Two cars, one tow truck.

My husband says you 'can't script' the situations in which we often find ourselves. But, just in case, I'm going to write down some of this nonsense in the event someone actually does want to script it and can pay us for it. That'd be especially convenient since 87% of the crap we deal with is generally related to our lack of funds.

It is the lack of funds has consumed us lately, but I will forgo my sob story. The truth is -most of us are struggling with money - it's just the manner by which Gary and I get slammed into financial conundrums that is more interesting than most.  

Getting a lil' extra cash is among the reasons my husband traveled to Bowling Green Saturday night. He went to judge a Hardrock MMA show. He could go, carpool with some folks and gain a small profit- basically enough to pay our gas to work and back a couple times this week. I stayed home, even though Gary originally planned to drive us both to Bowling Green. I had mentioned the need for a MMA fix since I hadn't seen people bash each others' bodies in a while, but fiscally it was totally irresponsible, so I was going to have to get my violent, aggression-voyeur fix elsewhere. Hey, I'll go visit my parents! Kidding. Totally joking. 


So I hung out my parents and played with Charley until she finally crashed at 11 PM. Sometime around 1 AM I woke up, took her to bed and called Gary. I can never sleep when he is on the road after fights.  Mostly because I am certain something bad will happen.... call me Miss Cleo. 


Unable to sleep and without TV, I played on my phone and did laundry while I waited for Gary to get home. I called him at 2:30 to see where he was- he'd made it Mt. Sterling and he was stopping for a drink. He promised to call me when he got to Bath County and again when he got to Rowan County. I requested something in the chocolate candy department and went back to my chores. Looking back, I realize my body stress eats, even when it senses stress in the near future. (Do you like how I say 'my body eats' as though I have no control over it?! Ha!)




At 3 AM, as I am organizing my kid's closet, Gary calls and says: "Bad news." Please judge accordingly, but I swear before he uttered his next sentence I thought for sure he was going to say: I forgot and/or ate the chocolate you requested. If only it were that simple.




Gary was stranded on the side of the road in Bath County. Complete and utter destruction to his tire, wheel and fender. We had been planning to take his car in for maintenance after our next paycheck - too late.




Charley was asleep, so I made the decision to not take her with me on the road. I called my mom and planned to drop her off there so she could sleep and I did not risk her waking up mid-trip and asking 4500 hundred questions that all begin with 'why' - and her safety, of course. Of course, I was also considering her safety. In addition to being on the interstate in the dead of the night, watching her mother and father lose their sanity could lead to years of therapy we clearly can't afford.




I get to my parents and shamefully walk into their room to dump my kid on the bed. My dad is sitting straight up with his AAA card in hand. I grabbed the card and I felt like I'm 10-years-old all over again, as he had been hounding us to get Gary's tires fix for awhile now. He mumbles something about a free tow and off I go to rescue Gary from the side of the road. Rescue is a strong word. Honestly, it was not as if  his situation was incredibly urgent. Only my husband could be on the shoulder of the interstate at a very safe distance, with cell service, a wi-fi-connected computer, his dip, and plenty of snacks. So, he is basically in his recliner at home.


I almost grabbed my mom's keys as I walked out because my car was about out of gas (and I love her Sirius radio), but feeling like the biggest burden in the world already, I jumped in my car and searched for a 24-hour gas station. 



I hit 64 and said a prayer- Lord get us home safely, without further incident.

Now, 
Gary says I mumble. He can never hear me. I contend he is a poor listener. Tonight I confirmed God is male- he only heard half of what I said.


At mile-marker 130 I started losing speed and I heard a loud whirring behind me that interrupted The Doors (stoners take over the radio at 3 AM). 

The repeated thud from my driver's side back tire confirmed God's incredible sense of humor. 


I pull over as far as possible, but I was seconds away from the Bath County line, which crosses a bridge over the LIcking River. I get completely off the road with only a foot to spare. (Did I really just say spare?)




