Hey! Teachers! Leave Them Kids Alone...

I've been meaning to do a Deirdre/school related post for a while, and now that today's mail has brought me something to bitch about, this seems as good a time, as any.

Today, a poorly-sealed envelope from the local school board office brings me news that Deirdre may have a vision problem, and a request that we have her tested, professionally. Which does make me wonder why they bother giving specific results of their own testing, to begin with, if theirs is not "professional."

At any rate, from the messily filled out form enclosed, it would appear that she scored as having 20/40 myopic vision, or, the vision needed to pass a driver's test, just a hair below normal for adults, and a common result for distracted kindergarteners being given eye tests by school officials. Luckily for me, I possess both the skills to read chicken scratch, and the experience to understand vision testing...God knows how upset the average parent would be, reading such vagaries as supplied by this notice.

We'll get her checked out; that's no problem. Mildly disappointing, as I had hoped that fully breastfeeding her might give her the normal vision I never had, but as her father and I both are nearsighted - he, mildly, and myself, GRANDLY - it's no big surprise, if she has vision troubles, as well. She's never shown any sign of a problem, at home, and has, in fact, shown just the opposite - Deirdre can spot a gnat on the ceiling, and tell you what he's wearing - but who knows? I, myself, was cross-eyed and in bifocals, at her age, so she's still beating the pants off me.

What DOES piss me off, is that this little form also tells me her vision has been checked, twice (a week ago), and her hearing, as well (over a week ago). And of course...we never heard a word about it, until now. This, coming just a day after finding out that she is no longer being considered in need of speech therapy, not from the school, but from her teacher, and I'm beginning to take offense.
What the HELL? We live within walking distance of the school. They have our address, our phone number, our cell phone number, and my email address. I'm an active, involved parent.
Let me know what's going on with my kid, numbnuts.

Yeah, I know; it's no big deal. But it rubs me all the wrong way, that the school can't be bothered sending home a simple notice, to let me know when they will be testing my child. What if she's sick (and she is, actually)? What if she has a big plug of wax in her ear, we're trying to get out? What if her brother sprayed hairspray in her eyes, the day before (he didn't, but it's just the sort of thing he WOULD do)? It just strikes me as retarded, this sneak-attack testing. More grievously, in my book, it strikes me as Rude As All Hell.

The speech therapy bit really did piss us off. Right after she started school, we heard second-hand, that she was being considered for speech therapy. That was fine; Deirdre does talk funny, and though it's a minor problem that we suspected more peer exposure would correct, we were all for speech therapy. I myself had visions of perfectly enunciated speech, and was eager for her to get started. So, we waited to hear some *official* notice.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, weeks later, we received a letter telling us that yes, she had been recommended for speech therapy. Actually, it was not so much a "letter." It was a copy of a recommendation form that her teacher had turned in - our names were not even on it. Shoved in an envelope and sent to us, with no explanation. Again...glad we're bright people, because I cannot imagine how confused and worried an undereducated parent might feel, receiving something like that.

So, believing she would surely soon start this needed tutoring, we waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.

Yesterday was the end of the first six weeks, and Parent-Teacher Conference day, so at the meeting with her teacher, I asked about it. I think I detected a little embarrassment, on her part, when she told us that actually, Deirdre's speech issues had been reconsidered and pronounced "age-appropriate," some time ago, so she would not be receiving therapy. Which, obviously, no one had felt the need to tell us.

Deirdre has a GREAT teacher, and I'm so grateful that she's hung around long enough to teach at least one of my kids (just TWO more years, and you get LUCIEN!). And really, the school isn't too bad, but still...I'm starting to get more than a taste of the kind of problems we're going to have.
Obviously, I'm going to have to step up Deirdre's reconnaissance training, so we'll have a Spy on the Inside, to take the place of normal communication.

********************************************

On the brighter side, school seems to be going well, from D's point of view. Here's her proof:

We took her with us, to talk to her teacher and pick up her report card, as it reinforces that special concept of "Mommy and Daddy talk to your teacher; Mommy and Daddy KNOW all, SEE all, HEAR all." And establishing paranoia is fundamental, in parenting.
Also, taking her with us was an excuse to totally piss on the school dress code. Hey...I have a legacy, where that sort of thing is concerned, and that must not be taken lightly. When school's in session, the best I can do is refuse to let Deirdre wear gold (and really...WHY would ANYONE wear gold?), and eagerly await winter, when I can send her off in her Pimp Coat (a fabulous rock star-worthy rainbow-colored velvet patchwork thing, complete with shaggy black fur).
Because Fashion is Fundamental, and Dress Codes are for Loserz.

