Miniature Disasters and Tiny Catastrophes

I hoped yesterday would be a nice, relaxing fun day home with Charley. Apparently, when I pray for these things I really need to be more specific. Very specific.

From infancy, I prayed that Charley would be full-of-life and bring our family joy. Um. Again - too vague. There is joy all right. Complete and utter, manic-madhatter, if-you-don't laugh-you-will cry kind of joy. And as for being full of life? Sheeez. These days I just want her to stop spinning and prancing long enough to cloth her properly, which is something I have to attempt frequently seeing as how she NEVER wears clothes. I feel like I am dressing a marionette puppet whose strings are being controlled by a Tilt-O-Whirl. 

From Tuesday afternoon until about midnight last night (quite frankly, I'm fuzzy on the details for yesterday evening because I am pretty positive I was dozing off before her ---- don't judge me) the kid has been one disaster after another. Nonstop destruction. And truly it is not like she isn't being closely supervised. I'm not talking about me lying on the couch painting my nails, chatting on the phone and catching up on my stories, while my daughter is in the east wing juggling knives.  We have a trailer, people. Albeit a doublewide, but our walls are practically a few pieces of card stock layered with wallpaper. In fact, Gary is asleep in the other room right now ("down the hall" if you will) and I can hear his every snore. 

But this kid is relentless. Charley can go from 0-90 in a millisecond. This has to be some stage or development change because it has never been like this before. I can literally be inches from her, turn my head for a second, and she is suddenly wreaking havoc. It's like supervising a junkie who is waiting for me to turn my back so she can go score a fix - her disaster fix. 

Here's the timeline: 

11/22: (Sometime before I got home) Charley grabbed the baby powder and covered herself and our bedroom in white dust. Her response to Gary, who could've sworn she had fallen asleep: "I was itchy." (by the way-I've already discussed with Gary the importance of taking pics of these moments - he says he will do better). 

11/22: (11:00PM)  Charley was in bed with me and I thought we both were asleep. Her eyes were closed. She gets up out of bed and proceeds to put my mascara on her eyes. Thank goodness Gary comes in and catches her in the act. You instantly wake up when you hear, "Go show your mother what you did."

She was apparently filling in her eyebrows.

11/23: (10 AM) I leave Charley in the bedroom while she is eating and watching a Scooby Doo movie. Food and subpar animation - her two most 'still' events, so I'm confident I can plug my phone in the other room while I talked to a friend. Less than 10 minutes later she comes prancing - I mean she is in full hip-swaying, catwalk stride- into the living room. "Look mommy! I'm ready for my concert!" Epic. Fail. 

My favorite is the Snooki-style self tan she's got going on her chest.

11/23: (11AM) Charley is convinced she can get her own drinks now and I applaud the independence. But for about the next 30 minutes every time I go into another room to pick laundry, I hear the fridge door open. Always report to the kitchen immediately when you hear this - too many massive ounces of spilled red Kool-Aid are my motivation. She keeps saying she is thirsty or hungry. I finally get her settled in and give her a glass of milk. I walked to the back of the house, start sweeping and look around to see her walking in behind me with a new topped, off 24oz glass of chocolate milk and a plate of donuts (that were being store on top of the fridge). Alright - it's official. She is a donut-crazy ninja who goes into stealth mode when she needs sugar.

11/23: (3ish): At this point she is on lock down and by my side every.  However, I let her go to the potty by herself (Look, after years of diaper changes hundreds of bathroom trips with her at my feet - I'm going to indulge myself a little and let the kid potty alone if she can. Imma big girl, we have a small bathroom and now that she is self-sufficient in there, I'm going to sit this one out.) Welp. Another bad decision. Though we didn't see it until later - she had unrolled all.the.toilet paper and was clearly using it as ribbon stick for a dance routine.

11/23: (4PM) Gary is home by now and privy to the toilet paper/rhythm gymnastics fiasco. While he is dealing with that I am in the bedroom cleaning while keeping Charley in sight. I am on one side of the bed. She is on the other. I simply bend over to pick up the dust pan.  She go-go-gadgets her arms and swiped the SpicNSpan in order to spray down our computer screen. Seriously? I'm right here!!!!! 

The poor kid jumps when I yell at her, as she is most definitely happy with her helping-mommy moment.

Not so much. 

11/23: (5PM) I am cleaning the bathroom and Charley is in the living room with her dad. She comes in every so often to check on me, tell me a story or ask for something her dad has said 'No' to. At some point her little crazy eyes catch a glimpse of the tub of glitter I found while cleaning. I'd set it aside and forgot about it. Oh, don't worry. Little Miss Crazy Train caught sight of the shiny object and went straight in for the kill. I hear, "Oh, pretty!" and then "Oops." By the time I can get to her - she is tossing the glitter in the air and doing snow angels. 

At the sound of my cussing, Gary comes stomping to the bedroom. He has the nerve to say, "This kinda stuff never happens on my watch." 

Really, powder boy? 

And then questions my classroom management - "How do you take care of a classroom full of kids?" 

"I don't know? They are older and obviously not out to destroy me? Our kid is crazy. And is taking me down while sitting inches away!" (Keep in mind throughout this conversation Charley is squealing and thinks she is jumping in a pile of leaves.) 

At with the glitter incident I conclude that I can't take it anymore, so I decide to take our freak show on the road. "Put your panties on, Pearl! We're going to Walmart."

45 minutes later... she is finally dressed and ready to leave: PJ pants, skirt, hoodie, straw hat, sunglasses and plastic mismatched pumps and her microphone. 

