, reading, writing, date night, girl's night out.  All of these things... you need them in your life. 

Nytro... she was never vocal.  And I lost her.  And in doing so, lost a part of myself.  

I need to remember that.  

--------------------------------

November 27, 2010
Dear Nytro,
I wish I had left you there. Under your favorite bush. The one that always seems to be in the direct line of the sun, and you would doze for hours under. The one that also served as camouflage when you didn't want to be found.

If I had left you there, maybe things would have been easier.

For you.

For me.

Even for Benny.

But I didn't. When we got home from our Thanksgiving trip to the farm, we found you laying under that bush, just like you always have.

Only you weren't sunning yourself. It was 30 degrees out. And you weren't moving.

I thought you were dead.

I called out your name, and you didn't even flinch. I touched you, and your tail only lightly twitched. And you still didn't raise your head or open your eyes.

I wish I had left you there. I wish I had gone in, grabbed a blanket and a hot pad... and let you die the way you lived life. Comfortably and on your own terms.

I could have sat there with you in the garden, by your favorite bush.  It would have been a cold, yet peaceful passing.

Instead, I took you from your chosen location, wrapped you in a towel and rushed you to the vet. To the place you hated most in this world. To a world full of stainless steel tables, IV's and vet techs rushing around trying to stave off the inevitable.

Has city living really taken that much of the farm out of me? I grew up understanding clearly the circle of life. I had never seen a pet actually die in front of my eyes, but I have heard the sound of the rifle when a horse had to be put down. I saw  the anguish in my parents eyes when they had to tell us that they accidentally ran over the dog or the cat.

And all of that sucked. But I got over it and moved on.

After all, this is how life works. Rarely did a dog or cat live past five years on the farm. Exposure to the elements, dangers from the highway, coyotes or even neighbors who have too much time and bullets on their hands.... this was all a part of having pets.

But you... you were different. 13 years old. I can't believe you made it that long. I can't believe that the little kitten I brought home from the shelter 13 years ago and who had nothing but attitude from day one was still around after graduation from college, marriage, a new house, a baby and another pregnancy. It was my new instinct to do whatever I could to help you. You were only 13... you still had a few more years left.

On the drive there, in the back of my mind I knew that when older animals are ready to die, they usually find a quiet place to go - like a favorite bush - to make the transition. And I blew it for you. But I wasn't ready yet. One day later and I'm still not ready.

As we sat there with you in the room, and the vet talked about things like kidney failure and total body shutdown, I just looked into your mostly lifeless eyes. You never blinked. You were already gone, weren't you? Your body hadn't quite stopped working at that point, but you were ready to go.

Benny says that you held on as long as you did so that you could say good-bye. I don't know if that's true or not. See, for the rest of my life, I'll believe that I'm responsible for your death. I will never believe that it was your "time to go".

While yesterday was pretty much a blur, I remember the vet asking me when you started to lose weight. He asked how long you had smelled so bad. He asked if you were drinking water. He asked when was the last time I noticed that you were "normal".

I didn't really have an answer for any of those questions. Had I noticed you had lost weight? Yes. On Monday I picked you up and thought you felt lighter. But in my haste of being a Mommy, I attributed it to the fact that my "normal" these days is that of a 28 pound toddler. I noticed that day that you seemed a little sluggish. But I thought it might just be the cold and since you were getting older, it was effecting you more.

When was the last time you were normal? When was the last time I did more than give you a passing pat on the back or rub on the head as I was feeding you? When was the last time I did more than acknowledge your existence when Hazel was petting you before I rushed her into the car to go to the store or school or a play date?

Weeks?

Months?

I failed you, Nytro. In the worst way.

While we sat in that room hoping your body would warm up, I rubbed your ears. I scratched your chin. I told you that it was okay if you had to go. That you had lived a good life. Your eyes sparked a little when I scratched your chin. That always was your favorite. You had lost your voice, but it seemed like you were trying to talk to me. But they said that it was just spasms.

When the vet was finally able to get an IV in after 30 minutes of trying due to your collapsed veins, I started to think that maybe you were going to pull through this. You always were a fighter. You rarely backed down from a fight with the neighborhood strays that sometimes ventured onto our property. Of course, you also knew that in any fight, Benny or I would soon be bursting through the door in our bathrobes ready to take out whichever cat was messing with you that night.

So, when you started to perk up after they got some fluids in you, I felt myself relax with relief. You were going to be okay. Just had to get some fluids in you... maybe some meds... and pamper you for a little while.

I thought that we had dodged a bullet.

As the vet talked about what was possibly going on with you, you started to struggle... like you were trying to get up and move.  At first I thought: There's my girl. Hates the vet!!

But then, I knew... something wasn't right.

"What's wrong?"

The vet listened to your heart. There was a rapid heartbeat, but you weren't breathing. Suddenly, you gave one last huge exhale. Your eyes dilated. Your heart stopped.

And that was it.

You were gone.

Just like that. Right in front of me.

Words continue to fail me when I think about witnessing that event. When I think about what you went through in those final moments... when I think about the relief I felt mere seconds before you died... my heart breaks into pieces.

I remember looking at the vet and asking him if he was sure you were gone. I couldn't believe it. Just like that. So fast. Gone.

It's so unfair.

I want a chance to make it up to you. I want the chance to sit with you on the porch and rub your belly again. I want the chance to take you to the vet the second I noticed your weight loss. I want to hear the little bell on your collar jingle outside the door to remind me that it was 5 minutes until dinner time and you wanted to let me know that you knew this.