But look...there are Brains in there, too! Observe:

This one is HUGE, so if you click on it, you can see her actual grades. She still isn't clear on what a report card is, but was thrilled, nonetheless, when I told her "S"s are a good thing.
Better than I did, in kindergarten. I started school already knowing how to read, and having begun making my way through both the Encyclopedia Brittanica, a bit of Shakespeare, and Bram Stoker's Dracula. I had counting down, as well as simple addition and subtraction. My vocabulary was massive, and I was learning to write in cursive.
And I was a NIGHTMARE. I wish to God I'd kept this - while I was in kindergarten, my parents received a letter informing them that I may need special counseling, as "Tiffani seems unable to tell the difference between right and wrong; she does not understand normal social or moral boundaries." Awesome! I would totally frame that, had my parents kept up with it. As it was, I just got yelled at for not having a conscience, and my teacher gave up trying, heh.
I squirted ketchup into the carefully done up hair of a little black girl, my first day of school, and made her cry. I refused to color the "right" way. I stammered when spoken to, and lied compulsively. I hung out with much older boys on the playground, and encouraged my friends to do the same. I cut off my best friend's pigtails. I ran around the playground, screaming like a panther and chasing other kids. I stole crayons, and never slept at naptime. I began an interracial romance, when I started spooning during naps with a little black boy, and then convinced him to show me his penis (and then ratted him out, when the teacher walked in, heh). I joined an all-black girl gang, who found my bifocals and incredibly pale skin mesmerizing. I made my teacher hold her head and sigh a lot; I was Bad, Bad, Bad and Still More Bad.

Yeah. I did not get quite so many "S"s.

But for now, at least, I am the blessed parent of a child who is Mostly Good, and Occasionally Amusingly Bad. Deirdre has finally learned to sleep, at naptime, and so her biggest problem remains being Overtly Bouncy. She is speaking more clearly, and if she does need glasses, we can probably trust her to keep up with them. And she's even begun remembering to say "yes, Ma'am." HA. For all the criticism I've gotten from family, over the years, the score now reads Their Parenting: zero; My Parenting: eleventy-million.

Meanwhile, she's still enjoying school immensely, and adapting better than any kid I've seen. We never did preschool, and she only played with other kids her age occasionally, so over the years, I've gotten an earful of assurances that Deirdre would surely be stunted, anti-social and possibly retarded - much of that from my father. It's heartening, now, to see a little girl overjoyed at learning, and eager to make new friends.
From what I am told, her best friend is and has been "Libya," which I think is not actually the North African country, but rather, a little blonde girl named "Olivia." Olivia is, apparently, a wonderful little girl, less outgoing than our own child, who does not get in trouble, knows how to color, has very attractive stuffed animals, and allows Deirdre to boss her around. Except of course, for her Ultimate Betrayal, a week or so ago, when Libya refused to play on the jungle gym, and wanted to instead play on the swings with The Boy Who Always Cries. Deirdre was heartbroken, pronounced her "mean," and informed me she was now friends with a girl who had pretty black hair and brown skin. Being that Deirdre and Libya are the only white girls in their class, that does not narrow it down much, so the identity of Girl With Pretty Black Hair And Brown Skin remains a mystery. But at any rate, after I advised her that perhaps a single Betrayal was not grounds for Excommunication, Deirdre cheerfully forgave Libya her sins, a day or two later.

As for The Boy Who Always Cries, his name is known (by us, at least, if not our child), but will be kept secret, to protect his privacy. He has been a continual source of Amazement, for Deirdre, as he apparently cries, every day, at least once a day. Peyton and I saw him, early on, when we were still taking Deirdre to and from school, and I immediately started nudging Deirdre to be his friend, especially since I know his mother, and thus, am quite certain he is not Defective, and will likely get over the profound amount of tears. Deirdre's first stab at friendship was not all that successful, as it was my child's Fine Idea to approach Boy of Tears and tell him "Don't cry; boys do not be crying. Only babies CRY."
*winces*
I suggested to her that perhaps that was not the best way to make him feel safe and happy at school, and once she changed her tactic to "Don't cry; it's okay. School is FUN and I will be your friend," she now claims that he's a nice boy, and a good friend...except when he sides with Libya and refuses to play on the jungle gym. Gotta love those Kindergarten Politics.

*****************************************************

We were surprised, recently, to discover that this school actually has a program to encourage parental involvement. Notice how I did not say "PTA." According to the national and state PTA websites, no school in our parish has a PTA program (and WAY TO GO, SCHOOLS!), so I never expected ours to have one.
I should note here, for those who've never read previous posts on this subject - Deirdre's school has a LEGACY of suck. It wasn't great, when I went there, and got much, much worse, as the years went by, until hitting rock bottom, not too long ago. Since then, there's been impressive effort from faculty and administration, to get back on track, and the school has now risen to a rating of "Exemplerary Academic Growth," from the state. So, still with the crappy test scores, but decidedly less crappy, and moving up.

So, needless to say, I didn't expect much, in the way of parent programs. But as it turns out, they do have something - a Parent Teacher Student Organization, or PTSO. We were thrilled when they announced the first meeting, as not only would we sincerely like to be involved, but HEY...SOMETHING TO SNICKER AT! What can I say? We're Bad People.

