For those of you old enough, my mother was wearing Dittos until the late 90s. If you lived in any part of the 70s, these were the colored, bell-bottom jeans with two lines embroidered on the butt. Why didn’t she upgrade until well after two decades? Because she didn’t want to spend the money on new jeans and these were perfectly fine. I’m sure the zipper went kaput for the 30th time and she had no other choice.
She was a scientist, so it wasn’t like we were collecting food stamps or breeding worms to make our own garments.
Polly Pocket Polly Friendship Set Collection
Me time: 180 minutes
Effort time: 30 minutes (you will have to play together once to get them in the groove)
Replay value: 90 minutes (so far)
Whoever invented Polly Pocket is a “me time” genius. Don’t be deceived by the age suggestion slapped on the side of the box. If your kid isn’t ready to be challenged and patient for a good outcome, then you’ll be playing with these dolls too and cursing me for writing this review.
Age 3+ is just an estimate. It was more like 3.75+ for my daughter.
If I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take. Genius for a kid, but not so much for a parent. It works well for kids to keep them calm and make them feel safe, but not for me. My version: if I die before I wake, don’t dare let me go into the light. She needs you, type-A freak! Wake up! Run, don’t walk!
I fear the grim reaper. The opposing (Don’t Fear) The Reaper pounds in my head, as I write this. Let him take a long vacation and stay away from my soul, for her sake, not for mine.
Since I had a kid, I’m terrified of speed. No, not the kind you load up in a syringe or pop in your mouth with a glass of water (although that’s pretty freaky too). I’m afraid of the kind that kicks in when I hit the gas pedal too hard; the kind we learned about in Physics class. But the symptoms might be the same as the pharmaceutical kind: sweating, heart pounding, scary eyes and shortness of breath.
There’s a name for today’s phobia, so at least one other person must have it out there, tachophobia. My case is conditional.
Yesterday, my daughter dropped a cereal bar in a parking lot, stepped on it, picked it up and ate it. I had a few heart palpitations, but I didn’t get the hazmat suit out. I am a mother and I’m a recovering germophobe.
When Babyface first came home, we had a sanitizer pump located in every 60 square feet of our house. It’s like we were competing with the frequency of McDonald’s in the Midwest. My hands started to get dry and cracked. Solution: I added a lotion pump to each disinfecting station, TV trays serving as podiums. A touch of Purell, a bit of Aveeno, dry, pick up the baby and repeat.
For the past two months, my daughter has been able to write her own name and it doesn’t just look like a bunch of squiggly lines. Before, she would put the letters on top of each other and it looked like a giant scribble. Then there was the phase where she’d put the letters out of order and I thought she might be dyslexic.
She’s still mixing upper and lower case letters, but we’re making good and slow progress. I didn’t want to push her, so I waited until she was ready. A friend told me that her son’s teacher once scolded her for pushing him to practice writing because it affected his penmanship.
I think they put a little phobia juice in my epidural cocktail. Babyface must’ve consumed some through the umbilical cord because she’s a little cuckoo, too. [Whenever I hear the word “cuckoo”, I picture Jack Black referring to a fat Gwyneth Paltrow in Shallow Hal.]
After Babyface was born and she cried for the first time, I was overcome with surreality, familiarity (after all, we were like pen pals for 9+ months) and paedophobia, fear of infants. She was all slick and slippery from all the vernix. My first thought, “someone take her before I drop her and I’ll pretend I’m super excited and not the least bit terrified.”
Tears were falling down my face, in part because her tongue looked strange (she was tongue-tied, but we had it clipped at 5 weeks), and a very little bit because this stranger didn’t seem so strange.
I’m afraid of flying. In fact, it terrifies me. Not because I’ll be thousands of feet in the air, but because I fly with a toddler. I’m a mommy who lives in fear of not making it to her much-needed vacation because the pilot may be on a power trip and decide to boot us from the plane.
As precious as Babyface is, she is also unpredictable. She’s 3. She lives by her emotions and in the moment. One minute, I’ll be getting smiles that commend me for how good she is. The next minute, I’ll be getting glares for how bad she’s behaving; kicking chairs, wriggling in her seat or screaming because she can’t wait to go potty.
My family has two celebratory seatings for Mother’s Day; one for my sister and I to share with our own, immediate families and one to share with the one who bore and bred us.
Grandmothers are the foundation, but they often get served at the second seating. It’s an oversight and it’s a downright shame. We wouldn’t be here without the hours of labor she passed and the pain she swallowed just to give us a shot at life. We wouldn’t be here, if she didn’t stay up night after night nursing our sickness and assuring our sense of self.
When did the time out stop being an effective tool to avoid a temper tantrum? Babyface goes to ballet class with two of her “good friends”. She used to call them her “best friends”, but I nipped that one in the bud.
[Digression starts here] She was scaring them away, acting all needy and following them around. 3-year-olds are no better than single men in their late 30s+. They want a challenge and can run surprisingly fast for their age.
If you get all up in another kid’s grill, you could be playing on the monkey bars by yourself for the next year.