I want you to meet our new baby in February.

I could have prevented this. And I didn't. Because I was busy. Because I felt like you could take care of yourself. Because life got in the way.

And for that, I'll never forgive myself.

After you passed, we were left with the decision of what to do next. It's too cold here to bury anything in the ground, and I decided I didn't need your ashes. I wouldn't know what to do with them. I said good-bye to your spirit... I was in the room when you made the transition, and didn't need anything else. I even refused the paw-print ornament that they offered to make. I don't know why... other than the fact that I already have a lifetime of memories of you, and more pictures than I know what to do with. An ornament doesn't really seem your style, you know? A framed hairball seems to be more you. But, I'll settle for your collar and bell.

It breaks my heart to know that when we go out in the mornings to get into the car, Hazel will look for you, and you won't be there. She will never again point at you, say "Kee-Kee!" and then excitedly walk over to you while you are eating and softly pet you. She won't remember you. She'll never get to laugh at you when you get another haircut in the summer. She'll never get to snuggle with you and hear you purring.

But, I'll remember all of that. I'll remember those 13 years with fondness. Both the good and the bad.

I'll remember how you never wanted to drink out of your water dish... preferring instead my glass of water. I'll remember how you never ever got aggressive with us... but let us know of your displeasure by peeing in our shoes or the closet. I'll remember how when you were little, you would wait for me to get home from practice and hop in the shower, and would then jump on the counter, grab my elastic band I had just taken from my hair and take it to my closet and hide it in an old pair of shoes I never wore. I found those hair bands 9 months later when I was throwing those shoes out. I'll remember the exact day when I realized that I didn't own a cat, but that my cat owned me. It was the day I ended up apologizing to you for yelling at you for knocking over my drink. I'll remember the first night I brought you home and you snuggled up in the crook of my neck and slept there all night. I'll remember how you were a one-person cat who didn't really need anyone else in her life. I'll remember all the days we made fun of your cow bag... especially after a haircut. I'll remember how much you hated getting a haircut, but how much you enjoyed it after the fact. I'll remember how you used to look out the window at the birds and smack your lips. I'll never have a Christmas where I don't remember you sleeping under the tree for a month. I'll remember when you caught a baby quail and brought it into the house to play with... and then got bored. Watching me chase that baby bird around the house was definitely entertaining for you. I think I even saw you smile, before regaining your composure and feigning indifference. I'll remember the day I found a rat in the house... a rat that was bigger than you.  You took one look at it, then me standing on the bed with a broom over my head screaming... and then slowly turned around and left me to fend for myself.  I found you later on the couch dozing.  I'll remember how you never got too excited or upset about anything. EVER. You had the most calm demeanor of any cat I've known... except if dinner was late.

But I'll never forget the fact that you were there for me during some rough times in my life. When all you had to do was curl up in my lap and start purring and I knew that things would be okay. The weekend when both Benny and my roommate moved away.  When I was broke as a joke and couldn't afford to fill up the car with gas, much less give you as much food as you wanted. As long as I had you, everything was fine. The therapy you provided me in those days was amazing and those who don't have pets... will never understand.

I'm sorry that I failed you in your time of need, Nytro. I will never not feel guilty about the role I played in your passing. And the fact that your passing wasn't what you had hoped for.

But thank you for hanging on long enough to say good-bye.

I will always love you.

Resolved

I'm a little late on posting my resolutions for 2014.  Every time I sit down to think about what I'd like to accomplish this year, someone needs their butt wiped... or has spilled some milk... or is mad because someone else is looking at her.

But to be honest, I'm just not a big fan of the idea that I need a list of things that I need to accomplish in 12 months to make me a better person...a happier, more fulfilled, slightly less heavy person.  Look, we ALL know that there's no way I'm going to stop popping my zits, no matter how many times I end up looking like I got hit with shrapnel getting ready for work that morning.  We ALL know that I will continue to procrastinate... because at this point, it really is an art form.  We ALL know that keeping up with the laundry is for women who I simply can't be friends with.  We ALL know that I'm not going to give up chocolate or Coke or any of my many other "vices".  Because deep down?  I really don't want to.  I love my vices. 

So, no lists.  

But, that doesn't mean that I haven't been thinking about my life.  About where I am, where I thought I would be and where I want to be.  And I keep thinking of the typical resolutions and how it's so easy to get overwhelmed by lists and goals.  Please.... I know me and I know that within a couple of months, I'll forget my resolution.  Probably because the kids will be fighting and all semblance of self-control will be out the window and I'll find the nearest mirror (preferably in my own home, but it could be at Target) and start popping zits.  Resolution be damned.

The other day I ran into a woman, a Presbyterian minister, who told me that her resolution this year was to live ferociously.  Ferociously. Wow.  What can anyone say about that?  Nothing.  And you know why?  Because it's perfect.  She's out there living her life... ferociously.  And we should all take note that we, too, should be living ferociously.  If only to say: "Hi, I'm living ferociously!  And you are....?"

OMG.  That - THAT RIGHT THERE - is poetry.  In word and in action.  POETRY.  I'm a big fan of this woman already.  She took one word and has owned it.  She has let it guide her in her decision-making process and it is helping her break down walls that she had up before deciding to live ferociously. 