The meeting was a couple weeks ago, and BOY, did it ever surpass our expectations!
On the serious side: we were happy to see ANYTHING being done, by the school; every little effort counts. And there were a surprising number of parents there - tired, bored looking parents, but at least they came. One of the teachers has been coordinating the group, and is obviously putting a lot of work into it, despite her unfortunate predilection for speaking to adults of any age, as if they were fourth graders. And a couple of parents who were very much Not Me, Not a Chance volunteered as President and Vice-President, which was totally awesome, as I had promised myself I'd give in and volunteer, only if no one else would.

On the non-serious side...
OMFG, Peyton is now the official Drunk Parent of the PTSO. He'd been dealing with an awesome sinus infection(?) that day, and the pressure and swelling seemed to be trashing some nerve in his face, as he was in MONSTER pain. He'd taken some ibuprofen and a decongestant, which didn't help at all, but was still determined to show up for the meeting. So there he was, near crazy from pain, and having real trouble staying upright. While we were all sitting down, it wasn't so bad - he looked drowsy and out of it, and would occasionally make a pained grimace and hold his head, or just bury his face in his hands, but it wasn't too noticeable.
Until the meeting ended, and we were all milling around. I tried to get him out of there fast; I really did, but we needed to go sign up and pay our dues (a big $1, each) for the PTSO, as well as pick up the raffle tickets we were all supposed to hawk, and check with the aforementioned teacher/sponsor, to find out about volunteering for next month's Fall Festival. So, we COULDN'T just leave.
This meant that, as I hurried about, taking care of business, Peyton was left to wander around the room, staggering and banging into walls, tables and anything that crossed his path, while randomly staring sadly at his keys or wallet, as if they held the answer to his plight. He looked for all the world like Dad, the Pitiful Yet Admirably Involved Drunk, and, Horrible Person that I am, it was all I could do not to encourage this impression, by walking over and loudly saying "Okay, let's get you some coffee; what have I told you about going out in public like this?"
For some reason, Peyton does not find this story half as amusing, as I do.

Out of it as he may have been, that did not stop Peyton from staring pointedly at me and calling altogether too much attention to us, when nominations for officers began, which pretty much signed his death warrant, as far as I'm concerned. I'm happy to help out, but leading up an organization that's barely in its infancy, is beyond what I have time for, right now. Next year, sure. But THIS year? No way. And there's nothing like being That Mouthy Girl who is currently trying to duck down and remain unnoticed during a call for volunteers, while her husband insists on STARING AT HER WITH THE BIG "AHEM" EYES AND KICKING HER UNDER THE TABLE, then snickering when she tries to employ the Marital Death Glare, to make his big fat stupid head explode, to make one feel like a Hypocrite.
Dood. Just 'cause I have Opinions, that does not mean I have Time.

At least the teachers certainly seemed Involved, especially when it came time to earn prizes for having lassoed the most parents into the meeting. Deirdre's teacher was temporarily crippled, so she was forced to restrain herself, but another kindergarten teacher actually lept up and ran outside, to retrieve a missing Dad who'd wandered off, while others argued over who would get to claim the hapless parents from a class whose teacher had failed to show up.
It does make one wonder, just what was in those little gift bags. I'm going to guess "an eight-ball of cocaine," because that's a much more fun idea than say, "pencils." And really, don't teachers deserve a little help, with all they do?

So, we totally bailed, on the PTSO, aside from taking home raffle tickets that will likely only be sold to ourselves, Deirdre's bio-father, and Peyton's dad, and paying our whopping total of $2 in dues (these people obviously have no idea what a real PTA charges). BUT, we have volunteered for the Fall Festival or, as I like to think of it, the "Pretend This Isn't a Halloween Carnival" carnival. Or more specifically, the Haunted House portion of the event, run by of all people, the kindergarten teachers.
Peyton will be taking a turn as Dracula, which should amuse those of you who know him, to no end, and I am trying to rustle him up "proper" accoutrements, in the form of custom fangs and prosthetic pieces - I can GUARANTEE that this particular haunted house will have never seen a Dracula, like Peyton's Dracula.
Me, I'll be working the door, and am still a Mystery, though I will say, I am looking at some very interesting latex appliances, for myself.
While we are totally the RIGHT people to do something like this, as we live for Horror and Grossness, I am not sure the administration will see it the same way. Deirdre's teacher has assured me that "anything goes" and we shouldn't worry about limits, but I'm still thinking of bringing some googley-eye glasses or something, to cover up some of the Horrible, around the very youngest of guests.

What I REALLY want to do, is get pictures and names of the whole kindergarten, and greet each child by name, swearing that I am what lives in their closet, and knows where they sleep. But I am reminded by my dear husband that this sort of behavior is generally considered psychological assault, and frowned upon.