Somehow my mom ends up harboring the the little heathen while I go stare at ribbon in the craft aisle at WalMart. And by stare at the ribbon, I mean sit and gawk at all the awesome crazies that parade by. WalMart holiday season is a Godsend. 

11/23 (9PM) We finally make it back home and I start digging in the craft cabinet. For my pet lover friends. You know that moment you dig into the food bin for your dog and they coming running at you and whine and waller practically on top of you while you try to pour their food out? Well, THIS is exactly the same reaction my kid has when she senses the presence of glue and construction paper. So I compromise and take out her Colorwonder paper and paint. This is the stuff that lets kids paint their precious fingers off, but the color only reacts to the special paper.  The thing is, it is only foolproof if you are sure you have really, really, really hidden the real finger paint. Five minutes later. Five feet away from me. Your girl: 

What you can't see it the 14 items behind her she decided to touch with her Smurf paws..

11/23 (10PM): I'm finishing up her ribbon turkey shirt that Pinterest has convinced me I could make. She comes over to look. I give her clear parameters as to what she can and can not do while sitting beside me. She wants to "draw letters" (I'm a writing teacher for God's sake- she knows my weakness) to which I approve. In the time it takes me to reach over and grab the glue gun, Picasso has decided to change mediums. She went from paper to her brand new white shirt that is practically in my lap - all in 2.5 seconds. Cue angry-mom-yell #264. She runs to the couch and cries. Gary and I just stare at each other.

Clearly I caught it before she completed a full Sistine Chapel - but, c'mon?!

We finally get her to the bedroom. She is flanked by both Gary and me, like CIA bodyguards and we are begging her to stop talking, stop moving and just close her eyes. 

So here I sit. As the holy terror sleeps soundly, I'm rethinking my nice, fun, relaxing day at home. Pondering if it's inhumane to put a bell around your 3 year-olds neck and....laughing.

My friend, Cathy, says, "I'd rather tame shrew, than breath life into a corpse." Yeah - I get it. (But seriously though...good grief...did I get the queen shrew??)

In light of all the miniature disasters, I am thankful for the vibrant and healthy little girl. Who IS full of life. I am thankful for the way God interprets my prayers (I'm telling you - He is a funny, funny guy). And I am thankful for the memories that come from fun, relaxing days at home. 

But before I have anymore children - I am thinking about a house with an open floor plan, alarms on cabinets, and not one damn crafting supply within ten miles from our home.

Cool-Hearted Snake

3 years, 6 months, and 9 days. The milestone that most parents must wait for their children to reach well into their teen years, was knocked out of the park tonight by my precious, darling toddler. What did the gifted (clearly) tot accomplish at such a young age? Well, she confidently and emphatically declared to the household (and, in reality, the rest of the neighborhood) that I, her mother and giver of life, was 'not cool'. Her exact words, through the tears and snot: "Not cool, mommy. Not cool."

Oh, really?

This would almost offend me - had I not lost every ounce of 'coolness' from the time I conceived this little gem. Cool left me the day I had to use my toes to pick up objects off the floor because I was too fat pregnant to bend over. Cool walked out on me the day I decided that fabric infused with the constricting powers of a tropical anaconda was suitable for underwear. Cool is sucked out of me every day I sing along with Justin Beiber while driving my mid-size, 'crossover' SUV that is one sliding door away from being a mini van. Cool was long gone the second I became interested in various methods of turning average vegetables and snacks into fun insect and/or animal shapes. So tonight - the pint-sized, vocalized affirmation that I was 'not cool' brought me distress ONLY because I had to fight back the urge to burst out in laughter.

So, what was 'Joe Cool' doing to earn the badge of lameness? I was forced to remove the 1,498 toys from my daughter's possession for 7 days. Not my raddest moment. So as I jammed dress-up clothes and potato heads into the closet, my daughter totally wigged out. As each toy left the shelf Charley wailed a heart wrenching, dissertation as to who got her the toy and how it was her most favorite. She snapped when her 'best-favorite-purse-her-Lulu-bought-for-her-forever' was tossed into the closet. (I think she was going with the nonsense-filled sentences to try and build an 'insanity defense').

Background: Charley received a report today from preschool that she was sent to timeout more than once for not picking up her toys. Unfortunately for Charley her mother is a crazy, neurotic public school teacher who privately fears that her kid will grow up to be THAT kid in class, so said mother may slightly overreact to otherwise developmentally normal instances.

But don't worry my kind-hearted friends - in the spirit of the Christmas season that is upon us, the delinquent was allowed to keep 3 parent-selected toys that fit into a small basket. She outgrew her gold, frankincense and myrrh last year, so she was allowed to keep a ball, a book, and baby doll. I actually just needed a way for her to intentionally, practice putting away toys every night (That's right. I even have my three year old child completing daily formative assessments...Stiggins - the next Dobson).

Being told I was 'not cool' was slightly off-putting, however it can not compare to the comment uttered as the last toy was being put away and the tears had eventually stopped. With the biggest smile and sweetest voice, my kind and oh-so-innocent child walked over, wrapped her arms around my leg and said, "Mommy, you are so pretty."

Ah, there's my little sociopath. Good to know that the initial results from my earnest attempt at scrupulously doling out consequences, included mud-slinging, followed by manipulation. I bet Barbara took away all of George W.'s toys back in the day.

How much in therapy fees will this stunt cost me? Or will she be old enough to pay for her therapy herself?