I’m Not Doc Ock

Knowing that your kid thinks you can move mountains is a good feeling, right? They believe in us more than we believe in ourselves, even after six shots of Fireball, and that’s saying something. No matter what problem comes up, they think we can fix it, whether it’s making their ouchies better with the healing powers in our kisses or ridding their room of monsters with magic swords.

There are times, though, when they overestimate our abilities and times when we really wish that they weren’t so confident in us. Like when Baby Girl lets her popsicle melt into a sticky mess and asks me to fix it — I can’t do that. When God was handing out parenting superpowers, he totally skipped giving me the ability to instantly revert a liquid into a solid. No sorcerer powers here. I can’t snap my fingers and make the sun stop shining too brightly, either. I do have Spidey like reflexes when it comes to catching a kid’s vomit before it goes all over the couch, though, which is severely underappreciated.

One time the kids really tend to overestimate just how much I’m capable of is when we’re in the car. They expect me to be Doc Ock while I’m driving, and since I prefer us all arriving wherever we’re going in one piece, I often disappoint them. (Not that this disappointment stops them from believing in me, though.) Here are some of the things they’ve requested over the past few months:

This from the child who once told me that I wasn’t any good at doing Transformers? I wouldn’t even if I could.

This one was tempting, just because he bragged about being better at Mario than me. The ability to gloat was just slightly edged out by not wanting to put my car in a ditch.

That’s a cheesy roll-up from Taco Bell, in case you’re wondering — something she has no trouble managing in the car. She was watching me doodle and requested that I show her eating that, so there ya go. More recently she’s requested that I feed her ice cream. She insisted on a cup of ice cream, even though I told her she couldn’t eat it in the car and that she’d have to wait until we got home, but she thought I could work my parenting mojo anyway. Nope.

At least she didn’t ask me to rub her back this time, I guess?

Baby Girl also frequently asks me to pick up things she’s dropped. Now, if she dropped things like a normal person, I could reach behind and grab whatever it is at a stop light or stop sign since her car seat is behind me. However, she typically drops things as far away from my reach as possible. So, not only am I not Doc Ock, I’m not Elastigirl, either, even if my crappy doodles do make my arms look ridiculously long sometimes.

So, dear kiddos of mine, I greatly appreciate your confidence in my abilities, but let’s cool it on the requests while I’m driving a one-and-a-half ton car down the road at 55 mph (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it), okay?


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#AtoZChallenge: ‘I’ is for I’m Dying

This Blast to the Past post is a repost. It was originally published as “I’m Having A Hot Flash WHERE?” in August.

People with anxiety disorder know how it is — the least little thing can mean impending doom health-wise. Headaches are brain tumors, stomach pain from that questionable taco you ate could be cancer. Bluish colored streaks on one’s neck are only God knows what, but surely awful (or it could be getting your recently dyed hair wet).

Several months ago, I was driving to pick up Baby Girl from preschool when my bottom suddenly felt hot all over. Alarmed, I tried to feel around to see if I was suddenly bleeding out or something. That would be bad, because not only would I be bleeding out, the car seat in my husband’s car had been dismantled because Baby Girl had puked all over it the night before. As such, my husband would have no way of getting her because I’d be at the hospital with the non-puked on car seat. Shit!

After swerving off the side of the road and determining that there was no blood, I continued panicking. Why was my butt having a hot flash? Was I on the verge of death, or maybe it was something less serious, like experiencing a side effect of one of my medications? Or maybe I had an infection that I would have to figure out how to deal with on my own, since there was no way I was going to a doctor to discuss an infected butt region.

I freaked out some more, trying to come up with more explanations for my bottom being hot all over. I debated on going into a gas station bathroom, which I rarely do because that definitely makes me feel like I’m dying (seriously, I’d rather risk an accident than use most public restrooms), and checking myself out. Maybe I could use my phone camera to get a good look, only what if I accidentally hit the wrong button and went live on Facebook or something? Gah.

And then it hit me — we have the ability to heat the seats in our car. Being someone who suffers from chronic swampassitis for 6 or 7 months of the year (screw you, humid South Carolina), and having only bought the car a few months earlier at the beginning of the swampassitis season, I had never used that option. And I probably never will. So, maybe it wasn’t that I was dying, but that my husband had turned on the thing that heats the seats.

I called my husband. “How do I check to see if the heated seat thing is on in the car? Is there a button or something?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “I turned it on. The button is underneath the radio and all that stuff.” I found it, saw the green light was lit, and turned it off. The heat on my bottom quickly went away. Crisis diverted — Baby Girl could be picked up and I wouldn’t have to go to the ER to discuss my hot (for once in my life) ass.

Thanks for joining me for the April A to Z Challenge! If you’re participating, please leave a link in the comments section so I can check out your post.