I think that's all I'm allowed to say, about the Haunted House, upon threat of flogging by our daughter's teacher, but trust me - you local guys will want to swing by, on October 13th; I guarantee a good show, for kids and immature grown-ups, alike.

Meanwhile, we're also planning on donating quite a bit of candy, and anything else I can dig up, as last year's carnival was just sad - by the time we got there (which wasn't even very late), they had totally run out of candy. Bad enough that there was nothing free to do (especially in a low-income area like ours), but if you're going to charge multiple tickets to play lame little games, the least you can do is provide decent prizes - apparently, last year, they had been passing out candy as the "prizes," until running out of even that. Lame-O.

So, there's your Educational Update, for anyone who's made it this far. Oh, and I would be remiss if I did not now embarrass Deirdre's teacher -

She may well freak out and yell at me, when she sees I've posted this, as I did not announce "Hey, I'm gonna post you on tha Intarwebs!" when I asked her to pose for a picture with Deirdre. But then again, I would think it goes without saying, that when you see me with a camera, you are probably About To Be Blogged.
And anyway...the woman has totally stopped aging (likely some pact with Satan), and is one of the hottest grandmas I know (not counting my friend April, who has managed to become a Default Grandma at the ridiculous age of 27 , and should rightly be shunned as the Cheating Heretic she is), so she has nothing to complain about.

At any rate...this is the woman responsible for our daughter becoming Teddy Bear Obsessed, learning to take naps, and falling under the thrall of Rampant, Shameless Sticker Bribery.

Ooh, ooh! And here's this:

Three Shades of Goober.

I'm not thrilled with 'em, but it could have been a LOT worse. Please remember, this was taken on the day when I ruined my daughter's hair. All the same, though you may not be able to tell from the scanned version (click to enlarge), the color is sort of off, in the standard color proof, leaving the poor child looking just a tiny bit cyanotic, and the lighting's pretty shit. So this will serve as my total Non-Endorsement of LifeTouch School Portraits, being that even I can do better than this, with a $300 camera and no training.

And that, folks, ends yer Rant O' the Day.

Reason #4,382 Why I Hate the Post Office

Actual email I received from an Ebay customer, today:

"Hi, I received the package today but I had to pay an extra 4.05 to get it because it was mailed in a flat rate box. To ship in a flat rate box it was 8.95. There was 4.90 in postage on there so they made me pay 4.05 to get it."

Now, I sent her package in a Priority Mail flat-rate box, with EVERY occurance of the words "Flat-Rate" carefully magic-markered out, so that it looked just like any other Priority Mail box, and a scannable prepaid label for standard Priority postage.
And WHY did I have to use a flat-rate box, in the first place? Just read my reply...

"I'm so sorry; I'll refund the extra postage, asap!
Our local post office is so incompetant it's ridiculous...I had to use the flat-rate boxes for some of my shipments, because that was all I had left at the house, and our PO keeps NOTHING in stock. They didn't have any Priority Mail supplies, at all, and (after rolling their eyes and giving me a lot of attitude, of course) finally promised they'd get some supplies in, in a couple of days.
And of course, they did not. >@ So, I ended up just using some of the flat-rate boxes, and marking out the words "flat-rate," in the assumption that would suffice.

I hate our post office, and have now ordered apx. one GAZILLION of every Priority Mail box or bag available, to keep on hand, as our PO seems to think it's just CRAZY for customers to expect to be able to use the normal services other post offices provide.

Anyway, now that I've ranted at you, lol - please let me know what email address I should use, to refund the $4.05, and I'll get it sent right out.
Do you suppose it's considered terrorism, to egg a government building? I'd better set aside bail money, just in case."

That was actually a lie - nobody at the Post Office rolled their eyes or gave me attitude. They rolled their eyes and gave Peyton attitude, just like they do, most every time I send him up there with a request. On the rare, magical occasions when they actually DO have the needed Priority Mail supplies in stock, he invariably gets the "Now, we have other customers, and it's not fair for you to take all the supplies" lecture - like when he makes the CRAZY request for a few Priority labels, or something of that sort. And all I can ever think, is "NO, NO YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T HAVE OTHER CUSTOMERS, OR YOU WOULD KEEP MORE THAN A DOZEN LABELS IN STOCK. STOP PRETENDING THE STANDARD SUPPLIES PROVIDED FOR FREE BY EVERY OTHER POST OFFICE ARE A HOT NEW ITEM YOU HAVE TO HOARD LIKE RATION COUPONS. YOU ARE NOT DOING US A FAVOR, WHEN YOU GIVE US THE REQUIRED SUPPLIES WITH WHICH TO USE A SERVICE WE HAVE ALREADY PAID FOR; THAT IS CALLED DOING YOUR JOB.