So, I started thinking about the one word that has kept coming up in several areas of my life lately, and I've decided to follow her example and harness the word that I can't seem to escape as my word for 2014:  Grow.

I know.  Pretty anticlimactic compared to "ferociously", but screw it... that's my word and I'm sticking to it.  

I often look at myself and see a one-dimensional being.  I can do a lot of things well, but those things all have one thing in common:  athleticism.  I can do some nice things with a basketball or a volleyball and have played both competitively.  I can swim, run and bike and have competed in enough triathlons to make me seriously question my sanity.  I can pick heavy things up and put them down, which makes me feel uber feminine.  And I can catch a dirty diaper thrown 90mph across the room with my left hand, while I stir marinara on the stove.  For the love of Pete, I even work in college athletics because that's what I know... it's what I have the skills for. 

But those are things I've been doing since I was a kid (minus the dirty diaper skill... that's a newly aquired skill).  And they come very easily to me.  The old saying if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always got rings so true for me.  And in the past, I haven't dared step out of my comfort zone to try something new.  If something intrigued me, I was fine to acknowledge that I was intrigued, and then go play some volleyball.  I would blow it off as not worthy of my time or energy to try.  Because, you know, I might not be good at it.  I might fail.  I might fall so hard on my face that it leaves an indent in the floor.  And for me... failure is not an option. Ever.  

No more.

In 2014, I'm going to be open to any and everything.  I'm going to reach.  I'm stepping outside my "normal" and not letting fear stop me.  How can I tell my daughters to grow and try something new... if I won't?  They see that.  They see everything.  They know that I only do the things that make me comfortable... where there's no room for growth.  And I have a healthy suspicion that that is why they won't eat their broccoli.

To that end, I've been asked to perform a reading in the Good Company Theater's production of The Vagina Monologues this month. All proceeds go directly to the YCC.  If you are interested in tickets, go to the Good Company Theater's site.  The show runs February 20-23, and I am in the Friday/Sunday cast.  I'm so honored and proud to be a part of something that empowers women and does so much good for our community.This is so far outside my comfort zone that I'm not sure we're even in the same galaxy.  And falling on your face in front of a room full of friends and/or strangers... well, you know what they say:  Go hard or go home.  I'm going hard.

Grow.

I read this article today and it spoke to my soul.  Especially these two quotes: 

Most of us become mothers before we become ourselves. We don't grow into our minds, hearts or bodies until our 30s when we've already been parenting for years.

I feel like I'm failing as a mother most of the time and I'm not succeeding as myself either.

 I could have written those words. I should have written those words.  For years, I have been subconsciously fighting a... well, a calling.  For some reason, I have found it unacceptable to acknowledge that I want to write... that I think I have important things to say.  I read too many blogs and question whether or not my voice matters.  I have made excuses as to why I haven't been writing: writers block, don't have enough time, don't want our friends to see how crazy I really am, no one cares what I have to say or what I think, how can I compete with all of those amazing women writing blogs?  But, in the last few months, a few friends and the man that I sleep with have been prodding me to make a decision on this little hobby of mine.  Fish or cut bait, as Benny would say.

Grow.
 

I have never thought about writing as a career... but maybe I should.  Stranger things have happened, so why should I limit myself?  To that end, I'm going to say out loud - for the first time ever - my dream truth.  

I'm a writer.   

Grow.  

I'm making a personal commitment here and now to dedicate more time to my craft... my passion.  Who knows what it will bring?  Maybe nothing.  But I am finally acknowledging that I never will know unless I put my neck out there and...

Grow.

Fragile

Raising two little girls isn't easy.  More importantly, it isn't for wusses.  Benny and I... we're a lot of things.  Wusses?  Not one of them.

So, it's important to us that we not raise wusses.  Mostly because of the whining.  Because whining?  It's for wusses. And there's one thing that I have waaayyy too much of in my life, and that's whining.

We are raising tough, strong and brave girls.  Ask my girls what Nadolski's are, and they'll tell you that they're tough.... stwong... and bwave.  Also, turns out that they're bit strong-willed.  Or stubborn mules as Benny has said.  But since that's definitely something they get from him, he can just deal with it.  I had nothing to do with that bit of nonsense.

Nope.

Which is why the conversation I had with one of The Bean's teachers today was particularly distressing.  Apparently, my little Bean has been going around telling everyone... teachers, other kids, the school pet rock... that she's fragile.

FRAGILE.

My daughter?  FRAGILE?  Have you met this kid?  There is no way in the world that she could be considered anything remotely close to fragile.

This is the child that regularly runs into the doorknob... any all doorknobs... with.her.head., and shakes it off like it's nothing.  This is the 2 year-old child that jumped off a box at gymnastics that was twice as tall as she is, and stuck the landing.  This is the child that runs into the fridge full bore while she's looking at something behind her and bounces off of it like it's made of rubber. This is the child that, well.. she did this a few months ago:



Secondly, where in the world has she even heard the word fragile?  I boxed up all of our good wine glasses after we had her because she was a bull in a china cabinet even when she was unable to walk.  There's nothing fragile in our home, with the exception of Daddy's whiskey collection. 

This child?  Anything but fragile.

I often wonder about what we teach our girls about what they can be and who they are in this world... and then what the world teaches them about what girls are supposed to be, what they can or cannot do and what they should or should not like. And you know what?  Not impressed with the world sometimes. 