Completely manic and hysterical - I called Gary sobbing and cussing. Other than telling me I have to calm down and shutting down my irrational suggestion we just walk 'til we meet each and watch the sun come up...he convinced me to call my mom.




Lord. It's that phone call to your parents where you're telling your mom what happened and your dad starts asking questions and commenting from the background, so then my mom is talking to two people trying to relay messages and give instructions all at once. She spends majority of the phone call trying to clarify to whom she is speaking. Never mind, me folks, Ill just sit here on the interstate while we work out this convo. Their only advice 15 minutes later: "Call AAA, you have the card for free roadside assistance. See what they say and call back."




A girl takes one customer service professional development and she becomes an expert- AAA is the worst service I've yet to deal with. 


My favorite question was her first one- 'Are you in a safe location?'


'Why yes, ma'am. I am on the side of the interstate at 3:30 AM near a wooded area watching semi's whiz pass me at 80 mph. I've never felt safer. Matter of fact -I should open a preschool for visually impaired children in this exact location." Seriously?




Even after being as detailed as I could, Rhonda Roadside could not figure out where I was located. Apparently, I needed the longitudinal coordinates of my location because if she was not precise this whole deal was off-- i.e: 'ol girl couldn't move on 'til her computer allowed her.

I calmly endured the 15 minutes of her fumbling around with my location. I didn't snap when she thought I was in Connecticut. I said nothing rude when she asked me to list all the major roads I was near or just passed. When the woman told me the services could not be offered unless I could get 'my friend, Charles' to confirm my use of his card, I apparently became (as Kathy Griffin would say) a strong, black woman.




No way was I going to play phone tag and take more time for the already estimated hour until I receive assistance. I explained to her it was unsafe as it was, I was his daughter, and he is watching my 4-year-old as I was in this predicament because my husband was stranded on the side of the road (albeit comfortably) 6 miles ahead of me.




When she suggested I calm down and call the police if I felt 'that unsafe.' I lost it. 




'Ma'am at this point my safety is not my biggest concern, so unless the police drive up here passing out new cars and/or wads of money to fix this mess - I don't need the po-lice, I need to get to my husband and back home." And with the enunciation of po-leese, I was suddenly pretending to be a member of Honey Boo Boo's family on an episode of Cops. God help us all. I plea insanity.




Alas, I was approved for roadside assistance (she must've known I was hardcore). But by assistance - she meant a guy from Steve's Towing would be there in 45 minutes to get me and charge me $3 per mile after the first 5 miles, all due at the time of my tow.



Umm, no. Not happening.




I called my dad asked about the free tow? (Keep in mind, we have ruled out the spare. A. Not sure that I had one. B. I didn't want to be responsible for someone changing my tire while in the right lane of 64 at 4AM. C. The tow was supposed to be free). 


Irate and crazy, my dad sent my mom out the door to get me, wrote down AAA's number and promised to inform Rhonda Roadside where she can go and what she could do to herself. New discovery: I turn ghetto, while my father goes Clint Eastwood via RNC upon dealing with incompetent service peoples. Oy.




Remember Gary? Yeah, his car was completely dead at this point, but he was still perfectly entertained. Grasping at straws for a ride home, he decided to call his folks to get him, since my ETA was very uncertain - he made this decision prior to my dad losing his mind on AAA. Also, my mother is a nervous driver so with the fog and dark night she could've been a while. I decided to settle in sans snacks or computer hook up.




In the meantime, a very nice off-duty, MSU police officer stops and checks on me. Officer James. He offered to either drive me to Gary or get Gary and bring him to me, but since both of us had rides coming to us we declined.  Before he left, though, he flashed some light on my tire to expose to me what was left of my tire. Ugh. He was nice, but offered me no money or a new car. 




My mom finally made it to me. We passed Gary on the interstate. His dad was just ten minutes behind us and since he did not own a cell phone, we couldn't call him off his rescue mission.




Gary and I made it home, safely. Without incident? Hardly. 




