I still haven’t found that shawl pattern, but hopefully, the woman who showed it at knit club will be there for Augusts meeting. Or I can just adapt a pattern, which I may do.

The Husband and I had a date night this weekend. Yay! They can be hard to come by with a kid, but fortunately, we have grandma and grandpa nearby so we get them more often than most. Date nights are very important once you have kids to preserve your sanity and remember why you married that crazy person across the table, but our previous date nights/date days have been less than stellar. Usually, we just watch a movie at home or clean and maybe go out to dinner. Thrilling, no?

This time we decided to do things we can’t normally do with the child. Like go eat Vietnamese. I LOVE Vietnamese. OP, not so much–she once fell in love with pho but refuses to believe me. She does seem to like Thai, but only if she’s eating the appetizers or miso soup. Otherwise, how dare we bring her to such a restaurant. Damn picky eater.

After dinner we saw Ant Man, which I think my Avengers-loving daughter would enjoy, but she decided that it is too scary and refuses to see it. Her loss because it was unexpectedly GOOD. Except for the ants. When I was a sweet 4-year-old, my preschool took all the little kids outside for their class photo. They lay out a blanket and sat us all on top. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize that part of the blanket, the part I was on, was on an ant hill. I still remember screaming in the bathroom with my pants off, while the teacher got rid of all the ants. I believe the pants were awesome 1970s striped, bell-bottoms. Since then, I have a problem with ants. I don’t run away screaming, but once I see an ant, I get extremely itchy if I see them until I take a shower. Not hives itchy, but “oh my god there is an ant on my leg! Now it’s on my back! Now it’s back on my leg! My head, it’s on my head!” itchy. I did not expect that reaction when watching Ant Man. The people around me must have thought I was crazy or had fleas with all the itching. Of course, now that I’m talking about it there’s an ant on my knee. No, now it’s on my neck. Argh! My head! I’m done. I need to think of something else…


Happy New Year!!!

I hope everyone had wonderful New Year celebrations. We were child free and went to a grown-up party of a style that’s not in our comfort zone. No, not a swingers party or something of that ilk. Ew. We went to a party with grown ups who talked and weren’t playing video games, knitting, gaming, or watching TV. It was weird, but a lot of fun. By 11:00 I was done in by 3 inch heels, leftover illness, and being old so we left, but it was nice to go home since the crazy part of me was freaking out that I didn’t have my wedding rings on and if we entered 2015 and I wasn’t wearing my rings, darkness would reign, zombies would attack, terrorists would steal chocolate, cats and dogs living together…needless today it would be a bad omen. I did mention I was crazy, didn’t I? We watched the ball drop (not a euphemism) from home. The next day we went to the movies, had Korean, and picked up the kid.

All in all it has been a good start and it’s been that way all week, minus getting sick again. I cleaned my desk (major miracle), knit several nights in a row (!), hacked my hair, and played a very odd round of dolls with my kid where Elsa and Anna were trapped but Elsa (played by OP) likes being trapped so she refused to escape while Anna (me) tried to encourage her to freeze the door and punch people. And yes, I shouldn’t teach my kid to punch, but if Elsa is trapped in a room and punching will get her to freedom, she needs to turn into¬†Muhammad Ali and open a can of whoop-ass. Unfortunately, she wasn’t buying it. Anna did escape, though, with Elsa’s help, and saved all of the princesses from the trap. She went back periodically to visit Elsa and Elsa would leave occasionally to visit Anna and the princesses. I don’t get it.


You’ll never get it, Mom!

Looking back, 2012 was one of the worst years I have experienced, 2013 was a little better, and 2014 was fine, albeit stressful. It’s nice to have a good year to balance out the bad. I hope that 2015 improves upon 2014. Every year I start with the same resolutions–knit more, exercise more, and update more. Yeah, I never fulfill those and they are not going to happen this year either so I’m not bothering. Especially, with classes. But, I just want to live more and enjoy more. I spend too much time worrying and I need to *cue Elsa* let it go. I don’t know about you, but I cannot think those words without trying to make snowflakes out of thin air. I have my next step figured out for education, I bought the textbooks I can, and I have a wonderful family who I love and usually like to spend time with.

Sleep would be good too.