That is IT, for me. 99% of the time, when I receive something I've purchased on Ebay and paid First Class or Parcel Post shipping on, it comes in a Priority Mail box or bag, turned inside-out - sellers do this, so that they can use the free shipping supplies, without having to charge Priority Mail prices. Technically, this is in violation of federal law, but obviously the government is not cracking down on it.
So. I'm announcing my stand, right here in front of God and everybody (because, as we all know, God is a Constant Reader of my blogs): I will never pay for First Class or Parcel packaging, again. As of today, I join the ranks of those unlawful citizens who turn their Priority boxes inside out, damn it. And good luck to the postman, who will be stuck delivering the even more monstrous order of Priority supplies I'm about to go order, from the website.
SCREW YOU, USPS!

And I'm serious, about those eggs. When you least expect it, Arcadia Post Office, I am coming.


*please note* this blog is intended for entertainment purposes only, and should not be construed as a legal confession of guilt in any past, present or future illegal acts against the United States Postal Service. I didn't do it, nobody saw me do it, you can't prove I did it, and those were not my eggs. So bite me.

Random Fun with a Five-Year Old

And Deirdre wins Quote of the Day, before 7am -


So, after grocery shopping last night, I removed a Rubbermaid container of Highly Questionable Leftovers, from the fridge, to make room for more food. I sat it on the counter, and kind of forgot to dump it out and put it in the sink to let it soak and think about what it had done


This morning...



Deirdre: "Momma, what's these?" (lifting the lid)
Me: "Baby DON'T open that! It's nasty!
Deirdre: "But what IS it? Lemme see!"
Me: "I think it used to be black-eyed peas, but it was in the fridge too long, and now it's just Nasty."
Deirdre: "I wanna see!"
Me: *opens the container a bit, to let her have a look* *huge amount of OMGWHATISTHATSMELL comes wafting out*
Deirdre: "Oh, UGGGHH!" (holding her nose) "It's stink! Peas are PUUEEEY! Like Kalel's poopy diaper; peas is POO!"
Me: "No, peas are good. Peas with bacon that have been sitting in the fridge for two or three weeks are Poo. Food just gets nasty when it gets too old."
Deirdre: "Like grandaddy! Grandaddy is OLD!"
Me: "NO, Deirdre; grandaddy is old, but he is not....well, I guess you may have a point, there."



And now, more Fun With Deirdre...


Just some of the Random Weirdness that's been flowing from her direction, as of late:

The night of The Cake Incident, lying on our coffee table because she is "at the doctor" (and wearing her brother's hat, thus making her pulsing five-year old brains look freakishly large). Let me tell you...if Kalel is the "doctor," we're going to need a helluva lot of malpractice insurance.

This is a little something I like to call "6am, on a School Day" -

And this, is the result of letting a too-creative-for-her-own-good child watch Watership Down:

That would be Peyton, giving her the Weird Eye.

Oh, and here's the inside look at that Cake O'the Doom:

See? Told ya it was edible.

Deirdre is currently setting the dining table with her huge blanket as a tablecloth, and miscellaneous unmatching bowls and cups. I suspect I am about to be the victim of a birthday party, but hey...maybe she'll finally let me unwrap that Chicken Little dvd, before we have to return it to the library.
More weirdness to come, I'm sure.

Cake or Death, or Why I Love My Daughter

Recently, I've noticed that my blogs have been focused much more on Kalel and Lucien. It makes sense, with Deirdre being in school all day, but I did feel a little bad about it. Just yesterday, I kind of had it in the back of my mind to do a post on all the various little bizarre anecdotes from her new life as a Girl in Pursuit of Education - it was on the old mental to-do list.

I needn't have bothered pondering What to Write About Deirdre. Girl Wonder never lets us down, for long, and WOWZER, has she been on a roll, in the past 36hrs.

So, before I even start...thank you, my eldest, weirdest daughter, for doing the work, for me. Thank you, for reminding me that no matter how dumb your brother, or how wicked your sister, you have been and always will be my Most Bloggable Child.


It all started, yesterday evening. After we went over her homework together, Deirdre settled down to draw a hieroglyphic letter, for one of her friends (whom she actually has only met once, three years ago, but you know...she's 5; everyone she sees is her "bestfriend"). I left her in the dining room, with the much-coveted Mommy's Markers, and came back into the den, in hopes of finally getting a little respite from the usual Crazy.
Not too long after, Deirdre came in here to ask "how many days" 'til my next birthday, having been vaguely aware that her mother had aged yet again, last month. I told her it was a long-long-time, nearly a year, and when she then informed me that she was going to make me a cake, ALL BY HERSELF, I just nodded, said that was nice, and didn't give it a second thought. Naturally, I assumed the five year old who cannot reach anything and has never so much as used the microwave, was about to go draw me a cake - "make" and draw often mean the same, to her. And anyway, Deirdre is always full of shit; she's constantly making nutty proclamations like "I am Moses" or "I'm going to go see my friend and have her party and give her presents and we'll love each other forever, in ONE days," or even "I'm going to freeze that monster with how I shoot ice like this - shhhhhhhh! - an then I'll EAT HIM like a popsicle."