We put pink on a toy and make little girls think that a toy in any other color is for boys.  And that that's somehow bad. There are whole aisles in stores dedicated to brainwashing our children as to what they should be playing with based on their gender.  Insanity.  I tell both girls almost daily that there is no such thing as a boy toy or a girl toy.  It's just a toy.  The damn color doesn't make one bit of difference in it's ability to be... a toy. 

Who cares if it's pink?  What if my daughter likes blue? Or orange?  Or God forbid, brown??  Because Daddy wears brown all the time and saves the fishies and how awesome is that?  What if she wants to play with the yellow, blue and red Legos instead of the pink and purple Legos? What if she wants to play with a Transformer or pretend to be an astronaut?

Super cool, right?

But instead of doing that, she begins to question what she likes or dislikes because all of her friends are wearing pink or purple and playing with Barbies.  Where's their originality, their individualism... their truth?  How will they ever stand out from the herd, if they look exactly like everyone else in the herd?

At gymnastics, I caught one of the little boys telling The Bean that she couldn't swing on the rope because she was a girl.  And "girls can't do that." 

Son of a .... you want to give me a nervous tick?  Go ahead and tell me that I can't do something or shouldn't do something because I'm a girl. And then watch me do it.  Watch me stick the landing. And then watch me flip you the bird a la Ross in Friends.

Wanna see my head explode?  Tell my girls they can't do something because they are female.  I don't care if the offender in question is male or female... black or white... is 4 or 40.  Not. Cool. And I will cut you.

But, since I'm supposedly the grown-up in this scenario and flipping off a 4-year-old is frowned upon, I had to grit my teeth and say happily, yet firmly so as not to leave any doubt that Nadolski's are not to be trifled with when it comes to equality and OMG I will not be having my girls treated as anything but equals on the playground or in life: "That's nonsense... you can do anything a boy can do.  And you might even do it better.  Go tell him you want a turn."

And to my immense pride, she did just that.  And this little 4-year-old boy, possibly sensing something was amiss, shrugged his shoulders and gave her a turn on the swing.

Which is good because my next instructions to The Bean would have been to head butt him.

Because standing up for yourself?  That's the new fragile.

On Making My Children Miserable

Things I have failed at so far in 2014, according to my children:

1. Didn't let The Bird lick the inside of an egg shell
2. Made The Bean wear a nightgown with 3/4 sleeves.  So they're neither short, nor long.  Maddening for a 2YO.
3. Didn't let The Bird wear a short skirt and a tank top in 20 degree weather.
4. Let The Bird go out in a short skirt and tank to in 20 degree weather and it was too cold and she's fffffff-freezing!
5. Forcefully removed a band-aid from The Bird's arm that was starting to grown into the skin and was causing her pain.
6. Didn't share my coffee with The Bean.
7. Made The Bird wear underwear.
8. Made The Bean wear underwear.
9. Gave The Bird a choice of three different pairs of shoes that are appropriate for snow and ice... flip flops weren't one of the options.
10. Didn't let The Bean unlock the car with her magic key. 
11. The Bird's magic wand isn't letting her fly around like she told it to.  My fault.
12. Didn't let The Bird leave a tack in her bed.
13. Didn't make the pancakes big enough.
14. Didn't give The Bird the small pancake.
15. Let Bonnie poop in the snow. 
16. Didn't put enough syrup on The Bird's pancake.
17. Took away the Costco receipt that both girls were fighting over. 
18. Let The Bird's teacher stop teaching to take care of her family. 
19. Didn't send The Bird to her room when she didn't want to play with The Bean.
20. Didn't send The Bean to her room when she didn't want to play with The Bird. 
21. Didn't give The Bird medicine when her teeth started to fake hurt.
22. Didn't give The Bean medicine when her sister's teeth started to fake hurt.
23. Didn't make The Bean tell The Bird that she liked her hair.
24. Was unable to tell Elmo that The Bean doesn't like Velvet in Elmo's World.
25. Have not yet fixed The Bird's lamp... and I never, ever, ever fix anything of hers.
26. Made dinner that wasn't candy.
27. Didn't let The Bird put on my makeup.
28. Didn't let The Bean play with the butcher knife.
29. Didn't play Let It Go from Frozen for the 51st time in a row.
30. Reminded both girls that Poopy-Face is not an acceptable term of endearment.  Unless you're talking to the dog. And even then.... you have to be a Mommy to be able to say that.
31. Laughed when The Bird got stuck putting on a pair of stockings.
32. Didn't think it was super funny that The Bean kept kicking the back of my seat in the truck.
33. Didn't fast forward through the commercials fast enough.
34. Broke The Bean's sled when we went on an epic ride down the hill. 
35. Didn't let The Bean stand on the door of the dishwasher while I was loading it.
36. Didn't sit in the bathroom captivated and watch The Bean poop.
37. Made The Bean clean up the Cheerios she spilled, instead of letting the dog eat it.
38. Didn't coddle The Bird when she fell off her chair because she wasn't sitting on her bummy.
39. Didn't coddle The Bean when she did the exact same thing 30 seconds later... because she did it on purpose.
40. They couldn't smell the shampoo for some reason... and that's my fault.
41. Didn't stop the snow from melting.
42. These strawberries are cut up... and they wanted them whole.  Fix it, mama.
43.  IT'S NOT CHRISTMAS, ANYMORE!

Things I've done right in 2014, according to me:

1. Loved my girls.
2. Loved their father.
3. Tolerated the dog.
4. Liquor cabinet fully stocked.

The Village

One of the things I've kind of missed since becoming an apostate (gasp!  swoon!  judge!) is the constant sense of community I had through my religion when I was growing up.  When I was a kid, this sense of community was at once awesome and a TOTAL pain in the ass.

Awesome when the adults in your church knew your parents wouldn't be able to come to a basketball game, and showed up to support you as your "Subby Parents".  Several times. And why this is so unbelievably noble is because this was high school girls basketball... in Idaho... in the 90's.  And even though we thought we were bad ass (and compared to schools in Utah that we regularly beat up on, we were)(lookin' at you, Sky View, Logan and Mountain Crest)... c'mon!  Even I can't sit through a high school girls basketball game now without wanting to lay down on the bleachers and take a nice nap... or throw my shoes at the girls on the court because seriously?  GET IT TOGETHER AND TRY NOT TO MAKE MY EYES BLEED WITH THIS NONSENSE.  And yet these people came to support because they knew you, they knew your family and they loved you.  If sitting through high school girls basketball games for someone you're not directly related to you isn't love, I don't know what is.  

A total pain in the ass when the Relief Society President calls your parents to rat you out after  you pass her on the highway while racing a friend on the way to school... and apparently, 92 mph is FROWNED UPON ON THESE HIGHWAYS.

I remember when I moved to Ogden, I was so glad to be moving away from that small town and the seeing eyes and tattletales.  After 18 years of "village" living, I couldn't wait to be anonymous.  Well, as anonymous as you could get in Ogden, UT.  Which, luckily, turned out to be just the right amount.

But, after having children, one of the things that I have struggled with is the idea that my children weren't going to necessarily have the sense of community that I had growing up because they aren't going to be raised LDS... you know, because of the whole apostate thing.

In the last few years, though, I have come to realize that here in Ogden, my girls don't need to be affiliated with a specific religion to feel a sense of community.  To feel loved.  To feel protected and cared for.  Because that sense of community emanates from the city itself.  It is palpable when we walk into the coffee shop and the owners know us by name and ask the girls about the puppy.... when we ride our bikes through the neighborhood on a warm January day, and everyone who drives by honks and waves their encouragement. 

We're not special.  That community feeling, the love for your neighbors and your fellow man... well, it sounds trite, but here the idea of "it takes a village" extends to everyone... young and old.  It's something that our people not only believe, but practice daily. Our people run and bike the trails on a dark, cold and icy January night with nothing but a headlamp and the stars for light, looking for someone who went missing after a hike.  Our people stop what they're doing to help tie ribbons all over town for a family who lost a child.  Our people read about your friend with terminal cancer who lives thousands of miles away, and donate to his fundraiser... simply because at one point, he was a member of this community.  And you're a member of this community. Our people spend a Saturday downtown teaching our kids the importance of taking care of our rivers... teaching them the value of our natural resources.  All the while noting that they are our most valuable natural resource. They are our future village. They're  learning from us and seeing our example of how to take care of our world, our village... our people.

In this town, we're all "Subby Parents"... showing up to take care of each other when we need it. And, that, my friends... that's a community you want to live in.

It's authentic.

It's spiritual.

It's a village.

Daddy The (Fashion) Menace

Dear Girls -
When the day comes when you cry and scream that you hate me and that I'm trying to ruin your social life, I shall calmly pull out this picture and remind you that PLEASE. YOUR FATHER TOOK CARE OF THAT A LOOOONNNNNGGGG TIME AGO.  

It's called Epic Parenting.  AND I WE HAS IT.

Love,
Mama

50 Reasons Why We're Late

Full disclosure, I stole this idea from Suburban Jungle. And also? She's my new hero.

We're late.  A lot.  And although sometimes it's totally my fault, most of the time it's the fault of the Little Dictators to whom we provide food, shelter and unconditional love.  And I can only console myself with the fact that pre-kids, I gave my mommy friends a lot of leeway when showing up late for something... because I had a feeling I would end up in a similar boat and didn't want karma to kick me in the face. Let this be a lesson for all of you Not Yet Parents or Never Want To Be Parents.  Take it easy on us... we have a whole 'notha life going on.

So, in Suburban Jungle style, here is a list of reasons of why our little family is late all the live long day.  I want to be clear that each of these things has happened at some point... some have happened at the same time because if we're going to be late, let's really make it worth our while.  As twisted as my mind is, even I couldn't make up some of the ridiculousness that is listed below.

So here they are, in no particular order:

50 Reasons Why We're Late
1 - The Bean can't find her tie shoes.  Because Mommy threw them away.

2 - There wasn't enough milk put into the Cheerios.  Hostages were taken.

3 - The Bird's socks weren't smiling at her.

4 - It's not Tumblebus day at school, so we have no incentive to get moving.

5 - The kids made me drink and I had to sober up.  Which is why we just decided to walk, mkay?

6 - Bonnie chewed on the corner of The Bean's blanket.  Causing The Bean's face to melt off.

7 - We're not going to make it to Second Breakfast at school anyway, so who cares?

8 - I had to wrestle a badger.  Which is to say I had to clip The Bird's talons toenails .

9 - The Little Dictators wanted more bacon.

10 - The Little Dictators insisted on toenail polish because I had new polish on my toes.

11 - I lost track of time because I was hiding in the closet, eating the one slice of bacon left... and painting my toenails.

