Behold

That effing cat.

"All by myself!"

She's so proud that I don't have the heart to tell her they're backwards. She can channel Kris Kross until our next potty break.

The Shaming

I don't like cats. They're aloof and slightly neurotic and I don't trust them. I'm sorry. I don't. Stop reading if it offends your feline fanaticism. I will say, no animal was harmed in the typing of this blog entry. Or ever in my life, except for that mouse that Carrie and I smooshed in a frantic attempt to catch and release it. (Yes, I get it. A cat would have been handy.)

So, there's this orange striped tiger cat that roams our neighborhood. I frequently find it on our fence, on the bumper of my Explorer, and even on my porch swing. When I spot it, I'm quick to shoo the thing away. My husband doesn't understand. Especially when I mumble, "That f*#!ing cat," under my breath.

"Have you seen a mouse since we moved in, Babe? You better start thanking that cat," he says. Humph.

A few weeks ago, the girls and I were loading into the Explorer on our way to where ever we were going. I turned the corner, baby in my arms, to find that cat laying in my hostas. Without thinking, I lunged towards it and it took off running.

Now my hostas! The porch is no longer suffient? Oh! The nerve of that cat! And who does it belong to anyway? All these thoughts run through my mind as I strap the baby in her carseat.

"Come here, Virginia. It's your turn. Let's get in the truck so we can go on a trip." She skips over to me, reaches her hands up, and as I lift her into her seat, do you know what she says to me? Straight out of the mouth of my precious child:

"That f*#!ing cat."

Just as sweet as can be. Her face turned towards me, blue eyes sparkling in the morning sun, and her perfect little mouth smiling in weird juxtaposition to her language. I was stunned "What did you just say?" I asked out of disbelief. And there it was again.

An announcer appeared behind me, dressed in a tux and holding a microphone. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Mother of the Year Award goes to...." I felt the hot, white spotlight of my daughter's innocent and unblinking blue eyes.

She just stared at me, expectantly. As if she finally found a way to make me see her as a grown-up and now we could talk about the deficit and Afghanistan over a glass of pinot. Mortified doesn't do the embarrassment justice. Nothing can.

I quickly scolded her (because she is the one who needs scolding) and poured myself into the driver's seat. That cat sat under our neighbor's walnut tree as I pulled down the driveway. It watched me. We cut eyes at each other as I put the truck in drive and pulled away. I was too indignant to say it out loud.

Thank you, cat, for teaching me a lesson.

And Babe, you were right. (Oooooh! That one hurts!)

Further proof we're unfit parents:

The Queen of No

No, we don't stand on chairs.
No, we don't eat Play-Doh.
No, we don't jump on the sofa.
No, we don't play with the light switch.
No, we don't put our hands in our milk.
No, we don't take things from your sister.
NO, YOU DO NOT PUSH YOUR SISTER DOWN.

It's all I say, all day long. No. Quit. Don't. Stop. It's exhuasting.

The other day, Amelia was screaming as I wrestled with her to get her to hold still long enough to change her diaper (why won't she just hold still?), and Virginia tried to grab a wipe. "No, Virginia, leave those alone." And now Virginia is also screaming because why can't she have a wipe?


"ONE WIPE! ONE WIPE! JUST ONE WIPE!"

Over and over again. Amelia is thrashing around on the floor, throwing a serious tantrum, because the only thing more unnacceptable than having a poopy diaper is having your poopy diaper changed. And now, the toddler is screaming.

I turned my head to look at Virginia. Her little face with those blue/green eyes tearing up because I wouldn't let her have one wipe. Is it really such an unreasonable request? The Mom Guilt washes over me.

"Ok, Virginia. Just these two." (Mom guilt.) And she stopped crying.

Why did I say no in the first place?

Because all those wipes are folded together in a neat stack by some stupid, unthinking, un-mom machine so that they fit nicely in the little plastic refill packages. Those folds overlap, so that when you grab one, you're not just grabbing one wipe, but the one that was on top of the accordion fold of wipes. What's the big deal? The big deal is, my toddler grabs the top-of-the-accordion-fold wipe and walks to the other side of the room, taking the whole stash of wipes across the floor with her. Ten feet of wet wipes across the living room floor. Now, I'm not only changing a poopy diaper, but I'm cleaning the living room and scolding my toddler. That is why I said no in the first place. Pro-active prevention.

But, WHY? Who cares if I have to pick up some wipes? It only takes a few seconds. Here's the really ugly truth.

By saying no, I have control. I have some sort of sliver of control over the total chaos of my life. I cannot control when they laugh or cry or when the destroy their books or toys or how they behave in public (no, you really can't control that, regardless of what non-parents may think). But I CAN impose limits and boudaries to rope in the chaos to a manageable level.

I said no to the wipe, which prevented her from grabbing the stack and making the trail across the floor, which prevented me from picking up the wipes and scolding my toddler, which would have led to tears ANYWAY, which would have made the baby cry EVEN LOUDER, which would have taken my blood pressure up fifty more notches, which would have made ME scream, which would have made me feel guilty, which would have made me put on Barney again to shut her up, which would have made me feel like a bad mother letting them watch so much tv, which would have led me to saying no to a second episode of Barney, which would have led to EVEN MORE CRYING, which would have.......get the point?

The moments of my life are stacked and folded together accordion-style, just like those stupid wipes,and saying no prevents the trail of wipes from making its way across the floor of my day.

Here's what she did with the wipes that I gave her.