Weekend Highlights
Here are the highlights:
On Friday night, Gideon's penis got stuck in the "out" position. Not all the way out, but about 2 to 2 1/2 inches. It would not go back in and he didn't seem alarmed about it. However, I have heard horror stories during my rescue tenure about stuck penises. I fretted over it for about a half hour until P suggested I haul the dog into the bathtub and try using the shower head (which is connected to a hose). I figured he knows more about wieners than I do, so I decided to give it a shot. I grabbed Giddy and placed him in the tub. I then aimed the shower head at his junk. I felt terrible because at first the water was far too hot. I switched to cooler water and before long his penis was back where it belongs. Crisis averted. Speak of it never.
On Saturday, the kid and I stopped at a mall to look for a Father's Day gift. She announced that she had to use the potty. "Does it have magic flush?" she asked as we walked into the public restroom. We entered the first stall and I spotted the sensor on the wall. Ugh. Normally I try to carry post-it notes for this sort of occasion, but I didn't have one in my purse this time. Unable to think of a better option, I covered the sensor with the palm of my hand.
"Okay, you can go," I told her. She hopped on the potty and then told me I had to stand outside. She doesn't want me looking at her poop (and I know this because she is always screaming, "DON'T LOOK AT MY POOP!"). I pulled my hand away from the sensor and the toilet immediately flushed, a violent sort of WHOOSH that did leave one with the impression that it could easily take a small butt right along with it. The kid hopped off the toilet in a flash.A then instructed me to remain in the stall with her and to cover the sensor with my hand. However, I had to agree to keep my eyes closed. So, picture me standing behind a toilet in a public restroom with my hand flat against the wall. With my eyes closed. While my kid pinches a loaf. Good times, good times.
On Saturday morning, the kid and I went to a huge farmers' market, where a safety fair was also taking place. The whole area was very, very crowded and there was a lot going on. A got to climb onto a fire truck, sit in a police car (and that'd better be the first and last time she does that), and pretend to drive a city bus. She kept getting excited and running off, which was frustrating me to no end. Call me overprotective, but she's going to have to put up with my crazed abduction fears until further notice.
After she'd run off a half dozen times, I'd had enough. I scooped her up, held her on my hip, and had a "talk" with her. Just then, a woman came up alongside me and said, "Hi, I have a degree in childhood development and I just want to tell you that it's great that you were speaking to your daughter so positively! So many parents are so negative. Keep up the great work!"
Now, I don't know what this woman thought she heard me say, but in actuality, I was threatening my child (and her children and her children's children) in every way I could think of. Something like this: "If you run off one more time, somebody is going to put you in their car and take you away forever. And then we'll never see you again. You don't want that, do you? And stop crying about your balloon. I told you eighty times it would pop if you kept poking it." I'm sure I threw in a few more Mom-gems.
Normally, I actually do try to speak with my daughter in a positive manner. I was paying attention when Super Nanny said that it's important to get down to the child's eye level and speak to them rationally. But when it comes to my kid endangering her own safety, the gloves are off. Since Miss-I-Have-a-Degree seemed to have heard something entirely different, though, I just smiled and nodded.
On Saturday evening, A and I met a friend of mine for dinner at Red Robin. As usual, the kid announced that she needed to use the bathroom, because she is pretty determined to see the inside of every public restroom from here to Poughkeepsie. I waited outside the stall since that seems to be the new protocol. When she was done, I lifted her up so that she could wash her hands. I flipped the faucet handle upward and waited. Little did I know, this was the one public restroom in the free world that actually has hot water running through its pipes. In my 39 years, I have never been in a restroom that featured water warmer than 70 degrees. Until now. My poor baby thrust her hands under the faucet and immediately began to cry. I quickly sought out the cold water and made her put her hands in it for a few minutes. Yes, here she is, folks - mom of the year! Boils her child's hands in hot water at the Red Robin. :::sigh:::
On Sunday, the kid and I worked at the rescue's booth at a dog festival. It was a beautiful day and there was a great turn-out. Many of the other rescues had spin-the-wheel games for a buck and A won a bunch of prizes (including a whistle - grrrrrr). When our shift was over, we packed up and started to head back to the car. A few of the other volunteers were sitting in chairs behind the table. My daughter walked up to one of them and, inexplicably, rubbed my friend's left boob. Then she walked to the next seated volunteer and did the same to her. Finally, she waved and started to walk away from the tent. I stood there, somewhat dumbfounded. "Sweetie!" I called after her. "When you say good-bye you can just, you know, touch their shoulder or something." I didn't know what to say. I can't think of any reason why the good-bye ritual would include bosom-rubbing (except maybe at a frat party). Now my friends from the rescue are left to ponder, "What is that woman teaching her child?!"
Comments
Seriously though, last year at the church picnic, Chloe won a whistle. It has mysteriously been "lost". Last weekend at the church picnic, doesn't she say, "I hope I win another whistle this year!"
One summer when M & C where about 3 & 1 we stopped at the local pizza shop on the way home from the shore. We were all sun-burned and tired to begin with but the cupboards were bare at home and we had to feed the troops. Naturally it took FOREVER to get our pizza. Bill took M to the restroom and about 3 minutes later I hear this awful shriek. Turns out first M burned his hands on the hot water of the faucet and then for a finale B zipped M's wiener in his shorts. M comes running out of the restroom yelling and crying, "Daddy burned my hands and zippered my penis in my shorts". Every man in the joint cringed, C started to have a meltdown of his own seeing his brother so upset and we, the two worse parent on the planet earth, begging our waitress for a to go box and high tailed it out of there. At the time it was tramatic, M never let daddy zipper him again, now we laugh about it.
Jen