Dan and I have a financial advisor to help us plan retirement and all that good stuff. It’s cheaper than having 10 children and crossing our fingers one will be the next big tween money-making machine.
Our advisor is a guy around our age who’s been married forever, has two kids and couldn’t conceal his displeasure when I mentioned wanting Em to attend a particular Catholic school. His assistant is a slick young guy who has been told way too many times he’s good looking even though I don’t consider it so.
But, no matter what they say or recommend, I always think…
Clean Up Her Potty Mouth. I need to quash her “gawdammit” or “crap it” exclamations by cleaning up my own potty mouth. I’ll admit my mouth can reach porta potty levels. Since Em started speaking, I’ve worked to clean it up. Half-assedly. I sub “eff” for fuck, “shiz” for “shit” yada yada. This weekend, she told her grandparents that “When I whine, mommy tells me to ‘chill the eff out.’” (Insert mortification here) While I have only done that a couple of times (in a calm voice, I should add!), I need to shorten it to “Chill pickle.” But potty mouths aren’t our only potty issue…
Get Her Fully Potty Trained. I may have fibbed on the potty training portion of our application… Emme has been potty trained since January. There’s just one problem: big toilet seat aversion. Here’s what’s been her required set-up:
That’s a Baby Bjorn potty receptacle inside the toddler portion of an Adult/Youth toilet seat. That receptacle protects her from the water hellmouth below she finds so terrifying. Thankfully, Dan was able to get her to try the potty without the BB receptacle yesterday, and we haven’t gone back. Wahoo!
This also opens the possibility of using public restroom. I tote around a Potette Plus when running errands or attending classes. She’ll use it, but it’s a BIG pain in the butt for me to handle. I will do a jig o’ joy when I can toss that thing. Speaking of throwing…
Tackle Tantrum Throwing. When Em is really mad, she will throw something. During the act of throwing, she’ll say “I’m throwing a tantrum.” It’s really hard not to laugh at her adorable literalness. But I’m pretty sure throwing isn’t welcome at Montessori school. Here’s a very mild example of my future actress:
Cup Train Her. I feel that she’ll gain favor with her teachers and peers by reenacting Anna Kendrick’s audition scene from “Pitch Perfect.” Kidding. Em can “drink of a cup” as she calls it, but she also inserts her hand, food and toys into whatever holds her water or soy milk. It makes for a huge mess. In that respect, she’s very much like Dan’s old cat, Norman. Oh God, if she’s Norman reincarnated, I won’t need to worry about Montessori.
I’ll refocus on finding professional help. Like an exorcist.
I’d love to be able to whip out my husband’s sewing machine and slap together something fabulous. Yeah, my husband’s machine. He’s tall, frugal and industrious, so he decided to teach himself how to hem pants. He’s a pro. I have no clue how to turn the damn machine on.
I look longingly at Silhouette Cameo and Cricut machines even though I have no idea what the eff they really do.
I’m obsessed with paper punches. It started when I fashioned some ghetto cupcake toppers for Emme’s 2nd birthday using a flower punch, round labels and lollipop sticks:
After seeing how easy (and cheap) the Gymboree art projects were, I called shenanigans on their $80 monthly class fee. I began stockpiling kiddo art essentials (poms, pipe cleaners, googly eyes, tempera paint, cheap paper plates, craft sticks, foam pieces, etc…)
Yeah…I didn’t consider how nice it was to having Gymboree clean up the mess or being able to say “Oh we only use paint at art class.” Having craft supplies in the house means I have a toddler who will throw tantrums when I deny her “ALL THE GOOGLY EYES!” She is not a fan of the term “some.” She will awake from a nap screaming two words that make me shudder: “WANT GLUE!” I may have been premature in my purchases… But we’ll get to that point soon enough. We’ll bond over cotton ball Santas and construction paper jack-o-lanterns. Ya know, when she’s 18 and stoned on Vicodin following wisdom tooth extraction.
Still, I won’t let the lack of ability or kiddo willingness stop me. If some Modge Podge hodgepodge grabs my eye online, I pin it. I have a Pinterest board, Sew You Think You Can Craft, that’s 95% comprised of to projects beyond my current capabilities. A Sharpie-painted ceramic mug? Easy breezy. Crochet baby espadrilles? Ummm…etsy!
I hold hope that I’ll have the time to gain the Martha level know-how I seek. It will happen one day, dammit.
Even if it’s during Arts & Crafts hour at my old folks home.
Plague has besieged me. Coughing, sneezing, stuffy head funsies.
I was supposed to travel to College Station with one friend to help our mutual friend prepare for her baby arriving in May. I was really looking forward to it. Sorting newborn necessities, shopping for last-minute items…organizing, organizing, organizing! It’s the stuff Virgo dreams are made of. Plus, the idea of working on a boy nursery is exciting. While I’d be a crap boy mom, I love buying things for the slugs, snails and puppy dog tails set.
I didn’t want to risk getting anyone sick, so we’re postponing until next week. Instead, I forced myself to grocery shop tonight in case plague’s grip tightens (translation: my asthma kicks in and I’m totally useless.) I stocked up on all plague provisions: