The Toothfairy

The Lollygagger lost her first tooth.

The milestones happen so fast it's hard to believe she's already five. She informed Lollygagger Daddy the week prior, that her tooth was loose. This seemed abnormal to me. Too soon. I worried she was kicked in the mouth by her Aunties horse, where we just left. No, couldn't be that. She would have noticed if a horse kicked her in the mouth.

It was clear she was growing up and I just had to face up to it. There was nothing abnormal about it.

A week after her announcement about the tooth, it came out. It came out during dinner when she was gnawing on a corn Cobb. The problem was, she couldn't find it. We searched the table, the floor, the dinner plate, the Cobb, and brushed out her hair just to be sure it hadn't somehow landed in her long locks. No luck; it was gone. A high percentage of probability that it could be located in her tummy.

Here she is:

My Lollygagger is a very optimistic child. She was sure she could get it back as soon as she pottied.

Ewwwww!

She was insistent that we look for it in her potty.

"Ah, no sweetie, I'm not going to dig around in your potty to find your tooth."

Oh, the meltdown. The gnashing of teeth, the whaling and crying. It seemed to go on forever.

By the time she calmed down enough to articulate clear words, I was able to understand her worry that the Tooth fairy might pass her by.

"Don't worry Lollygagger, we can write her a letter. We will explain that we can't give her the tooth because you swallowed it."

"Momma, will she be mad?"

"No, sweetie. Lots of children swallow their teeth."

She was never happier.

So what does the Tooth fairy pay for teeth these days? Is there a penalty for not being able to exchange the tooth? Do children get more for uppers vs- lowers? What about molars? What am I supposed to do in my new role of Tooth fairy?

She woke up in the morning to a shinny gold dollar. Her gold dollar was applied to the Piggy Bank she has for spending sprees. You would think the spending spree of a five year old would be for a wild selection of small toys that can be stepped on by the unsuspecting momma, or on lip gloss by the case.

Not my Lollygagger. She's a saver.

In a future post I'll reveal her big purchase.

The Perm-a-Whistle Kitty, part II

In my last post, I explained how my Lollygagger’s kitty was beaten up by my elephantine cat named Murray.

It’s sad and unfortunate, but the poor kitten was attacked again. No, Murray has become her friend in the past few weeks since he attacked her. He seems remorseful, if a cat could ever be so. No, this time it was my dog. Maura is an Akita, who is small for her breed at roughly 80 lbs.

The Lollygagger’s daddy enjoys spoiling everyone in the family, including the pets. He’s not really as knowledgeable of animals as he should be, but he spent roughly half his life traveling the world while in the Army. He never had time for pets or a place to put them, so his experience with pets is limited. As such, the concept of tossing bits of chicken to a cat in front of a dog is lacking in the area of common sense.

I know you can see what’s coming. It’s sad, but true. The poor Little Princess was attacked. That tiny bit of chicken was claimed by the bigger one of the two, who won the race to snatch it up at all cost.

At all cost…

The cost was steep. The Little Princess paid handsomely for even thinking she could come close enough to have a sniff. The attack was loud, frightening, and bloody. I had never heard the Little Princess utter a sound until that moment. She was screaming for her life. I still tear up when I think about it. It was awful.

The Little Princess dashed to my room up stairs and hid under my king size bed, refusing to allow me to examine her injuries. I couldn’t reach her and she was not willing to be coxed out. The bed is so heavy, it took a few movers to get it there in the first place. Moving it was not on option. Hours passed, she still lived. The night turned to morning, she still lived.

Late in the afternoon the next day, she came out for the food and water I cleverly placed in a cat cage. I managed to lock her in and made my way down the mountain to the emergency vet clinic.
This clinic must have a standing fee for everyone with a cat. Another $255.00 later, and my free cat is pumped with pain killer, antibiotics, and a single staple in her nose. Really it’s more like the tear duct of the eye, but, stapled just the same.

Now, she has a permanent whistle in her nose. The wound still weeps all these months later. She still won’t purr, although she will meow now and then. She refuses to bathe anything more than her face and paws, which leaves her back knotted and nasty. She will not allow anyone to touch her but me, and will only allow me to brush her so long as I only brush her head.

Here are the lessons learned:

1) Never believe your gentle giant of a dog won’t put up a fight for a tasty bit of chicken.
2) Never have the impression your free pet will remain that way.
3) Never believe you understand an animal enough to touch it while it’s suffering.
4) Never give up, your pet will learn to trust again. Even if it’s only able to trust you.

The Perm-a-Whistle Kitty, part I

Earlier, I posted about my little Lollygagger stepping in wet cat barf and shouting “What the Hell!?” The barf came from our perm-a-whistle kitty who was perfectly whole when she came to us.

She was roughly 4 months old when she was ripped from her fancy bird cage, -yes, I said bird cage -and put into my arms, for free. She seemed to be somewhat antisocial at the time. I talked myself into believing she was just nervous and would spring to life when presented with cat toys and Fancy Feast.

Days passed, and our sweet little kitten had still not meowed, nor purred. Though concerned, I couldn’t find anything physically wrong with her. Maybe she needed more time.

One morning, and mean EARLY in the morning, I heard what I thought was the kitten (we shall from this point forward call her by her given name, The Little Princess) playing with our large-marge of a Cat, Murray. Murray is the King of the Castle, the Ruler of the Roost, the Kamehameha of his tiny Island. He is a Princess and is not happy with the new kids name. They weren’t playing. Murray was beating the tar out of the poor baby, who went into a state of shock.

The Little Princess had a severe spike in her body temperature, lost her bowels and bladder, and seemed to have lost the ability to blink. I thought he killed her. She was sure to die in the next few minutes. What was I to do? The only emergency pet clinic was 30 minutes from the bottom of the mountain I live on. Getting to the bottom would take another 30 minutes. I tried to pick her up so I could wrap her in a towel and get her in a cat cage for transport.

She must have had more strength in her than I though she did; My hands, arms, chest and thighs were shredded into a bloody mass of faux hamburger. The pain! I have had cats my entire life and know how to handle them, but she defied all logic. I’m still just as scarred from that night as she is.

I managed to get her downstairs to the kitchen where she could sit on the cool tile of the kitchen floor, and I slept on a nearby couch with one eye open for the remainder of the morning until the alarm clock insisted I get up.

By this time, The Little Princess allowed me to get her gingerly into a cage and we made the trek to the nearest vet. My free kitten cost me $255.00

In my next post, I’ll explain how she became the Perm-a-Whistle Kitty.

Ice Cream and Manipulation

Mamma, do you like Ice Cream?

This was the start of the Lollygagger's new conversation one afternoon, which was intended to ultimately gain her a large and flavorful bowl of the substance she covets so much.

Do I like Ice Cream? Hum. I will have to be careful how I answer such a loaded question. You see, the Lollygagger’s Daddy and I own two businesses, one of which happens to be an Ice Cream Shop. It’s one of those things where we liked Ice Cream in the beginning, but over seven years of unlimited access to any flavor of Ice Cream we choose, we lost our love for the creamy, tongue-numbing stuff.

Her question, which seems innocent on the surface, is as loaded and a calorie filled Twinkie. If I say “yes” she will then suggest we eat a large bowl of it immediately. If I say no, she will then begin to offer suggestions why she should eat a large bowl of it immediately.

What’s amusing to me is her choice of tactics to gain this particular afternoon snack. If it were a bowl of berries, or a Navel Orange, she would have just asked for it. But she’s after sugar, which means I might say no.

Where do children learn the art of manipulation, anyway? How is it that a five year old can spot the potential benefit of bending a conversation to suit her wants and will? How has she learned to master this thing at such a young age?

I don’t like to think of myself as a Master Manipulator, but I have been known to display the same behavior in gaining agreement in such things as, getting a new kitten, or adding a deck to the house. Though I thought I was covert and slick enough to get away with this behavior, it’s become clear that the level of transparency is visible to a five year old, but doesn’t seem to have the same opaqueness with her Daddy, who gives me the world on a platter.

It never occurred to me that the sole reason for my existence is to be a bad example to others. All this internalizing over the simple question, “Mamma, do you like Ice Cream”?

What will happen to my deviant behavior toward my unsuspecting husband? Should I come clean? Admit to him my manipulative tactics? Become the person I want my Lollygagger to be?

… hum.

No, I think not. Instead, I will ensure she is not in the room at the time of such conniving pursuits. Why spoil a good thing?

Cheers

From Puppy to Kitten, Amen!

My little Lollygagger wanted a kitten of her own. She had been mentioning it for months and the level of begging got me to thinking about it seriously. I decided I was all for it, but getting the Lollygagger’s Daddy to buy in to the idea was another matter. He cleans up after the dog and the cat already and hates every minute of it. His buy in was essential.

I had to devise a plan. A diabolical plan. An ambitious plan. A Plan that had to work. I was determined to present my little Lollygagger with a Kitten of her own no matter what.

After a few days of consideration, I had a plan. Muahaaahaaahaaa.

I called Lollygagger’s Daddy at work and told him I happened to see a puppy I absolutely HAD to have for her. I told him it was a St. Bernard that wasn’t really expected to grow to full size and explained how we could shave his fur during shedding season. He had an earful of how a new puppy would be good for the Lollygagger, the fact that her adult brother, who no longer lives at home, has a cat (who lives in our home), and he and I have a dog of our own. It just wouldn’t be fair to deprive her of having her own pet. She was being deprived of one of life’s greatest experiences and should be allowed to feel the joys of a puppy licking her face.

When he finally got a word in edgewise, he said no. Well, he actually said a few expletives along with the no, but it was a clear and concise No; as expected. I had no choice. I pulled the guilt card. And I laid it on thick.

I argued for the better part of 15 minutes while he listened (I really think he just set the phone down and came back in time to hear the end of my one sided argument).

When he was exhausted from the sparing (or pretended to be) and was at his breaking point, I made my move. I eased up on the dog idea and told him I’d settle for a kitten. He must have thought he had done a good job and beat me down in the bargaining and mania of it all, and “gave in.”

Two days later, I presented my little Lollygagger with the kitten I intended to give her all along.

He’s so easy. Only one of many reason why I love him so much.

Dysfunction Junction

Is there any such thing as a truly functional family unit? I really don’t think there is. At least I’ve never met one. I’ve never met a fully functional person either, which is what this post is about. I truly believe everyone has a dark side. Not like Darth Vader or anything, but a dark side in another way. Like paranoia, or an irascibility of sorts, or maybe having a tendency to be insulting to others.

I’m a trainer for a large HMO and I train Doctors and Nurses on an integrated software product they will be expected to use in the course of their day-to-day jobs. Some days the participants in the class are in good humor, and other days, like today, they’re watching the clock and annoyed at every turn.

One of my training partners has a cash of jokes he tells every day. I get the pleasure of hearing them every day. The same jokes -Every day.

Here’s one: “Does anyone here have CDO?” The gallery is at a loss to what CDO is, so he moves in for the zinger. “It’s OCD, but the letters are in order like they should be.”

Today we had a Psychiatrist in the mix, who couldn’t possibly be an effective healthcare provider; he has no humor. Not -a -stitch. He was irascible and generally weird even by Psychiatrists standards.

It’s 4:00 p.m., and at this junction he was under the impression that every joke was told for the sole purpose of insulting him and only him. He was one MAD Psychiatrist. It seems to me that anyone with this level of paranoia should probably see a Psychiatrist.

Should he make an appointment to see himself for treatment? I wonder how that would work. Would he keep himself waiting in the waiting room? Suggest to himself it’s all in his head? Cash his own checks for services rendered? The possibilities are endless.

I have my own level of dysfunction too. Truth is, I began to enjoy watching him turn red in the face and clock how long the vein in his temple throbbed after each joke; of which had nothing to do with him. I know, I know. I’m one twisted lady.

I’ll make an appointment to see a Psychiatrist right away.

… wait.

It’s my luck he would be my doctor. One afternoon with him and I’d become a Stepford drone.

Never mind. I like my brand of dysfunction. I think I’ll keep it.

Chatter vs- Churros

My Lollygagger is a chatter box. She talks all day, she talks all night, she talks in her sleep. No, that's not a joke; she really talks in her sleep. She talks in her sleep all night and into the wee hours of the morning. I wake up to her laughter and chatter in the middle of the night believing she must be awake and playing with one of the cats, or perhaps listening to her radio. When I sleepily crawl out of bed at 2:30 a.m. to see what's going on, I find the sandman has given her a double dose of sleep-sand and she is virtually unconscious.