Mom just called an Charley sounds horrible- coughing and complaining of a sore throat.  But, God love her, she is worried about how we are getting to church today. I am worried about how we are all getting to work tomorrow. We have a few hours to figure out how to get our cars off the interstate and fixed.




We are safe and (despite bouts of obesity) physically healthy. I think our emotional and spiritual health is compromised some- but by now we know the drill. We have been here before -often, too.damn.often. Nevertheless, we always seem to get exactly what we need to make it. 

Well, except that chocolate. I never got my chocolate. 

There's no swagger in my wagon, but can I offer you a seashell?

Four years ago Gary allowed me to make a pregnant lady decision. I insisted we needed a new car and it needed to be able to ride 7 people because we were adding just one small, tiny person to our family. I guess the enormity of my  personal weight gain during pregnancy made me miscalculate exactly how large my newborn would be and exactly how much space she'd require. Assuming I'd be chauffeuring Charley plus a small herd of wayward highwaymen daily,  we bought a Chrysler Pacifica. It was spacious and had a family car feel without that godforsaken sliding door that I will spend my life trying to avoid. I really enjoyed the car when I wasn't dealing with air conditioning, tire, wheel, tie-rod,  radiator, alternator, or remote-start issues (let's hope the dealership people don't read this). My love for the car mimics the similar feelings I've expressed for my daughter - she is perfect... when she's asleep (that car is incredible...sitting in my driveway). An increased commute has solidified  my desire to trade-in  the Silver Spaceship. 

Shopping for a new vehicle requires a lot of work. No, not researching and looking for deals- the Internet has made that a no brainer. I now realize the hard work apparently comes the night before when you have to clean out your old vehicle in a desperate attempt to slick 'er up and pretend you've kept it in pristine condition all along. 'No...that's not melted chocolate and dog hair permanently hardened into the carpet.' This is especially difficult when you've been using the vehicle as an extension of your home for 60+ minutes a day. By that comparison, I'm not sure I am willing to publicly admit which part of the home we use our vehicles for. 

I will say that the deep cleaning and total purging of my car has made me consider a few rules for my next car. 
Most people enact the standard no-eating-in-the-car rule, but that alone would not encompass the entire problem- even though I now know how Charley ate all those yummy sweet potato fries so quickly last month. 

I'm extending the ban. Based on the recent findings in my car the following will be forbidden in the new car: 

1.  Phone chargers. I may not be able to offer your car battery a jump, but I can give your cell some juice- Nokia? Nextel? Apple? Pick a cord...any cord. 
2. Straws- especially those that come with juice boxes and will stab your hand as you blindly reach beneath the seat.
3. Anything that has the potential to melt: crayons, chocolate, cough drops, suckers, raisins, ice cream, my kid without a nap...
4. Cups with lids
5. Cups without lids
6. Removable straps  that are supposed to keep certain 'cups' comfy and secure.
7. Bottles with caps- the caps are everywhere.
8. Bottles without caps- too many spills related to excess tobacco juice. (Our daughter knows to cautiously ask before drinking from any bottles...life lessons from her daddy). 
9. Anything that can be crushed: cookies, crackers, goldfish crackers, biscuits, cereal, chips, my hopes & dreams...
10. Discount/club cards for stores I frequent maybe every 6 months and never have with me in the store, but I still get the discount because I punch in my phone number- genius!
11. Hairbows, hairbands and bobby pins- I could open a Claire's from my backseat.
12. Shoes that can not be tied and double knotted to the wearer's feet. 
13. CD's both with and without cases- and especially burned CD's wherein the creator assumed it would not be necessary to write a title, date or other info- because accidentally popping in Gary's angry-teenage-boy mixed CD instead of Charley's Kid's Bop is never unsettling to my passengers. 
14. Anything that can easily rest above the sun visor without being seen and then unexpectedly attacks  my face when I go to check my make-up
15. Important papers that have clearly expired, but because I'm fuzzy on the time period in which they should be kept, my console becomes napkin disposal and an ancient artifacts museum. 
16. Clothes hangers: wire, plastic, children's -"Nooo wire hangers!!"
17. Baskets/crates/tote bags  that are suppose to be organizing the crap all over the car. Good effort guys.
18. Stickers.Especially those shiny ones of cartoon characters that are obviously made by the Gorilla Glue Co. and obviously belong on a window.
19. School supplies- pencils, pens, highlighters, paper clips, paper, post-its, textbooks, binders, common core standards, curriculum maps, etc. Just in case you wanna align curriculum on the go. 
20. Wallet sized and mailed holiday photos (including/especially-those featuring my own daughter).
21. Seashells. I was driving around with a box of seashells? 
22. Toys and dolls. The time will come when I am mistakenly arrested because someone saw Polly-Pees-Herself strapped in the back seat and reports me for leaving a baby in the car. 
23. Tampons/pads. Regardless of how or where they are stored they always wind up in the passenger side floor board, mangled and fully unwrapped (usually on days I have to cart a guy in my car).
24. Chapstick/lip gloss. I have it for two days, but inevitably open it after it has sat in 90 degree temps and it liquifies all over my lips or lands in gob on the floor mat.
25. Pennies. Sure they add up, but even if I have 300 and take the time to collect, roll and cash them in- I still don't have enough to cover the price at my next car wash vacuum session. At 75 cents a session, I need a small loan to tidy up my upholstery.  