You get the picture. Five year olds are crazy and pathological liars and not to be believed.

So, I approved this idea, patted her head, and fully expected to be interrupted in ten minutes or so, with an invisible cake, or a picture of cake (I've been given lots), or maybe even plastic blocks in the shape of a cake. When she did not reappear in the next 10-15min, I wondered, but still didn't give it much thought; I just went to look for her, to remind her that the dinner hour was approaching, and make sure she wasn't eating her newly-finished homework, or some such nonsense.

I found her in the kitchen. Standing on a chair that she'd taken from the dining room. Stirring with a spoon she'd found in a drawer (and that I'd actually never even seen before). Stirring something that she'd put in my God-Almighty-Huge casserole dish - the one I pull out, when I have a need to feed a small army...or Peyton, twice. She'd carried that heavy glass casserole over to the counter, and up a chair.
There was no mess - or at least, no mess that she had made. There was just a tiny girl, calmly and cheerfully making her mother a cake, as if she had done it a hundred times, before. But when I saw what was in the casserole dish, I spun around on one heel, took off after my camera, and immediately began Blogging It In My Head.

I asked her to show me what she had put in my "birthday cake," one ingredient at a time:

Froot Loops, in a nod to the stereotypical KidFood (Deirdre rarely eats them)

And eggs? "Oh, Deirdre...you did not put EGGS in there!" Deirdre has never handled, much less cracked, a raw egg, so I found this difficult to believe.

By this point, Lucien had appeared, playing the role of Secondary Pointer. Here, Deirdre is telling me that she also used strawberry yogurt and Cool-Whip. Again, foods she does not eat, which made them seem unlikely candidates for her recipe.

But checking the garbage...I'll be damned. She DID use yogurt and an egg. I go back for a more Serious Look at that "cake." Meanwhile, Deirdre is far from done, and I am THRILLED to let her run with this, sensing a Legendary Tale, in the making.

And here, is your first good look at The Horror in the Casserole.

Daddy's Heath toffee syrup, because she thinks it's chocolate. I intervene, briefly, when she next suggests using the last of Daddy's Vanilla Chai Spice Coffeemate, then return to my position of Gawker and Non-Authority Figure.

But what else do we need, for a really GREAT cake?

Why, PEPPERONI, of course! In Deirdre's world, it goes with everything.

Now, more eggs, and would you look at her? Perfectly cracking, without a scrap of shell - she, herself, could not explain how she had learned this skill.

But something's missing....

Nutella! The chocolatey hazelnut spread is PERFECT with a pepperoni/frootloop/toffee/coolwhip-laced egg and yogurt base!

Add a dash of salt, and she's done! Or at least, add a dash of salt, and then insist that it needs to be "bigger," at which point, your mother begins lying her ass off. I reassured her that it was the Magic of Baking that made cakes "bigger," and that this was GREAT, just the way it was - too many flavors would just overwhelm the delicate balance she had already attained.

All the while, my mind is racing, wondering "How the hell do I get out of THIS ONE? Shall I "save it for when Daddy gets home," then hope to distract her until after bedtime, at which point we can claim we ate it while she slept? And then...

Eureka.

We proceeded on to Baking, in an oven specifically adjusted for such a culinary masterpiece, which translates to "Preheat, at 100 degrees." Also known as "a great temperature in which to grow bacteria."

Random Glum Face - she was actually still quite thrilled over her mastery of cooking.

I began Project Lie, and reminded her that cakes take a LOOONG time, to bake - many, many hours, and sometimes even all night. This lie found fertile ground, as I prompted her to recall how many times she'd seen me up very late at night, making birthday cakes. She doesn't know the difference between "up all night baking" and "up all night making apx. 738 different shades of custom-tinted frosting," so it made sense, to her.

I also made sure she understood that "Cakes look different when they finally, finally get done. All the colors of stuff you put in melt and blend together, and the cake gets MUCH bigger; it even tastes different."

Remember: I are a genius, and just as Deirdre uses her gifts in Strange and Terrible Creative Ways, I, too, have a Special Way of using my own gifts. It's called Lying.
Forced to wait for her cake to cook, she turned her attention to my birthday gift, or rather, its wrapping, which seemed the only important part (like mother, like daughter).

This child never picked up a pair of scissors, until she started school, last month, and she has certainly never touched real *adult* scissors. Yet here she is, without a moment's hesitation.

And now glue, as Scotch tape proved too annoying for her. Later, she moved on to my heavy clear packing tape. Looks like there's something in that paper, doesn't it? Nope; still just wrapping air.

Though she seemed to be doing well, for a time, eventually, the Green Paper of Doom thwarted her best efforts, and she switched to Stripey Masculine Paper of Slightly Less Doom.
This was taken this morning, right before the bus came - Success!

