An Empty Toilet Paper Roll Is A Dangerous Thing

I have a post I've been wanting to write for awhile now. I've been mentally composing it and editing it, but I'm afraid to actually write it down for fear that I'll jinx myself. Silly me, I had planned to post it this week. But no, I have something much better to post about, lucky me. Because right now I'm doing midnight laundry. Again. Yes, it's the second time this week.

Why am I doing laundry this late (ok so it isn't really midnight, but it sure feels like it)? Trust me, it isn't from some misplaced compulsion to maintain a completely empty laundry basket. I haven't seen a fully empty laundry basket in a long time. And I already did laundry once today, so it's silly to do it again, right? Not so much, unfortunately. Laundry at this hour means I have to do laundry.

I was upstairs with Mister Man helping him find something after bedtime and we walked out of my bedroom where I saw the wee ones' bathroom door was closed and the light was on. I didn't think I'd left it like that a minute earlier, so I turned the knob and jokingly asked, "Who's in there now?"

That's when I saw Little Miss sitting on the floor with her pajamas in a pile in front of her. She wasn't fully awake, but she was working on it. As I stepped forward to see what the problem was, I felt something wet under my foot. My brain finally caught up to the rest of me, and I groaned. At least she'd made it into the bathroom and the tile floor, but the rug and her pjs (and socks she was wearing under her footie pjs for some reason) were soaked. I helped her into the shower and sighed.

Once she was back in bed, I picked up her dirty clothes and the now dirty bath towel and stuck them in the laundry. I shrugged and added the rest of the dirty laundry to fill the load before going back into her room to question her a little more. Slowly, slowly the story came out, as her personality is loathe to admit to anything she thinks might be doing something wrong, even when it isn't anything that's wrong or anything that's her fault.

There was a reason she had her accident in front of the door rather than anywhere else. She'd walked into the bathroom and seen that the toilet paper roll was empty. Her six year old assumption was that you can't go to the bathroom if there's no toilet paper. She knew where we keep the extra toilet paper, so she walked to that cabinet in front of the door and opened it. When she couldn't find any in there (the new giant pack was in the garage), she gave up.

Oh my poor peanut.

So let that be a warning to you. Always, always change the toilet paper. And yes, I'm talking to you. Trust me, you don't want to walk into what I did tonight. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some laundry to go change.

I Need A Cover Story

So this is me right now:

Yep, I'm living life on a couch, for the most part, with my foot up in the air. Why? Well, I've done some damage to three toes on my left foot. They hurt. A lot. And they're black and blue - fortunately mostly on the bottom. That said, they're swollen and sore, and it hurts to walk.

But hey, they're toes. You can't really do anything for toes other than tape them to their friends and avoid walking on them as much as possible. Well, that and keeping them elevated and iced.

I have a bigger problem than some broken toes, however.

See, I did it in a sort of embarrassing manner. I forgot to grab a few things when I left my house (does baby brain ever go away?) and had to come back to grab them. Since I was now in a hurry, I ran quickly through my kitchen to pick them up from their various locations.

In my defense, the stairs in my kitchen that lead upstairs sort of jut into the room because they open both to the family room and the kitchen, so they come out at an angle. And that's the closest I get to an excuse.

Anyway, as I ran past them, I didn't run past them. I ran smack dab into them at full speed. And four of my toes went sideways with a painful lurch. I managed not to swear but did the "ow ow ow ow!" dance across my kitchen before hobbling slowly to grab the necessary items, sure I'd just stubbed them badly and would get over it shortly.

It's been three days, and they still hurt and are swollen and black and blue. I think they might be broken. Thank goodness I got a manicure just before I captured the Klutz of the Year Award. Anyone who sees me can immediately tell something is wrong with my toes, but I really need a better story of what happened to cause me injury.

Because really, the truth is too embarrassing. I'm taking suggestions!

And They Hired Me Again...

Current Giveaways:

Two Aquaphor Wonder Sets here
Disney Live! Presents Mickey's Magic Show tickets here
E is for Ethics children's book here
Precious Moments here

***

I loved babysitting when I grew up. Heather Hermalink was my favorite babysitter ever, and I emulated everything I could about her. When she sold her broken down, ratty ten-speed bike at a garage sale, guess who bought it? She painted her finger nails? So did I. She wore a headband daily, well obviously I had to find a matching one, right? And she babysat. A lot.