The list could go on, but ultimately I should probably just ban people (at least my filthy lil family) from my car. While I'm ranting and raving over the disaster our vehicle, Gary stands by and dreamily lists the great times the car has seen: the first Thomas family vacation to Florida, a couple of trips to TN, Sunday trips to visit family, bringing our daughter home from the hospital...

'Are you going to miss it? It was our first family car with Charley.'

When you have scrubbed chocolate milk on the verge of spoiling from the carpet right below your precious offspring's seat in 90 degree heat, or sat uncomfortably behind the veil of tinted windows in the Target parking lot trying to breastfeed at midday despite the clear view offered to people passing the extra wide front window, or listened to your child scream from Owingsville to Christy Creek, or driven 25 miles with a crazy-terrified cat clinging to your steering wheel while your 100lb dog wants to climb to the front seat to lie in your lap, or sat in Lexington traffic 9 months pregnant when the AC goes out and the power to the windows stalls during abnormally hot temps for April...you somehow block out the sweet car memories. 

'Oh, this car can only transport one person? Where do I sign?' 

So they loaded up the truck and moved to....Clearfield.

. 

Almost four years ago exactly, Gary and I hammered a couple of 'For Sale' signs in our neighborhood and yard. I'm think I'm supposed to remember the hope and excitement we had that day, but mostly I just think about how clean my house was. Seriously, my house was so clean the day the realtor came over to take pictures. We even really mopped, and not just Swifter mopped. Actually, that may have been the last time we really mopped? I remembered it smelled so freaking good.

---------------------> Fast forward 4 years. 

I think it smells like wet dog, foot, and apple cinnamon in here. We are clearly trying to cover up the smell with every Glade product on the market. 

For every single item I pick up, Charley drags out four equally or larger sized items. Isn't that a Newton law or something? 

Hang on. Charley just ran into the living room to ask me if she can help cut daddy's hair - she is wearing high heels and underwear. Awesome - this means hair all over the bathroom floor and/or another trip to the ER. Shout out to Gary. It's good he is teaching her a trade. Maybe beauty school will keep her off the stage. But really, today? We need to do this right now???

You know back in 2008, when our house was immaculately clean, moving would have been a breeze. I hadn't gone back to grad school yet. Gary wasn't neck deep into operating a MMA media business in addition to his real job. Charley was a tiny little infant confined to a crib and had tiny little toys instead of a 75 lb music stage. 

It was all too simple. 

So here it is, March 31st. We finally sold our house. It happened very suddenly and unexpectedly. Technically our house wasn't even on the market, but through word of mouth and God's wicked sense of humor we finally sold our doublewide to a sweet elderly couple, who really need to live here. 