THIS time, there really IS something in there. Although I have been told that it is NOT my birthday, and that Deirdre will tell me when it's my birthday, I cheated as soon as she got on the bus, and looked inside an opening in her wrapping paper-envelope.
OMG! I GOT CHICKEN LITTLE! THE EXTRA-HAWT BIENVILLE PARISH PUBLIC LIBRARY DVD VERSION THAT PEYTON CHECKED OUT YESTERDAY! SCREW YOU, LIBRARY; IT IS MINE, NOW!
Don't worry; I'll still act surprised. ;D

"But What About the CAKE??!" you may be asking. Indeed...what about it?

It looks fine, to me.
After a nice night of baking, it turned out just as I predicted - evenly colored, much bigger, and totally Cake-like. Deirdre was thrilled to see how well it had turned out, and assured me I would love it. Actually, I think she said "Loves it," considering the fact that she asked me "Do you love it?" quite a few times, the night before, while making the cake - apparently she's groovin' on some kind of Paris Hilton/Nicole Richie vibe.

What?

Ohhhhh...I get it; I know what you want to hear.
Okay, so here's the deal: Once Deirdre was finally distracted with dinner, I sent Peyton a text, asking him to swing by and pick up a few things from Walmart, on his way home. Meanwhile, Deirdre's cake was still in the oven, when she went to bed, as I'd promised her that we'd take it out for her, when it was "done."
I had already asked her what this cake was going to taste like, and she assured me that the yogurt and Nutella would make it taste like strawberries and chocolate - that sounded like a plan, to me! Once she was down for the count, I sprung into action, scraping out that Abomination Casserole into the trash, and making Peyton take the evidence out to the garbage cans.
But first, of course, I took a picture:

Mmmm. Who says you have to choose, between Cake or Death?

Once the Official Food of the Church of Satan was out of the way, I whipped up a fast swirly mix of strawberry and chocolate cake batter, in the same (sanitized and prayed over) casserole dish, then sprinkled in some chocolate chips, for a chunkier effect. It actually looked pretty gnarly, as I'd spiked the strawberry batter with a hint of pink paste food color, so it was bright pink and brown swirled. Once it cooled, I melted chocolate frosting and sealed it in a thin layer (cause of course, that's the Nutella!).

I did worry, for a moment, that she might not buy the switch - she's a REALLY bright kid, and observant as hell. However, her self-esteem is such that it actually does make sense to her that whatever she throws in a pan will just naturally turn into a perfect cake - this is a child who is almost completely without insecurity, fear, or self-doubt.
She bought it hook, line, and sinker. ;D

So here I am, Bad Mommy Extraordinaire, having pulled off a Grand Lie that has boosted my child's already unnaturally high self-esteem, and brought Wonder and Joy into her little life.
Know what I call that? CASH IN THE BANK. Yessirree, I have just bought myself one helluva lot of Good Mommy Karma, which means I can totally read her diary, when she's older, and not go to Hell, even a little bit.

Happy Late Birthday, to me.

Sh-Boom, Sh-Boom

Begun yesterday, finished today; still sadly lacking the creamy filling of sanity...


Fun day, thus far.

Perhaps I can sneak a few minutes of Sane Time, now that I've completed The Great Clifford Hunt. Lucien, who has the attention span and energy levels of a hummingbird on crack, was intent on finding "A CLIIIFFFORRD!" despite the fact that we do not even own a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog. There's no explaining concepts like "DO NOT HAVE" to a crazed toddler, of course, and so I finally consented to go see if perhaps the desired stuffed toy had fallen out of the air, or been left here by some Clifford-loving aliens.
Thus began ten minutes of searching high and low for an item we do not possess. Lucien's first stop was (naturally) his sister's potty, where he lifted the lid and leaned down towards the bowl, inquiring "Clifford in here?" I don't know if I'm more disturbed by the fact that he actually believed a toy he has never seen in our home might appear in a potty...or that he thought Clifford might actually answer him, from inside the potty.
I'm quite sure if he were in there, we would have heard him screaming. God knows I would scream.

In the past hour, Lucien has:

• Watched apx. 20min. of Clifford cartoons
• Watched apx. 12min. of Cars
• Watched apx. 15min. of The Wild
• Asked to watch a Justice League dvd
• Wept, at not being allowed to sample his fourth movie in an hour
• Screamed because we have no Clifford toys
• Screamed because Kalel came too close to his food
• Screamed because Kalel saw him lying on the floor, took advantage, and sat on his head (my kingdom, to have gotten a picture of that)
• Screamed because I would not get him a "hurrrnngglllhh" (your guess is as good as mine)
• Loudly announced that he is watching (insert dvd title here) apx. 87 times
• Run about the room on all fours, barking and mooing (continuous). I have no idea, regarding the mooing
  

In the past hour, Kalel has:

• Stolen everything her brother has been holding, looking at, or thinking about
• Bellowed a war cry fit for a Spartan, then smashed her snack bowl across the room and into the floor, sending unacceptable food all over the den
• Screeched in rage because I would not let her throw a book out the window
• Screeched in rage because she had thrown her own cup across the room, and was now displeased with this decision
• Screeched in rage because she did not want to watch The Wild
• Built a small house out of blocks
• Yelled "AH-DEE-YA-YA-DEH-DEH" apx. 214 times
• Hurled a number of small plastic balls against the opposite wall, narrowly missing my head, as I foolishly crossed her path
• Shoved the entire front of her dress into her mouth and shuffled around the room, yelling a garbled "UUURRRRGGG!!!" through a mouthful of skirt
• Sat on her weenie brother's head, making him cry - which I fully condone, and would like to try, myself

And still, Boy continues to pester me. He never gives up; no amount of Gentle or Forceful "no"s will do the trick, and as for reasoning...pffft...I'd have better luck reasoning with a stale Cheesy Poof. The more I "reason," the more he jumps up and down like an agitated gorilla, waving his arms and becoming increasingly loud.
What DOES work, I've found, is hitting him. No, bear with me, here - Lucien is, of late, obsessed with "ows." He LOVES an excuse to say "OW!" This child actually invents imaginary injuries, just so he can claim pain and get a kiss for it; he's like a neurotic little dog whose foot was stepped on once, and is still limping, years later, often forgetting which paw is supposed to be injured.
Sooo...if he won't stop, after about the twentieth "NO," I just smack that little waving hand. Immediately it's "OWWW! HUUURRRRT!" And he'll go away and leave me alone, for the price of a kiss - the kiss means he's gotten something he wants, and he completely forgets that the kiss wasn't what he originally wanted. Awesome. I'm convinced that God made little kids dumb, for precisely this purpose.

Time for me to add, here - I started this blog THIS MORNING, and it is now 5pm. Welcome to Motherhood.

It's been a pretty crappy day, or at least, it should have been. I don't even REMEMBER this morning - that should tell you how *chipper* I was, upon waking. Later, after Deirdre left for school, Peyton discovered (apx. 20min before he was due to go to work, of course) that he had no earthly idea where his wallet had meandered off to. How this even happens to a person, is beyond me. I lose MANY things - some of them quite important - but losing a wallet baffles me. Worse yet, as usual, he was convinced he knew just where it was, an idea which never, ever proves to be true.

If it's just like a man, to lose his wallet, then it's doubly Just Like A Man, to be in complete denial of the shoddy memory that has resulted in that loss.
And my own dear husband is King of the "But I Remember Exactly..." Tribe. Sadly, my love for him precludes me mocking him any further, over this incident, as I promised him I wouldn't.
I said "this incident." I am, however, perfectly free to mock him over pretty much everything else in the world. Fine print is everything, in a marriage, you know. ;D

At any rate, wallet was eventually found, but (of course) not before we'd had a nice little fight over it, or more specifically, Peyton's insistance that he knew just where it was. Add to that the fact that, with all the kid-interruptions, it took me literally half a day to list half a dozen items on Ebay. Those same kid-interruptions also distracted me enough to miss out on bidding on a few items I'd hoped to win - fall clothes for them, as usual - and as that happens frequently, I'm always tempted to start yelling "Alright; that's it! No clothes for you; you will all have to run around naked this winter! Noooo...it's too late to be sorry - those were THE LAST CLOTHES IN THE WORLD, and now you're just STUCK, aren't you?" There's just such a short window of time during which you can get away with that sort of lying, and it seems a shame not to take advantage of it.
On top of that sort of thing, and the usual badbadbadbadohwhatiswrongwithmykids, I somehow managed to ram my right thigh into...you know, I don't even remember, now...ram it into something, at any rate; something that left a bruise bearing a remarkable resemblance to a hickey. On my thigh. So now, I look like a slut, but with none of the fun benefits.

So, as I said, it should have been a bad day. But I did get most of those auctions up, and I also snagged a brand new silk coat and pants set, for Kalel, that I remember seeing selling for around $30, earlier this year (on Ebay; God knows how much it was, new), for the ridiculous sum of less-than-$10-including-shipping. And look! I'm blogging, even if it took all day, to do so.
More importantly, I've had "Sh-Boom (Life Could Be a Dream)", by The Crew Cuts, playing at downright Zany volume in my head, all day.
And it's just damned hard to stay dour, with "Hey nonny ding dong, alang alang alang...Boom BA-doh, ba-doo ba-doodle-AY...Oh, life could be a dreeeam, SH-BOOM!" toodling along as a soundtrack to your day.

And now, since this post is moving into it's second day of not-being-posted, I'm cutting this sucker off, right here. Tune in Next Time, which will assuredly come much sooner than This Time did. Same Bat Time, same Bat Channel.

Oh, and you guys REALLY need to go click this link, to see a perfect example of just what Bad Parenting is all about.