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I’m Having A Hot Flash WHERE?

People with anxiety disorder know how it is — the least little thing can mean impending doom health-wise. Headaches are brain tumors, stomach pain from that questionable taco you ate could be cancer. Bluish colored streaks on one’s neck are only God knows what, but surely awful (or it could be getting your recently dyed hair wet).

Several months ago, I was driving to pick up Baby Girl from preschool when my bottom suddenly felt hot all over. Alarmed, I tried to feel around to see if I was suddenly bleeding out or something. That would be bad, because not only would I be bleeding out, the car seat in my husband’s car had been dismantled because Baby Girl had puked all over it the night before. As such, my husband would have no way of getting her because I’d be at the hospital with the non-puked on car seat. Shit!

After swerving off the side of the road and determining that there was no blood, I continued panicking. Why was my butt having a hot flash? Was I on the verge of death, or maybe it was something less serious, like experiencing a side effect of one of my medications? Or maybe I had an infection that I would have to figure out how to deal with on my own, since there was no way I was going to a doctor to discuss an infected butt region.

I freaked out some more, trying to come up with more explanations for my bottom being hot all over. I debated on going into a gas station bathroom, which I rarely do because that definitely makes me feel like I’m dying (seriously, I’d rather risk an accident than use most public restrooms), and checking myself out. Maybe I could use my phone camera to get a good look, only what if I accidentally hit the wrong button and went live on Facebook or something? Gah.

And then it hit me — we have the ability to heat the seats in our car. Being someone who suffers from chronic swampassitis for 6 or 7 months of the year (screw you, humid South Carolina), and having only bought the car a few months earlier at the beginning of the swampassitis season, I had never used that option. And I probably never will. So, maybe it wasn’t that I was dying, but that my husband had turned on the thing that heats the seats.

I called my husband. “How do I check to see if the heated seat thing is on in the car? Is there a button or something?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” he said. “I turned it on. The button is underneath the radio and all that stuff.” I found it, saw the green light was lit, and turned it off. The heat on my bottom quickly went away. Crisis diverted — Baby Girl could be picked up and I wouldn’t have to go to the ER to discuss my hot (for once in my life) ass.

Have you ever gone into crisis mode over something silly?

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Lessons I’ve Learned

A few weeks ago, I had fun with graphs. I showed that children are clingy as hell when you need them not to be. That was probably already a universal parenting truth, but the graph made it official. Today you get a few more graphs on parenting lessons I’ve learned. (And I had an idea for a cute pie chart, so there will probably be even more graphs in this blog’s future. Yay — I think?)

The first lesson I’ve learned has to do with puking in the car.

Back when Little Man was a baby, we bought a used car that was a few years old. It wasn’t overly nice, but the price was right, it was safe, and it got us where we needed to go. If something got spilled in it, it wasn’t a big deal — that kind of car. Care to guess how many times LM puked in that car? Once.

We now have a pretty new (we bought it brand new a year ago) and expensive (for us) car. It has all the bells and whistles, leather seats, and is just gorgeous. Now would you like to guess how many times that car has been puked in over the past year? Well over a dozen. The last time was yesterday, which just happened to be a few days after I cleaned it good and conditioned the leather. Little Man got car sick. He was able to get some of it in a paper bag, but as luck would have it, the bottom of the bag collapsed.

The next lesson has to do with diapers being soiled. This particular lesson is what made me take Baby Girl’s diapers a little earlier than planned, because I was annoyed with 30 cents worth of diaper being ruined in five minutes.

Baby Girl was one of those kids who often wouldn’t poop unless she had on a clean diaper. As soon as you’d take the diaper full of pee off, she’d work her magic and ruin a brand new diaper by crapping in it. This was true as a baby and true as a toddler. After we got to the point where I knew that she could tell me and use the toilet, that whole “get changed and squat” act started wearing thin. Diapers aren’t that expensive, but still.

The last one is something I’m sure all parents — heck, anyone who has ever given a child a gift — are familiar with.

That’s right — spend a buck on something and you’re guaranteed hours of play. Spend $50 on something and it might get played with a grand total of five minutes. Such was the case with Baby Girl’s birthday party over the weekend. We were supposed to have a pool party, but decided to move it indoors the morning of the party because of rain. We went to Walmart and bought some stuff to have indoors to make sure the kids would be entertained. We had a little bounce house that the toddlers spent a few minutes on, a bowling set that I don’t think anyone touched, a bean bag toss that wasn’t touched by anyone other than adults, and then we had some balloons and pool noodles that cost a grand total of $4. I don’t even have to say which items the kids gravitated to.

Any lessons or other universal parenting truths you’ve picked up on that you’d like to see in graph form in a future post? 

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