Yeah, sure. I should be jumping up and down and crying tears of joy. This is everything I've wanted! But all of that is a little suppressed right now as full on debilitating panic sets in. Here's the catch: 

                                                                  We have to be out by April 15th. 

15 days. 15 days to pack and move almost 10 years of our lives. 

Add in the following: I am recovering from strep. I have 495 assignments to do for grad school and my job. Gary is preoccupied with a MMA fight this week.  Charley is, well - a pain in the ass. She's acting like an emotional, bipolar 13 year old. She goes between full-on euphoria that we are moving, to crazy-sobbing depression that we are leaving her 'house, her home, her Baff County." Plus, she is extra pissed that we are, in fact, not moving into a castle. When she's not going full-on Lindsay Lohen crazy she's just being 3 and making messes. Everywhere. 

Yeah. This is more like it. This is exactly how I dreamed our moving day to be: the hope and excitement all buried deep beneath dysfunction, chaos and dirty laundry.

Pictures of our house - Pre-Charley. 

That rug was destroyed a few months later in a candy corn meets Gunner vomit incident. 

Whoop-dee-do and I love you...

I wrote the following memoir  in 2006. I was working through the realization that my Mamaw was starting to battle dementia/Alzheimer's. Mamaw died last night at the age of 86, but I feel as though I have been saying goodbye to her for years now. The Mamaw I remember is strong and funny and loving – not the frail, quiet lady I said good bye to last night. Many of you may remember Mamaw at her most famous station - the Walmart service desk. I remember my Mamaw in her chair.

Last week, my husband Gary and I made our first adult purchase together and bought a brand new leather couch. As we spent our first Sunday sprawled on the new monstrosity that barely fits in our small living room, I noticed that we had claimed our sides. I prefer to lounge on the end that allows me to reach the nearby shelf so I can spread my clutter all around, and Gary sits on the opposite end for optimal remote control use. As I looked at our defined positions I was amused by how quickly we surrendered to this seating arrangement, but really not all that surprised. I don't know about my husband, but I am, in fact, genetically predisposed to such territorial behaviors. Most people claim a place in their home, but my Mamaw Gib, is someone I most associate with distinct pieces of furniture.


I can remember hazy summer days in the old brown house. My Mamaw arranged her body and most necessary belongings at the kitchen table. Mamaw controlled her domestic universe from this common location. As though she wanted to make sure we knew she was chore ready, she'd be dressed in ragged, bleach-stained shorts and an oversized sleeveless, yellow, cotton T-shirt with elbows carelessly on the table. Her back grazed the washing machine and dryer, while she was within a few steps from the stove and, most importantly, only a flick of the wrist from her Merit Ultra Lights and a worn deck of playing cards.


I don't know what drew me to her side at the table, whether it was the leftover biscuits that hid under a paper towel or the easy view of Pappy Duke's blaring TV, but I found it so comfortable to plop myself at the table, still damp from the dish rag she swiped across the surface to remove sausage gravy. She would scurry around the kitchen folding underwear and dropping dumplings all at the same time, while I just rambled about my 8-year-old dramas: mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends. In between her hurried tasks, though, she would always rest back into her chair, shuffle the deck of cards, and sometimes even deal me in a hand of Double Solitaire.

The first time I saw my Mamaw cry was at that very table. We were watching the final episode of The Golden Girls and I looked to my right to see a tear drop quietly from Mamaw's eye just as Dorothy hugged her girls goodbye. Without skipping a beat, Mamaw huffed, slapped my shoulder, and let out a "Well, shit, Ab!" (her favorite phrase, beside "Whoop-dee-do") as if to curse away this frivolous TV indulgence and instance of weakness. This moment creeps back into my memory each time I watch the Lifetime rerun of that very episode. I am not touched at the sentimentality of the episode, rather the tenderness of my Mamaw.

When I was in the sixth grade the small city of Morehead was deciding to develop its budding commerce. This meant that the beloved old brown house behind the Pizza Hut would be demolished and Mamaw's kitchen table was to be moved all the way across town to Clearfield.