Since I referenced the hair.

Since I referenced the hair.

Digging the Hole Deeper

When last we left our intrepid blogger (uh, me), we were cuddling with a sick little girl after a night of vomiting. Sunday she refused to eat (I mean, you would too if you threw up 7 times), but by Monday she was doing better. Unfortunately, having vomit in your hair/down your neck/in your shirt and cleaning up very loose stool means by Monday night, you are vomiting. 5 times.

Question 1: Why is the vomiting always at night?

Question 2: How could I not beat a 4 1/2 year old in the throw up count. I mean, really! I have, like, 34 years of experience on her!

Insight 1: Tomato soup burns on the way back up. Really burns.

Insight 2: I like to talk about vomit a lot.

So, yeah, I got sick Monday night (Labor Day). I missed school on Tuesday, but felt better as the week wore on. Until, that is, I got sick on Friday with a coldish thing. Flat on my back exhausted all weekend. Needless to say, I fell very far behind on reading and homework, which is very bad because this is the worst semester ever. Wait, we need all caps. WORST SEMESTER EVER. We have a lot of papers to write, journal articles to decifer, and teachers to decrypt. I’m still trying to catch up and it feels like I’m getting nowhere. I’ve been breathing very deeply just to prevent myself from screaming. Or crying. I can totally see myself crying.

Fortunately, this week a lab and class are both canceled as is a class on Monday. I think I’ll be able to dig myself out of this project hole of doom. If not, I may start hyperventilating from all this deep breathing.

The End is Nigh

Classes are over for the semester and finals are all that is left. Yay! I will be so excited to be done with classes. At least done for a week. Then I have 6 weeks of microbiology, but THEN I have the rest of the summer off. I’ve been looking for a nutrition-related job to fill the hours, but I may end up just doing volunteer work, cleaning, knitting, spinning, reading… Okay, just knitting, spinning, and reading. Cleaning can suck it.

OP has had her first grounding of a sort. She is very…particular about food. Picky? Stubborn? She likes to go to her restaurants and eat her food at home. Every night is a meltdown because how dare I put ziti on her plate, because she doesn’t like it because it’s not spaghetti and the 80 million other times I served ziti she had a meltdown before eating until she finally broke down and ate it and realized it was good and she did like it, but really she just wants hot dogs like she wanted hot dogs last night. Why can’t we giver her hot dogs for dinner every night? Life is horrible!!! You don’t understand me!!! I’m running away!!!! You’re the worst parents ever!!!!

We’ve tried having her pick out dinner or make it, like all the experts and my nutrition experts suggest, and she’s really into the process, but refuses to eat it. Unless it’s pancakes or hot dogs.

On Sunday, we had to pick a restaurant for dinner and she wanted “Old McDonalds” (that’s what she calls it) because some toy is there (thanks, marketing). We didn’t go to Old McDonalds. Instead we went to a restaurant where there were rocks outside perfect for kicking at Daddy in her angst. Needless to say, she’s been punished and can’t go to any of her restaurants for two weeks.

She’s taking it pretty well, and we’re using it as a teaching (torture?) tool. We went to a Thai restaurant one night and an Indian restaurant the other night. We’ve gone before, usually with a meltdown in tow (especially with Indian), but this time she was much more open and even happily tried new foods. Without a meltdown! And liked them! We made a big deal about how proud we were of her trying new things and all that crap, and I’m hoping this is a new trend that continues after the punishment is over, because I would love to not have a meltdown with every meal that doesn’t meet her specifications.

And the winner is…

OP* ran her very first 1 mile race. At 4 years old, she was one of the youngest, but there were a couple other 4 year olds there. Originally, we signed her up for the 200m version, but she refused. She wanted to do the long one. She’s her daddy.

I’m doomed….

I ran the race with her. One, because we weren’t sure if she’d make it back in time for Daddy’s race and he didn’t want to miss it. Two, because she asked and I’m a sucker.

We started at the word go and she quickly sped to last place. Sort of shambled, really. Shambled with effort. Then we started to lose the pack. By about 1/4 mile in she became upset because she was going to be last. Fortunately, at that point, we passed a boy about her age who had decided he was done with the race. As we ran and walked, I told her that it didn’t matter if she was last, because being last meant that she still did it and didn’t give up. I pointed out that she was beating that little boy because he gave up.

