It’s 5:30 in the morning right now, and I can hear the girl quietly whimpering over the monitor.
We’re attempting to break her slowly of her night-time pacifier use. So far, it seems to be going well. I am not a pacifier mom. I hate the things. I detest it when I walk into a store and a 4 year old is wandering around sucking on one, talking around it. More often than not, it’s all I can do not to grumble loudly, “Wonder how much you’ll be paying for orthodontics and speech therapy.” It irks me almost as much as those stupid toddler leashes. “Your kid is not a pet!” But I digress.
When I was pregnant, almost every ultra-sound of the little girl showed her with her fingers or her hands in her mouth. When she was born, she had blisters on her hands from sucking on them so often. AT a day old, she cried, and cried, and cried. The nursery staff said– okay, they begged– “Give her a pacifier.” I resisted. No pacifiers. Boy never took one. I was adamant. She cried more. They pointed out the blisters and I knew…she needed that paci. Or maybe I did. I was sleep-addled. I agreed. They placed it in her mouth and she was instantly quiet. Then I cried.
I really did.
My not-so-secret crusade against the pacifier was that at around the point where she started really, really interacting with the world– 6 months or so, I think; that first year is such a blur now– my rule was no paci out of bed. If I got her out of the crib, I’d say, “Leave your paci here.” Then, when she started standing on her own in her crib, she’d take the paci out herself and drop it on her mattress. I also completely refuse to let her talk around it. If she has it and she begings to speak, she’s told, “We don’t talk around the paci. Take it out if you have something to say,” and she does.
At almost 18 months, she’s down to only one paci , and it almost never leaves her room. The only time we bring it out with us is if we’re going someplace and we know it’ll be well past her naptime/bedtime while we’re there.
The difficult habit for me to break has been not hopping up in the middle of the night when she loses the thing. That’s what we’re working on now. I think we may be one step closer to making the paci disappear forever. Now if I could find a sippy cup that didn’t leak all over the place after two weeks of use, I could ship off the last bottle.
I’ve been asked to make my carrot cake for a friend’s son’s confirmation this weekend. I have to admit that I was flattered by the way it was requested. All I can say is that I hope it doesn’t become internationally infamous after this weekend. That’s what I’m doing up this early. Getting ready to prep all the ingredients for the cake.
I’ve also opted to make some smaller versions of that to-die-for chocolate cake from the other day.
The carrot cake is more for the family and friends of the boy whose confirmation it is, and since I know that he doesn’t like the pineapple and walnuts in the cake and my friend says that he and his brother argued over who got to eat the last of the couple of slices of the chocolate cake I sent over, I decided to make him a small chocolate cake out of one of the layers. I’m going to make the other layer into two half-cakes to give to my mom and the hubby’s mom for Mother’s Day.
As rich as that cake is, it seems better to break it all up. I’ll let you know how it goes.
When our beagle, Em,
was dying of bladder cancer, the boy was desperate for a cat. He was five years old at the time. He’d been pretending, periodically, to be a cat since he was three. It was cute…at first. By five, he’d mostly given it up, but he still wanted a cat. I wasn’t ready to take care of a dog again–little did I know that I’d get my very own ancient dog in just six months time in the form of my bro’s beagle-lab
–so we revisited the idea of getting some kittens once Em had passed away.
The only cats I’d ever owned before were strays who followed us home, or the wild cats we adopted from our former neighbor who had obviously never watched Bob Barker’s plea at the end of The Price is Right. I had no idea what I was looking for in a cat. I only knew we’d get two because I didn’t want them to be lonely like I think Em was. So I researched.
Somewhere in my research, I came across this checklist/ questionairre thing about what type of cat you might like. One of the things it asked was whether I wanted a quiet cat or a talker. I picked talker because I thought that’d be fun. So dumb. So, so dumb I was.
One day I ‘ll tell you the story of how we got the cats, but let’s fast forward a bit since alarm clocks are ringing in the house as I type, and my mommy work day is getting ready to go into full gear.
We got two cats. One is quiet and sweet and wonderful.
The other…his sister…
is…well, lets put it this way: to compare her to Fran Drescher would be an insult to Ms. Drescher.
Moral of the story: You may not want what you think you want. –or– Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it.
Oh, and don’t let the picture fool you. She really isn’t as evil as the photo might imply. She’s quite beautiful and loving. Unfortunately, those qualities also come with a heavy dose of dumb and annoying.
Now I have work to do. Scoot.