She wasn't much older than me, maybe four or five years, and eventually she moved away, and I took over much of her babysitting - including that of the boy and girl who moved into her house. When I went to college, I discovered that there were parents living nearby who loved having responsible college students babysitting for them, and by my junior year, I had a family that I nannied for regularly - three days a week for several hours each day.

That family had the sweetest little baby boy. He was about three months old when I first met him, and he was one of those happy guys who was never bothered by anything. I got along well with his mom - who was new to the area and had a husband who traveled all week long - and she often stayed around just to chat with me.

I loved watching him. While his mom sometimes had the tv on in the background to keep her occupied, I never wanted anything to distract me from his cuteness (this may also be partially due to the fact that I was with him fewer than twenty hours a week rather than 24/7 with a traveling spouse). I watched him learn to eat from a spoon and delighted in finding new favorite foods for him. I remember his mom telling me that she was amazed by how much better he'd eat with me than he would for her. We went for long walks through the neighborhood whenever the weather was nice - even though it required me lugging his large stroller down two flights of stairs (welcome to apartment living in Chicago).

It wasn't all sweetness and light though.

I also had to change his diapers. And I swear that boy had the worst diapers of any child I'd ever met. Or maybe I was just a naive college kid who had yet to be initiated into the real stinky diaper society. Regardless, it still holds some unpleasant memories for me.

One day, his mom was in the kitchen, having not quite left the house yet - one wall away from the boy's bedroom. I was in his bedroom changing a particularly nasty diaper. He was on his gorgeous high honey oak changing station when I began the task of gingerly dismantling his explosion. As I lifted his Polo onesie (his auntie worked for Ralph Lauren - you can only imagine the wardrobe this boy had!), I saw that he had succeeded in blowing out the back of the diaper.

I sighed and turned to the wardrobe to get a change of clothes for him while my adorable, immobile charge lay admiring his pinky toes. I rifled through the wardrobe to find one of my favorite outfits, and I finally found it buried deep among other - probably equally adorable - outfits. I turned back to the boy just in time to see him roll over for the first time. He was rolling off the changing table that I'd neglected to strap him into because ... well, he didn't move and he was filthy and I didn't want to get the mess further smeared on him and his clothing. Neither of those is a good reason, but it is what it is.

I was across the room, a good six to seven feet away, as I saw his body tilt downward and towards the hardwood floor a good four feet below - remember, this was a very high changing table. I don't think I've ever moved so fast, before or since. Somehow - someone was looking out for him that day - I managed to lunge across the room and get my arms out before he landed on his beautiful, perfect head and split it open or worse. I caught that little boy inches from the ground as my knee thunked solidly into the floor. That hurt. It really hurt, but I was focused on ensuring the boy was ok.

Needless to say, he began crying. He didn't scream, as I don't think I ever heard him truly panic cry, but he was not a happy camper. He didn't like his adventure of plummeting off the changing table, and he probably picked up on some of my panic, not to mention the abrupt catching and halting of his fall. I quickly righted him into my arms and began soothing him to the best of my ability, hoping that his mom would have left before this incident.

I'm not that lucky, in case you're wondering. Within seconds, I heard her thundering into the bedroom to see if everything is ok - she'd heard a thunk (my knee) and her baby was crying. Note that her son was still filthy and partially exposed, as I'd already lifted his onesie up before discovering the need for a new outfit. I explained it away as me having gotten a new outfit that had fallen and my knee having hit the floor (true) as I bent down to pick it up with him still in my arms (not so true) and that he was just a little startled (mostly true).

She believed me and went on her way, shortly leaving the house to go about her day. As for me, I stood there for a full ten minutes, holding her precious baby and thanking whoever it was that kept him from brain damage. I didn't notice the stains on my shirt until after I'd gotten home, but I figured it was a small sacrifice for a worthy baby.

Nonetheless, I've never again left an infant unstrapped or in a position where he could roll or fall from a high place. I've never stepped away from a child placed on an elevated surface. And I don't think the mom ever learned the truth of what almost happened to her precious boy.

It's Birthday-palooza!