She stayed last. Apparently, she has my running DNA. According to results, she was over 2 minutes behind the person in front of her (although she crossed just behind a little girl who was either a ninja and sneaked over the timer line or cheated). Fortunately it didn’t matter to her. She had done it by herself, step after step without anyone carrying her. And that is what is important. Sometimes, we need to be reminded of that.

*For those new to the blog, OP stands for Optimus Prime which is what we called our daughter in the womb.

A Walk Around a Bookstore

Several weeks ago I took OP to the bookstore. It was a large bookstore chain that is spelled with three words all pronounced evil, but that’s a whole other story for a whole other day.


I had gone in to find the last Knuffle Bunny book we needed and a new Pigeon book, because I’m a sucker and my daughter knows it (and I like the books). While there, I needed to find the bathroom for my little potty master. In my search for said bathroom, I passed the New Age books in the back. I suddenly remembered frequenting this part of bookstores obsessed with the notion of fairies, spells, and the occult during high school and college. Later, after college, I would frequent the front of the store looking for cookbooks–Japanese, Low Fat, Crockpot, whatever looked fun to make and eat. Then cooking switched to the knitting books off in the crafts section. Then there was a small span of fitness books, classics, and mysteries. Of course, there was always the Fantasy/Sci Fi section, although, not so much any more.

The bookstore was a map of who I had been and who I had become. Each section brought me back to a time I could remember clearly and with a smile. I looked around the store and wondered what would OP’s map be when she was my age. After finishing with the bathroom, we ventured back to the children’s section to pick out her books. This was the latest stop on my bookstore map filled with hugs and reading in the corner with my little girl. For her, it was the start of so many possibilities. However her map turns out, I only hope she has fun exploring it and each stop makes her happy.

Wearing Daddy's "Hulk" shoes

I am going to be obsessively into tattoo arts, rock climbing, and fashion.

Deal with the Devil

We loathe cutting our daughter’s toenails. Although, maybe loathe doesn’t quite cut it (ha!). Hate? Dread? Would rather pull our eyeballs out with tweezers? When OP knows that it’s time to trim those talons she tries to pass as toenails, she turns into a crazed banshee soccer player. One of us needs to hold her down while the other grasps her foot in a vice and tries desperately to trim her nails without cutting off a toe.

I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called social services yet.

Anyway, it is such an awful experience that we put it off as much as we can, leading to sharp, nasty nails that look like she’s been on a deserted island for years. With all things we need to do that OP objects to (baths, diaper, medicine, etc), once we find a distraction or way around the issue, we’re good to go. We just haven’t found the way around this one, yet. Or have we.

Who knew these cute little toes would cause so much drama!

Who knew these cute little toes would cause so much drama!

Let me back up. I was what you might consider a tomboy from about 7th grade until well into college. I never wore dresses, heels, make-up, etc. I still don’t do the make-up, really. Okay, sometimes I do and only look like a clown half the time. The other half, I pay someone to do it for me. However, to this day, I will not, nor do I ever plan to, wear nail polish. I think it’s disgusting and just looks wrong. Except on you, it looks lovely on you. Okay, no. No it doesn’t. I just don’t like the stuff. At. All.

The other night, at gymnastics, my daughter pointed out another girl’s blue toenails and it made me start thinking. Ever since they did the letter N at school, OP has begun to mention nail polish. Not often, but enough to make me think it could be our way around the utter gall we have for cutting off her nails. So, we told her that if she is very brave and lets us cut her nails without all the hoopla, we would put on nail polish that she picks out.¬† (I’ve included her fingernails because while she let’s me do it with the TV on, I figured including it could help her get the idea with her toes.) She is utterly excited, and we’re going to look for a non-toxic, kid-friendly (Piggy Paint or something similar) this weekend with her help. She wants pink, blue, and green if you are curious.

I’m dying inside because I HATE nail polish, and I suspect it will get all over everything. But if that’s the deal I must make with the devil to get this to work, it’s one I’m willing to make. It could be worse. I could cut off her feet.

Wait until I ask you to get my legs waxed!

Wait until I ask you to get my legs waxed!