12 - The Bird's leotard is making her bummy itch.

13 - The Bird wants the leotard that The Bean is wearing.

14 - The Bean has taken off all of her clothes to go potty.

15 - The Bird tried to put The Bean's leotard on and got stuck.

16 - The Bean refused to let me help her put on underwear.  And then got stuck in said underwear.

17 - The Bird discovered that The Bean was wearing her underwear and "She's already pooped in three pairs of my undies, Mama!!"

18 - While spinning around in circles, The Bean managed to run into the fridge eyeball first.

19 - The Bird had an imaginary owie that needed three bandaids.

20 - We couldn't find The Bean's Cat In The Hat socks.

21 - The Bird couldn't decide which baby she should take for Show&Share.

22 - The Bean had to go to timeout because she couldn't remember not to hit Mommy when she didn't get her way.

23 - The Bean had to go to timeout because the words "poopy butt" were banned after she said it to a little old lady at the store.  And they certainly are banned at the breakfast table.

24 - The Bird called the The Bean "Earwax" and Mommy had to go into timeout so they didn't see her laugh hysterically, lest they decide that calling someone Earwax is encouraged in our family.

25 - Mommy can't find her phone.

26 - Mommy can't find her keys.

27 - Daddy has Mommy's keys.  But left his phone home.  So Mommy is keyless and upset.

28 - On the way out of the door, it comes to Mommy's attention that wait... WHY DID YOU TAKE YOUR SHOES AND SOCKS OFF???

29 - The Bird decided that shorts go much better with her winter coat than long pants.

30 - The braid in The Birds hair isn't quite perfect.  START AGAIN, MOMMY.

31 - "We've only had 3 bran muffins each.  We need 16."

32 - The Bean needs to poop.

33 - The Bird needs to poop.

34 - The Bird does not like the jacket she's supposed to wear. 

35 - "But I wanna watch Super Why!!  I never get to watch Super Why!" This, after two episodes of Super Why that morning.

36 - Mommy had to run in and get the vitamins she forgot to give them over breakfast.  Because without them, both may end up with scurvy due to a lack of nutritional elements that chicken nuggets and peas don't provide.

37 - "It snowed!!  DID YOU SEE IT SNOWED?  WOOK AT DAT!  IT SNOWED, MAMA!  Wookit!  Wookit!  WOOKIT, MAMA!  YOU ARE NOT WOOKING!!!"

38 - Time to eat snow.

39 - The dog got on top of the table and started eating the bran muffins the kids had left while taking their shoes off.  So... we need more muffins!

40 - The Little Dictators found out that where we're going?  Doesn't have cookies.

41 - "But whhhyyyyyy do I have to wear pants?"

42 - The Bird had a meltdown because I used The Bean's flyswatter to kill the moth, instead of her flyswatter.

43 - The girls got in a knock-down fight over who got to climb in the car first.

44 - The girls want to see the video Mommy just took of them fighting over who got to climb in the car first.

45 - The Bean needs a tissue for her nose.  NOT THE TOILET PAPER YOU BROUGHT HER.  Heads will roll.

46 - Desperately needed to read Go, Dog, Go!  For the 32nd time.

47 - The Bean decided to wash her cup in the toilet.

48 - The Bean decided that her walls needed a splash of Crayon color.

49 - "I wanna do it!" is the refrain heard from both girls for everything from buckling their car seats to getting out of the car. 

50 - Both girls were downstairs playing quietly and Mommy decided she was actually going to enjoy a cup of coffee, because that moment has been 4 years in the making.  Fine.  This one's on me.

November In The Mountains

Both Hazel and I have fought a particularly nasty head cold that's been floating around the city lately, and today we all finally felt well enough for all of us to take a walk on the river... one of our favorite things to do in Ogden.  

So, we all drove down to the Ogden River and walked along the newly restored section.  We saw, bikers, joggers, walkers and DUCKS!  Ducks that The Bonnie quickly chased upstream, but ducks nonetheless. The Bird picked wildflowers which I think is probably frowned upon... but when a 4-year-old hands you a flower that she picked and says proudly:  "This is for you, because I wuv you," you take the flower, stick it behind your ear, give her a hug and hold on to that memory FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

The girls love to throw rocks, and the river is the only place that they're allowed to do so.  I'm sure the fisherman in Daddy was cringing on the inside... but we weren't there to fish, we were there to experience.  We were there to make memories.  We were there to laugh.  And we did it all.  We played in the leaves, posed for pictures and got our hands dirty in the mud.  That's okay, though... because if we know anything, we know that Mommy's jeans are perfect to wipe dirty little hands on... heaven forbid we wipe them on our own jeans.  Heaven forbid we wipe our boogers on the bottom of our shoes, when Mommy's leg is right. there.  But that's another story. 

After playing in the river, we walked over to a riverside park and played for a while before heading down for lunch at Slackwater.  Fantastic pizza special yesterday... European Union.  With gnocchi!  Gnocchi on a pizza?  ARE YOU KIDDING ME WITH THIS BIT OF BRILLIANCE?  And the kiddos got their very own cheese pizza... of which Millie at 3/4 of on her own and left Hazel saying:  "But... I'm still hungry!"  And left me saying:  "You're going to have to learn this lesson earlier than I expected, but kiddo, you gotta get yours while you can.  It's every woman for herself with the food hits the table."   