I bake, as you ummm may have figured out from reading my posts. (Side note: up soon key lime parfaits! I saw my recipe for this recently and need to make them again.) I tend to not turn on the oven much in the summer because it's too hot. I always make an exception this weekend.

Today? My husband's birthday.
Tomorrow? Little Miss's birthday.
Monday? My dad's birthday.

No one will share a cake. And they each want their own kinds. And I can't take a half eaten cake to a birthday party for Little Miss. That adds up to four cakes in four days, just in case you're wondering.

This afternoon, I started my efforts. Because Little Miss is having her party at a beauty salon, they don't allow actual cake because of the mess it creates. However, they're (for whatever reason -- and I'm not questioning this!) totally cool with individual cupcakes. So I'm making ice cream cone cupcakes.

This is what I'm aiming for (pre-frosted):



But it's not all sunshine and lemonade when I'm baking, as much as I wish it were. There was a "minor" mishap as I was checking the cupcakes' doneness. They just about all tipped over. When they were mostly half done. This one happened to land on another one and didn't tip all the way over. I'm thinking frosting will save it.



This one landed face down across the door of the oven. And cupcake ended up falling to the floor and all along the hinge of the door. *sigh* There's no saving it. On the plus side, half-baked cupcakes taste pretty good. And I did forget to eat lunch today....



I also learned that trying to use a cracked cone is not a good idea. I figure it'll taste good once frosted, even though it's obviously not going to the party.



So what are your worst baking accidents (and no, this was by FAR not my worst)?

Judge Not

Yesterday, I was on my way home from a playdate with Mister Man. We'd stayed longer than I originally intended, and it was rush hour as we drove back. I avoided one of the major areas of traffic in town and took a side street to get back to the main divided highway. As I got to the stoplight to turn left onto that highway, the emergency light over the stoplight turned on.

I watched a fire chief vehicle go speeding north and a small firetruck followed shortly thereafter. As I finally got my light, I turned left and proceeded in the same direction that the fire vehicles had gone. No biggie. I saw a Black Mercedes SUV come roaring up behind me and pass me going at least seventy in the fifty-five zone. I shook my head in disgust and continued on my way.

For about a half mile. At that point, all traffic stopped, which I assumed was just par for the course on a Friday afternoon. I saw the SUV drive onto the shoulder and keep speeding along. I sighed out loud and told Mister Man that I sure hoped that this car was hurrying because they had a connection to an accident ahead and not because they were simply that rude.

We sat in that spot for almost twenty minutes. In that time, I saw another firetruck and an ambulance come up to the left of us and passed on. I started to realize that yes, there was an accident up ahead. Then I saw another firetruck and two more ambulances stream by a couple minutes apart. Going north in the southbound lanes so they could go more quickly. Yikes.

There was not an option to turn around, as the divided highway had a big ditch between the north and southbound lanes. And given where I was on the road, there wasn't a side road for another three quarters of a mile or more.

Eventually we started to inch forward. Very slowly. I finally got to a cross street where I could see that the police had blocked off all the northbound lanes and were finally funneling onto the side streets. As I turned right, I could see the black Mercedes parked on the side of the road and empty.

My heart sank. While I selfishly was hoping that the person wasn't simply being rude, I didn't truly wish pain on him in hoping that he was related to someone involved in the accident. And it was a bad one. I could see the burned out shell of the car down in the ditch, and two ambulances were loading patients in them. I couldn't see much more.

My guess is that someone was coming from the side street where there is only a stop sign and was trying to either turn left or cross the divided highway and misjudged where oncoming traffic was and was t-boned into the ditch. Other people were picking up large pieces of cars -- bumpers, etc.

I said a small prayer as I headed on home via backroads. I finally got back to the other major street near me and headed west towards home. I got to the final stoplight before my neighborhood and saw the emergency light turn on. I watched an ambulance come streaking up and head to the hospital I had just passed. It had to have been from the accident I had been trapped by earlier.

I was happy to see that the lights were flashing and the ambulance was hurrying, as it meant that at least one person was only injured. I also realized that the small two minute stop I had made on my way home that had delayed me slightly may have been more beneficial than I thought.

It so easily could have been my car involved. Was my stop the reason that I wasn't two minutes ahead and part of the awful crash? Was my last minute instinct to see if a business was open (it wasn't) what saved me and Mister Man from tragedy?