You would think her mouth would be exhausted by the perpetual motion, but somehow it just keeps going. Have you ever seen the car commercial when a Daddy puts his little girl in the car and shuts the door while she carries on with a story of her school day? He walks around and climbs into the car and the little girl never so much as took a breath. She just kept talking. Well, that's what I'm talking about. The commercial I can turn off, the Lollygagger gives a full time, 24 hour dissertation that never seems to have a point.

Yesterday, she woke up at 5:30 a.m. and followed me through the house as I got myself ready for my work day, all the while engaging me in a conversation about flowers, tacos, and the “eating place with a ginormous yellow M in the parking lot.” Yes, she likes that word, ginormous. No real point involved, she just wanted to talk; some more. I knew from the moment I heard her starting a conversation with me before she entered the room she was going to be a very tired little girl that evening.

She gabbed all morning with her Daddy and with me. She gabbed all day with her summer camp friends. She gabbed all night with her Karate Master, who foolishly believed she had an off button, and she gabbed at me the entire time we sat in the Drive-thru, which took much longer than it should have.

She ate her Drive-thru meal as we made our way home and then began to eat a very sugary Churro for her dessert. As I exited the freeway, I felt a level of apprehension begin to grow in the depths of my soul. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The chatter was slowing down. It was getting quieter and quieter by the minute. This was so foreign, so utterly bizarre that I turned the rear view mirror to she what she was doing. I was sure she was either up to no good, choking, or fell out of the car. It was none of the above.

What I witnessed was so funny, so out of character for her, I had to tell you about it.

As she talked about her day while eating her Churro in the back seat, she was falling slowly asleep. I was amazed that she could manage to talk while her head was inching below her collar bone. It wasn’t until she dropped her sugary snack that she whipped her head up, searched in a panic for it, located it and ripped another bite from it, that she stopped talking. It seemed she had a new focus.

- Keep that Churro in her hand, eat it, and sleep at the same time.

She would be in full chew, and then just fall asleep. Again, she would drop the Churro, wake up, locate it, stuff another bite in her mouth, and then fall asleep again. This repeated itself until the Churro was gone.

Just when I was sure I was about to have the next 10 minutes of silence, she woke up and resumed her chatter. As usual, in mid sentence, she nodded off. While none of this is especially remarkable, what came next is.

She seemed to have resumed the eating of her now digested Churro. With her head slumped to the side, she mimicked taking a bite of an invisible food item and proceeded to chew on this non-existent sweet.

How fascinating. The Lollygagger not only talks in her sleep, she eats in her sleep too.

Should I take her to the doctor to look into this oddity? Should I call the local Priest to perform some sort of exorcisms? Should I consult a Psychiatrist?

No, I think instead I’ll sit back and enjoy her idiosyncrasies and tuck away the moments that give me a hardy laugh. And I’ll keep sharing them as they happen.

Cheers

Physics in the home

When my little Lollygagger was in need of a bath, her daddy was ever so sweet and volunteered to handle the back breaking task. While she played with her bath toys, he called his Auntie in San Francisco and became engaged in a conversation taking his attention away from the little lollygagger who happens to be a curious child.

Meanwhile, I'm cleaning up the dinner disaster that left me with a nasty case of heartburn, when suddenly, I hear the steady drip – drip – drip of water coming from the guest bathroom. Foolishly, I ignore the first three minutes of this steady dripping, my mind unable to shift from heartburn to flooding. By the time my mind clicks into gear, I realize this sound is not in the realm of normal. I find the ceiling in the bathroom is soaking wet and sagging.

My shock prevents me from an immediate reaction. When the quarter drops and I grasp the full scope of what I'm looking at, I quickly inform the lollygaggers’ daddy in a not-so-subtle shriek, who cuts his phone conversation short to conduct an investigation.

Apparently, my little lollygagger was told not to climb out of the tub by herself, which she translated into the idea that she was not allowed to reach for, nor ask for, a toy she wanted across the room.

Her solution? Bail out all the tub water to elevate the little toy, then, make it float to her by swirling the water, thereby creating a current.