The new house, though, was perfect. Mamaw could still sit comfortably with her back to the washing machine and dryer and she still was just a shuffle away from the stove and sink, There was one distinct change that incurred at this new residence, which ultimately affected her favorite furniture inclination. Due to breathing problems, my Pappy Duke was forced to rely on the clear plastic tube of his oxygen machine. This meant Mamaw would have to enjoy her Merit Ultra Lights outside in order to avoid the disastrous explosion that could transpire if Mamaw and her lit flame came too close to Pappy and his relaxing breathing aid – I knew about this dangerous fusion between these two, long before the oxygen machine moved in. Quitting her habit was never really an option because being a woman of habits it was much easier for her to simply occupy a new site. She chose the white wicker rocking chair that sat in the corner of her small front porch.

At this time I was devoting my winter schedule to basketball practices and games; therefore, my visits with Mamaw were more frequently in the summer when I could keep her company during long and frequent smoke breaks. Somehow, with the razing of the old house, my Mamaw's chores were lessened and we had more time to just sit and chat, which was good, because now a teenager I had more serious problems to tend to, even though mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends still remained on the agenda.

Mamaw would rock and I would talk as neighbors walked through the street in front of us. Despite the constant traffic just a few feet away, I always felt secluded on the porch with Mamaw. Maybe it was because we were away from the chaos of the blaring TV that hadn't been turned down since they lived on Barber Court and that we were not near the heavy humming of Pappy's newest noise maker, but it was out on that porch I suddenly started talking of things more feminine despite my desperate attempts to remain the resident tomboy. On that porch one late summer afternoon, Mamaw became the first family member to know about my first serious boyfriend – a taboo subject I had avoided much longer than my two cousins who have talked openly about the opposite sex while I was still passing boy cooties to my neighbor in the lunch line with ‘no-take-backs.’ Giving a comfortable shrug, Mamaw just rocked back in her chair, ashed her cigarette on the concrete and asked questions about his family, while I slowly gushed about my secret crush.

The evening chat about boys on the porch suddenly became a childhood memory, as it wasn't long before I walked up the porch step, looked at the empty rocking chair to realize I was a 20 year-old college student. Mamaw no longer had any time for that front porch post, as she was forced to quit her nicotine addiction and move inside where she was needed by my Pappy Duke. Pappy was diagnosed with cancer in late July that year and Mamaw forgot to smoke as she gave her every second to her husband. She perpetually sat in his recliner beside his hospital issued bed until his death in early November of the same year. As it was for my entire family, those brief months centered around Pappy, so I honestly can't recall any significant moments with Mamaw; she became displaced during the shuffling of doctor appointments, pill bottles, home health nurses, and everyone's last visits with Pappy. Somewhere in that house she just sat quietly to the side while we all dealt with Pappy's death in our own ways.

Had I not been so overwhelmed and focused on Pappy during his last days, I'm pretty sure I would have laughed at Mamaw who was courageous enough to settle into Pappy's massive recliner that boasted a structure and aura much larger than the fragile lady relaxed in its sunken seat. The recliner was Pappy's place and for anyone to sit in it, especially with him in the same room, was a blasphemous sin comparable only to not cleaning your plate at mealtime. It wasn't until months after the chaos of Pappy's death that I even noticed Mamaw's new, absurd location.

At this very moment I can walk into the living room to find Mamaw dressed in loose cotton PJ's, cross-legged, and hunched in Pappy's recliner under a sour cloud of cigarette smoke. Mamaw may have abandoned her former seats, but she soon reunited with the familiarity and comfort of her embrace with that long, smooth stick.

Despite the several years that I have had to adjust to her new furniture preference, I still get the feeling that the scene is just out of place, like a curious toddler who slips on daddy's giant work boots. It's sweet that she sits in Pappy's room, but this is not her place. Mamaw now faces the less used washer and dryer and doesn't even bother with stove or sink a room away. For the past three Christmases I have bought her a new deck of playing cards, but they remain unopened as she no longer has the sturdy kitchen table always before her. The TV plays on loud as ever, but even she will admit that "it's just for the noise." I am slowly coming to terms with the realization that Mamaw's new chair extends beyond just a change of scenery.