And the next time I see a car streaking around me hurrying for what I had always assumed was no good reason, I will be saying a small prayer that everything is alright with them. And my assumption will be that they need to hurry more than I do.



PS When you are driving and come to a stop, please PLEASE don't block roads and driveways and business entrances. You aren't going to get anywhere any faster by being eight feet forward, and anyone who wants to needs to get in and out cannot. Isn't that such a simple way to make life easier for so many people? Plus, I'll like you more if you let people get through.

To Pee Or Not To Pee...

Little Miss is quite the independent little cuss. Mister Man, in many ways, was so easy. His personality wants to please others and be a good and helpful child. When he was a baby, he wasn’t colicky and he wasn’t a crier. In general, he has a sunny disposition and goes along with what those in authority tell him.

I don’t want to paint Little Miss as a bad child in anyway, but her personality is very different. She does want to be a helper and is very good about helping me do laundry and putting her dishes in the right spot in the dishwasher after meals. But she wants to do things for herself, and she is loathe to accept help no matter how difficult the task.

Good luck putting her to bed if you try lifting her into the bed versus letting her climb in by herself. Don’t even think about helping her feed herself or put pants on or buckle her carseat or anything that she gets into her mind she can do. And woe is the person who makes that mistake.

I will say that I’ve put my foot down on something that has already been done. If something has already been done, she may not undo it to redo it herself. She does accept this now – but only from me.

With this in mind, I thought about how to potty train my little angel. I knew that I would have to make potty training her idea. There would have to be something that she wanted rather than something I was wanting her to do.

I talked about how Mister Man gets to go to swimming lessons because he is potty trained. I discussed how other children in her preschool class use the potty. We chatted about how next year’s preschool won’t let her go to school unless she’s potty trained. I showed her the big girl underwear that Grandma had bought her. We went to Costco and drove by the Pull-Ups aisle where she decided she wanted to get princess Pull-Ups. I also told her that once she’s potty trained, she won’t have ouchies on her bottom anymore – the poor girl gets diaper rash in the blink on an eye, and it’s so hard to get rid of.

When she was in Florida, after I’d bought the Pull-Ups but before we’d started using them, she started using the potty. My mom started keeping her just in Lil’ Swimmers, which I thought was quite brave, and she kept them mostly dry.

When she got back, I told her that she could start wearing Pull-Ups if she kept her diaper dry for two consecutive days. She did it, and we moved into Pull-Ups. She did a great job, and I told her that she would get to wear big girl underwear when she kept her Pull-Ups dry for four days.

She did great. She told me when she had to go potty, and if she mentioned that she was keeping her Pull-up dry, I knew that meant that she needed to get to the potty soon. And it was fully dry and clean. Monday was good, with one small accident at daycare. Tuesday was dry all day long – including telling me when she had to go when we were in the library. Wednesday was pretty good until someone at daycare put her into a diaper instead of a Pull-up and it was soaking wet when I got her home. Thursday my parents watch her, and she had accidents of the wet and dry variety multiple times.

Uh-oh. By the time I got her back on Friday, she was no longer keeping herself dry, so we moved back to diapers since she obviously wasn’t ready. Now, she understands that she can’t wear Pull-ups until she keeps her diaper dry for two days. But she only goes on the potty sometimes. If we go out to eat, she’ll go two or three times during the meal. But tonight she did that, and when we got home she had poop in her diaper. I changed her, and immediately there was more poop. Argh!

With Mister Man, he did great until he had six accidents in one day – pressure on himself, I’m convinced – and we moved him to diapers and didn’t mention the word potty for a month. He was trained within two days when we brought it up again.

With Little Miss, it isn’t about the pressure though. It’s almost like she doesn’t care, and I’m not sure where I go from here. If she doesn’t want to be potty trained yet, that’s fine and I won’t push her, but she talks about wanting to be potty trained. And then she won’t tell me when she has to go. And come September, she must be potty trained to go to preschool although I know that’s three months away.

In the meantime, I’m stumped. Do I quit trying for right now and buy more size 3 diapers (yes, she’s only 26 pounds although she’s really tall so anything bigger leaks because she’s not round enough)? Do I put her in dresses and underwear once summer finally arrives and keep her outside until she figures it out? Do I put her in Pull-ups and grit my teeth? Help!