Happy as a (Boiling Hot) Clam

*Caution: Random Acts of Whining Ahead*

Yesterday afternoon as we ran all over town, as we are wont to do on a weekend, I took notice of the fact that the snot running from Alexis' nose seemed to be trying to work up enough momentum to make a run for the Mexican border. I coupled that with the fact that her forehead felt like she had turned up the thermostat on that kick butt little heater she had installed before birth and, like the genius that I am, deduced that my rarely ill child actually has a cold. It's the first time in . . . um . . . I dunno, a long time. At least four months. As I knew we were long out of Tylenol or any other sort of fever-reducing magic potion, I made a run into the grocery store to stock up on some pharmaceuticals.

When I (finally) located the child appropriate drugs, I was met with labels that pointed out that OH NO SHE'S TOO OLD FOR THE INFANT CRAP now. Besides the insulting implication that I should stop referring to her as my baby (you can't make me, Tylenol), this revelation posed a problem. There were several flavors to choose from and did you know I don't do decisions? Especially not life-changing decisions like what flavor of drugs to buy my baby. I tried to think like Alexis and eventually narrowed it down to the berry flavors.

Then I noticed that -OH NO!- I had to give her the drugs in a cup. My girl is admittedly not much of a spiller, but you know darn well that if you give a generally good kid a little cup full of super-staining sugary liquid, that will be the day that she decides to pour the liquid all over the only remaining clean spot on the carpet. So again I put on my genius cap and opted for the dye-free formula.

Oops.

It took about a millisecond to discover that my genius was wasted on she who was not willing to drink so much as a drop of medicine, despite the fact that she has been known to call up her dealer in the middle of the night for a little hit just because she thinks medicine is fun. But, you know, I'm smarter than a two-year old, right? So I dug out one of those little syringes from the kitchen drawer and made it look like her old baby meds.

She didn't fall for it.

It took two adults over twenty minutes to administer one teaspoon of fever-reducer to a child who's booty hole claimed she was running around 101.8. That, my friends, was a good time.

Fast forward to this morning, and it turned out that this particular cold has decided to take up residency for a little while. Alexis' diaper was dry and her temp was over 102 degrees. So, she and I spent the day at home together. I knew I could drug her and send her to daycare, but I also knew the drugs would wear off and I would just end up picking her up early. I didn't see a reason to spread her germy love to the other kids (one of which is probably the one that gave it to her in the first place, but whatever). Besides, I wanted to make sure she drank enough liquid to grow a few humps (like a camel).

We have spent the greater part of our day fighting over medicine. I have tried diluting it in water. I have tried slipping it in a cup of juice. I even tried chocolate milk. Every time I prepare a sneaky snake concoction for her, we end up having a conversation like this:

Alexis: I want juice.
Me: Here you go.
Alexis: No, I want milk.
Me: Of course you do. Here you go.
Alexis: Water, please.
Me: You're kidding, right? Fine, here's some water.
Alexis: No, thank you.

Yeah, she gets props for the whole polite thing, but I swear on my Girl Scout cookies, she can stop with the women's prerogative crap right about now.

So right now my dear child is sitting at her little table tossing Lima beans into the air, trying to catch them in her mouth, and then getting mad when Meg the Bulldog has the audacity to actually eat the ones that fall to the ground. Alexis worships at the church of the Lima bean, so I'm not really sure why she's leaving even a tiny opportunity for anyone to steal them from her. It must be the untreated 102 degree fever getting to her brain.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to buy every single flavor of fever-reducer under the sun, including the suspicious looking dissolving tablets, in hopes that she will take something.

Never Satisfied

It occurred to me today (thanks, Karen for the reminder!) that I never did post Alexis' two-year portraits. Nor have I sent prints of the darn things out to family members (yet--I swear, it will happen!). The reason for my delay is that I had full intentions all along of getting another set taken. Between my brain going on spontaneous vacation and various little setbacks, two months later I still haven't gotten on the ball.

The primary setback has been that Alexis has not managed to go more than a few days without having some sort of major bruise on her noggin. She's always a walking accident, but I would prefer our less-than-annual family portraits to not make it look like we punch our kid in the face. The first bruise was a lovely little black eye she obtained while pushing a truck around at daycare. Her little feet slipped out from under her and she inadvertently ended up pushing the truck with her eye.