Anyway, great meal and awesome view over the river.  Oh and... um... we NEED MORE SLACKWATERS on the river.  Seriously... people could will make a KILLING if they have river views from a cafe/coffee shop/wine bar on the river.  OH. MY. GOD.  We need a wine bar on the river!  We need a coffee shop/smoothie joint!  One that allows pets!  And sells, I dunno... doggie treats as well!  THEY COULD MAKE A KILLING THERE.  You know what else?  We need a cookie shop... they kind where you can make your own ice cream sandwich.  RIGHT. ON. THE. RIVER.  And you could eat said ice cream out on the patio... overlooking the river.  We need a little deli-type restaurant on the river... one where you could pull over after a run/walk and grab something healthy to eat... and a beer because OF COURSE!... and just enjoy the day on the river. 

I've got big plans for Ogden.  Not so much the funds... but big plans.  

Anyway, that was our Saturday in Ogden. 70 degrees in November?  I'll take it.  Benny took a bunch of footage of the river... which turns out to be unusable because he had it set on low resolution and the perfectionist in him cannot. handle. it.  The plan was to go back today but it freaking snowed.  SNOWED.

Welcome to life in Ogden, Utah.

Besties

For the last year or so, we've been noticing that Hazel has been, well, kinda... OVAH her sister.  In some ways, I can't say I blame her.  I mean... Millie is on Hazel like a tick.  Anything, and I do mean ANYTHING, that Hazel says or does... Millie then says or does.  It doesn't matter if Hazel accidentally fell down while walking, Millie will stop what she's doing, walk over to the same spot, fall down and then proceed to recreate the exact same kind of drama that Hazel just dished out.

Which is why for a few months, they were introduced to strangers as Pete and Repeat.

And Hazel... well, you could tell that she'd had it. She would tell us that she just wanted to be by herself without Millie.  She would actually go into her room and shut the door and play. By herself.  Which is completely unheard of for that little girl.  She who wants Mommy and Daddy to play with her ALL THE TIME.  She who is incapable of She who had to take a trip with Daddy to Phoenix just to get some alone time.

Millie... well, she can't handle it when sissy isn't right there.  It often leads me to wonder how she would behave if she didn't have a big sister.  Would she know what to do with herself?  Would she ever know how to cry and whine to the point that Mommy's brain matter leaks out of her ears?  I mean, is that an instinct or a learned behavior? And if it's learned... who the hell taught Hazel?

But, I digress.

We have taken the girls out camping the last two weekends and statistically there was a very good chance that it would be a complete disaster what with the fighting, whining and crying, as well as the constant close proximity to each other.  To say that mentally I prepared myself for the awfulness by chewing on drywall screws and removing my eyeballs with a dull spoon would be... pretty much correct.

But a funny thing happened while playing in the woods, going on bear hunts and eating s'mores: My two little girls became besties.  Like... absolute BESTIES.

And it didn't stop when we left the campground.  They have been playing together ever since.  They dance together.  They play house together.  They giggle and laugh together. They chase around the house together.  And they are worried about each other when they are not together.

They are, in short, every mother's dream. 

And we shall go camping every weekend until they turn 21 to make sure this continues.

The Wormhole

Kiddos.  Love them.  Greatest thing I'll ever do with my life.

End of story.

But in order to survive this wonderful gift that we give to ourselves... this gift of no longer putting ourselves first and the gift of celebrating major victories like showering at least every other day... we must acknowledge the complete ridiculousness that is raising kiddos.

This is one of those acknowledgements.  Or as Law and Order would say:  THESE ARE THEIR STORIES.

Kids are funny.  They will make you laugh harder than you ever thought possible when you see your reflection in their actions.  For instance, when The Bird immediately removes her shoes and socks in the car after school and starts cleaning out the lint between her toes ("that's because they're dirty").  Which I realize I have inadvertently taught her because:

#1 - I hate socks.  And shoes. 
#2 - I hate lint between my toes
#3 -  I LURVE playing with my toes absently... usually while watching TV.   Which grosses Benny out.  Benny... the man who plays with fish each and every day is grossed out by me touching my toes.

Think about that for a minute.

But, I digress.  While kiddos will delight you in unexpected ways, like when The Bean will repeat over and over "Wuv. Eye. U!" to my "Eye. Wuv. U!" as I'm putting her to bed.  But, they're also prone to completely irrational meltdowns because - as they so eloquently put it between the sobs of despair - "I ONNA DO IT!".

'IT' being the first step of  a process - ANY PROCESS - that I've perfected over the last two years of raising two strong-willed children. Like almost all Mommy's I know, I have instituted policies and processes to help ensure survival of the Nadolski Clan.  There are processes for most everything... with the notable exception of laundry.  And then it's every man, woman and child for themselves.

For example, herding both kiddos out the door and into the car to go to school each day.  The Bird walks out to the car on her own.  She is now able to do so without falling on her face when she misses the first step off the porch... so yay for time healing all wounds and learning from past mistakes!! She can now also open the car door on her own (and very rarely falls out of the car as she's attempting to close the door) and then waits for me to come buckle her into the car seat.  It is now rare that I have to hold her down to buckle her in while she goes into convulsions because I put her ponytail two centimeters too far left on her head and WHAT AM I TRYING TO DO?  KILL HER?  She can now sit in the seat and "help" me buckle her in.  Which I let her do because... hey, we're on the verge of a morning without tears and if it takes me cutting off my left hand to meet that standard of parenting excellence, so help me God, I'm going to do it.