It is no secret, nor is it a surprise, that Mamaw's memory is fading. Somehow her sharp tongue, coinciding chores, and patient flips of playing cards have become lost somewhere in this life long game of musical chairs. The odd appearance of her latest arrangement is sharply outlined by the ever progressing derangement of her mind. The repetitious questions have the warmth of my caring Mamaw, but they lack the sincerity of the woman who has always sat close by to listen and hear me my whole life. Over the years it has become my habit, my inclination, to turn to this woman as my confidant and close friend. Now I have to share my seat with the uninvited consequences of aging.

(Sidenote: The couch that referenced in the first paragraph is now, 6 years later, worn, ragged and sagging – but, dammit, isn’t that what Time does to us all?)

Sweet Dreams Are Made of...Irony

Bad parent admission #456 - Charley sleeps in our bed. Judge me. I have never in my life been as tired as I have been since this kid was born. When I see college students complaining about all-nighters and no sleep, I want to drive to their dorms and puke on them, "Here try not sleeping and cleaning up vomit." But I don't...because I'm too tired. So when I'm exhausted, I give in and let her sleep in the bed.

I will say that I've protested this horrible habit MUCH, MUCH more than her daddy. Oh! Her 'daddy'. The good guy. The guy that counts to three in 45 seconds and is famous for his 'This is the last time, I mean it' warnings that come 12 times before mommy steps in and means it. Apparently, the cord needs to be cut from her father when it comes to bedtime.

Last night I had the kid in her room...in her room...and in her bed. Sure sounds easy. Have you ever successfully convinced a puppy to sit still when it is surrounded by chew toys, treats and the possibility of a squirrel just in the other room? That is what putting a three year old to bed is like. The adult people, hell even the dog, are all tired - she is still ready to run through all of her toys and books, NEEEEEEEEDS a drink of water and needs to know what's going on in the other room even if it is just her dad sitting on the couch exactly how we left him 5 minutes ago.

So she is in the bed. I go lay down in our bedroom. Charley does her normal stall visits: I just have to tell daddy something, What is this (carrying a random part of a toy), I need some water...it could go on all night. She is eventually in her room. I hear movement, but confining her to one area is a master feat so I'm not complaining. However, her father is complaing.

Dear old dad can't stand it. Sheepishly admits he wants to Charley to sleep in our bed and gives me the 'She's only this little once' speech. He calls for her and asks her to come lie in bed with us despite my warnings:

When does it stop, Gary?

When she's four? Five? I don't know.

Okay, well...fine...when she and her 25 year old boyfriend are lying in bed with you because you let her do whatever she wants just because she says 'daddy' - you let me know how that works. (Extreme, I know, but this is how it all starts. Lohen's parents probably let her sleep in the bed with them, too).

How old is she then?

Seriously? Does that even matter? Twelve? Thirteen? Not my point.

And at that Charley is crawling in the bed with two pillows, a bear and a baby doll, "Here's my things" she announces as she dumps the load at her daddy's feet.

I roll over and let the bosom buddies tuck in the babies and cuddle with pillows. Okay - so I smile a little when she sighs and says, "We are the bestest family." Damn that sociopath.

Do you want to know just how good that little crazy is? It's 4 AM. I get up and realize that it is just me and the kid in the bed.

Yeah, that's right. Dear old dad got kicked out at some point and Mr. Cuddlebear himself is asleep on the couch, while the little princess is asleep in the bed.

Oh yes. This definitely is a moment where I wake up Gary and ask him if he is comfortable. Of course he claims it was 'too hot' in the bedroom - Oh, darling that wasn't the heat that was smothering you - it's the tight, chubby arms of manipulation strangling you.

Sweet dreams.

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.