Now she's sporting an even bigger bruise on her forehead. I find this bruise particularily fabulous because while I know it happened at daycare, nobody seems to know how. I'm pretty funny about that whole thing where nobody knows how she managed to get a bruise on her forehead the size of a dollar coin. And by "funny", I mean PISSED. When she got the black eye, I honestly just figured that's the kind of thing that happens. It was no big deal because THERE WAS AN EXPLANATION. This time, all I know is that it happened in the first hour she was at daycare, before her favorite teacher (and BFF) arrived. That teacher was right there with me, all sorts of ticked off that a kid managed to whack her head without anyone knowing what happened. There's no doubt she screamed bloody murder when it happened, so it's not like it could have gone unnoticed. The most annoying part is that the owner of our daycare is out on medical leave, so I can't go throw a fit to the appropriate party. (And yes, I did just write that entire paragraph for no other reason than so I will remember to throw a fit.)

Anyhoo, just as soon as this latest proof that my kid is a klutz (or got smacked by another kid, which is actually what I suspect happened) starts to fade, there will be family portraits and there will be more two-year portraits of the Toddler. Hopefully this all will go down before she turns three.

(BTW, you can tell me these portraits are fine, but I won't be able to hear you as I have my fingers shoved in my ears to block you out. Her hair was a hot mess that day, and that's that.)

What a Girl Wants

I know every woman does it. In fact, I do it all the time. I might even be a master of the art form. So it should come as no surprise that my daughter would start a wee bit early with the whole It's a Woman's Prerogative to Change Her Mind at Any Moment thing.

A few months ago, if you had asked me how Alexis felt about the cats going in to her room, I would have relayed to you her habit of giving birth to a very large cow every time she caught one in there. She has been known to literally kick them out and slam the door on a tail or two in her haste to get them to "GO OUT NOW!"

Her middle of the night complaints about cats entering her sacred quarters had gotten so bad that I had to start closing her bedroom door at night, thereby ensuring that her toes would be blue from her sleeping in a meat locker. I don't know why the heating vent in her room blows so bad, except that it's probably more like it doesn't blow. It's frackin' cold back in her room, so an open door is her only hope for warm tootsies. No matter, it turns out that my child came equipped with a kick butt internal heating system and a preference for icy cold air over any creatures entering her room at night.

But that was then. Now? She has changed her mind. Suddenly. Without warning.

One night last week, I forgot to close her door and later discovered that Coal had been sleeping right in that wee little toddler bed with Alexis. I stared in awe because this was truly a monumental occasion. She's been known to rip a cat's head off for even looking at her bed. I know she's a light enough sleeper that she knew he was there. And yet? He survived the night and he even got to keep his head.

A few days later, I discovered the Toddler sitting on her bed reading Coal a story. He's a goofy little thing who is desperately starved for attention, so he was playing along in hopes that her pudgy little fingers would somehow end up rubbing on his little head. He was granted his wish, and Alexis was delighted when he awarded her by making obnoxiously loud purring noises. It seemed my little girl had finally discovered there's a critter in this house that is always game for a cuddle and will do whatever he has to for a little love.

Tonight, I witnessed something I would have never thought could happen. She who once screamed, "MOMMMMMMMY, KITTY GO AWAY!" in the middle of the night, using a tone of desperation I personally would save for a knife-brandishing intruder, gave birth to a very large cow for a whole new reason. It wasn't because the cat was in her room, it was because he wasn't. Tears and screams and howls flew out of her mouth after I tucked her in for the night. It took a while for me to decipher her complaints amongst the blubbering sobs, but I finally figured out what she was saying,

"I want Coal Kitty."

The kid would not go to bed without her cat.

So, I searched the house, high and low, trying to find the allusive and really tiny Coalio (that's his rapper name). I finally found him whisker deep in a bowl of kitty food. I scooped him up, against his will, and hauled his little behind up the stairs. Miss Mega Meltdown was so upset she was oblivious to the little bundle of cuddles that I had tossed onto her bed. He was so freaked out by her sobbing that he took off running. Cue a bigger meltdown. Cue the cat running faster and farther. Cue Mommy ripping every hair out of her head as she chased a freaked out cat and tried to calm a freaked out Toddler.

Eventually I was able to soothe the cat enough to convince him to stay put, and then turned my energies towards calming the child enough for her to notice that she had gotten her way. Now, as I type this, they are all cuddled up in the tiny little bed, both as happy as can be.

Yup, my kid is officially a member of the We Change Our Minds All the Time Girls Club.