Now The Bean... her usual routine has been me carrying her out to the car and putting her next to her car seat so that she can climb in, stand up and then on my count of 1-2-FREEEEEEE! jump up, hit her head on the ceiling of the car and land on her bummy in the car seat amidst giggles of delight before letting me me buckle her in.  This is, of course, after she has turned on the light above the door... which I will not realize until after I make the day care drop off, head to the airport to catch a flight to whocareswhere and return two days later to a dead battery in 8 inches of snow... BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT BEING A MOMMY IS THESE DAYS. 

Yea... those were the days.  Those days ended about two weeks ago.  Almost exactly on her 2nd birthday when suddenly she began to repeat her mantra of "I DO IT!"  Usually followed by her second favorite phrase:  "I FAW DOWN!"  Followed by:  "HEP ME!"

But, back to the original point. What I've learned in the last few days is that it's not just the end goal of doing something by herself that The Bean is after.  If reaching the goal is a five-step process and you try to help her reach that goal by helping her get past step one... say, opening the front door and helping her on to the porch to begin the now TIME KILLING process of climbing into the car so that she can turn on the light, jump up, hit the ceiling with her head and then land on her bummy?  Well, there are things that are unacceptable: North Korea with a nuke... unacceptable.   Snow in July... unacceptable.  Pre-mixed mojito served in Miami... UNACCEPTABLE.

Then there are things that will cause a 2-year-olds brain to melt right out of her ears and open the flood gates to the point where you start looking for the animals to show up in twos.  Skipping the first step because Mommy did it for you?  That's one of them.  And it will cause a scene that makes me wonder why I ever thought that I could schedule that conference call for 9 a.m. because yea... we're not getting out of here any time soon. And there will be tears, snot and probably a little of my blood at the end of it.  And so much for that new blouse I was going debut at the office today to prove to everyone that it's a choice to continue to wear my maternity clothes because they're so damn comfy but yes, I can dress up when and if I feel like it.

*Ahem*

So, The Bean cries up a storm while I'm buckling The Bird in and then proceeds to backtrack the progress I made for her... insisting on going back into the house so that she can walk out of the house on her own because... say it with me now:  "I ONNA DO IT!"  The roadblock in this little plan being that she is unable to open up the door... like physically unable to open the door to get back into to the house so that she can open the door to go outside.  You see my problem here?  I open the door for her to get into the house so that she can perform step one and then she gets upset that I opened the door for her to help her to get to step one, but let's not forget that she's not physically capable yet of performing step one because she can't open up the door, which is where we are right now and OMG I'M IN A WORMHOLE. 

Which is right about the time that Mommy's Patience Clock - which was reset at approximately 8 p.m. the night before when both kids were finally, blessedly, in bed - runs out.  The Bean may be the strongest little rugrat (seriously... her quad muscles make me green with envy) you've ever met, but for now I still hold the upper hand... what with my ability to open and shut doors... and pick her up kicking and screaming, carry her to the car and hold her down in the seat while I buckle her in.

All while The Bird looks on in bewilderment as if to say:  What's her problem?

As if she didn't JUST age out of this behavior. 

A PSA

For those of you who are trying to make better decisions diet-wise and perhaps have stumbled upon a, oh, I dunno... Quinoa Chocolate Treat recipe online and decided to try that rather than bake the chocolate cake mix sitting in the pantry (because you're trying to get some extra nutrition with your chocolate addiction).   Ahem... LET ME SERVE AS YOUR WARNING.

Exhibit A:

Right about now, you may be saying to yourself:  "Self?  That's an interesting concept.  And judging from the picture, it looks relatively harmless.  How bad can it possibly be?"

Enter Jaynee, stage right.  My job in this little scenario is to jump on that grenade and explain that the recipe calls for the quinoa to be uncooked.  UN. COOKED. 

See... for a logical person (i.e.: someone who sleeps more than 4 hours a night), this should have been the first clue.  But, since I have two babies under the age of 18 months, it's clear that the logical side of my brain hasn't been engaged in a while and... well, you do the math.

But, I digress.  Let me tell you about THIS little treat.  Let me take your imagination on a little trip around the mad, mad world of horrific desserts.  Imagine taking bird seed, coating it with chocolate, marshmallow and for some unknown reason... peppermint extract.  I think that the peppermint is included to take your mind off the fact that you're eating RAW quinoa. 

Then imagine that you've sat down after putting down your baby (finally!) and instead of a nice glass of red wine to finish off a hectic day, you decide to nibble on your new little treat while patting yourself on the back for being a little more healthy in your compulsive eating habits. 

Can you taste it? Can you feel the raw little pebbles of raw quinoa crunching on your molars?  Can you feel the peppermint trying its best to cover up the quinoa but is instead somehow highlighting it?   

Yea... whatever you're tasting in your imagination right now tastes like a creamy cheesecake compared to the nastiness I nibbled on tonight.  I can't even call it birdseed... because A) I wouldn't feed the wild birds outside my window that crap and B) even if I did, they wouldn't touch it. 

Not even the magpies. 

And those things eat roadkill. 

And I still need a chocolate fix.  

The only way my night can be salvaged is if an unsuspecting Benny comes home from Poker Night and sneaks a piece of it before he comes to bed.

That way, I'm not the only one who wants to scrub my tongue with a toilet brush.