Other than destroying the floor upstairs, and the ceiling below, it was an excellent example of working Physics into the day-to-day activities of home life. In addition to a good physics lesson, which I can confidently say was working, there were many other lessons learned that night:

1) When your Lollygagger is quiet, she’s up to no good. Find out what it is before your bathroom gets flooded.

2) Never assume your Lollygagger knows better.

3) Never be distracted by a good phone conversation when you should be watching your Lollygagger.

4) Never be too tired to pay attention to abnormal dripping sounds in your house.

5) Never doubt your little Lollygagger can’t solve a complicated physics problem.

I wonder what my life would be like if I didn’t have my sweet little Lollygagger to keep me on my toes? Boring, I think.

Yes, life is good.

The Breaking of the board

The little Lollygagger started Karate just under a year ago. She has learned about “stranger danger” and how to use 911 in the event of an emergency. Some really good, important stuff.

A few weeks ago she had her graduation, moving up to a class with older children. Unlike any of the other children who have moved up, she was given a task by her Karate Master.

He called her to the center of the mat, and seemed to have magically produced a square board from thin air. He asked the Lollygagger if she knew what he wanted her to do with the board.

No, no clue. It was obvious she was thinking her task with the board would come to no good and she would certainly not come out the victor, whatever he had in mind.

When he told her what he wanted her to do, she laughed with relief and told him “I can’t break a board, I’ll get a splinter, and my Momma said I should play with wood.” I honestly can’t recall ever telling her such a thing, but it sounds like something I would say.

It took a minute to convince her to do it, but she agreed. Reluctantly, but she agreed.

The Karate Master asked her to practice a few good side-kicks on his tummy before breaking the board. Well, that set her into a state of panic that I had not witnessed before. Now she’s afraid she might injure the man in front of her, who is a 3rd degree Black Belt and a Master, whatever that means. Even in her irrational state of panic, she performed her assignment admirably.

Then came the moment of truth. He held out the board. She bent her knees. Put up her little fists. Took a deeeep breath. Shouted “KEE-YAHHHH” and kicked the board with everything she had.








She broke it in two!









Every parent there was just as proud of her as they would have been for their own child. They cheered, and clapped, and expressed amazement. The Lollygagger’s Daddy and I were equally stunned.

She stood there, more surprised than anyone, not fully comprehending yet what she had just accomplished. The seconds ticked by. Then it happened. She put her hand to her mouth and started to cry. Or, I should say, I thought she started to cry. Just as I began to stand to go over and get her I realized she was laughing. Not just her sweet little giggle, but she was laughing. Really laughing.

She bowed to her Karate Master, gather up her broken board, and ran back to her Daddy, anxious to show him what she did.

Many weeks later, she is only now allowing herself to walk the house without the broken pieces of that board. She has slept with it, put it on the edge of the tub during bath time, carried it with her during long walks to the nearby lake, and gave it a place at the dinner table.

I’m so grateful she had this experience. I’m also grateful she’s stopped dragging the broken pieces of the board around. I can hardly wait to see what she does next in this excellent Karate class.

The other boy

My little Lollygagger has been heartbroken for weeks over Matthew. He’s a cute little guy, with blond hair and blue eyes. At the beginning of her first school year, preschool that is, the two of them decided they would be married. They held hands, played together at every recess, and sat together during craft time and story time. Then, Merin moved in. She took over every aspect of his, tiny little heart. My little Lollygagger was pushed out and didn’t know what to do.

I’ve learned a mother’s advice is never right. Realizing this has left me feeling left footed. I’ve suffered with her, feeling her pain and left helpless to cure her shattered dreams of a life time with Matthew. Oh, the perils of a preschooler.

Devastating.

Today, she received in the mail a Thank You card from another boy at school, who frankly, is another cute blond hair, blue eyed sweetie. And, this one has adorable freckles.

It’s nice to still see good manners handed down to your children by the simple act of a Thank You card. It can make a huge impact on the receiver. It’s just so rare these days. But, I digress.

The Lollygagger sat beside me while I read the note: “Dear Lollygagger, thank you for the birthday present. You’re a good friend. Love, Ben.”

The Lollygagger immediately smiled and said with a giggle, “he loves me!” Oh, no. Oh, my.

How does a mother, who has worked tirelessly to help her wee one get over her first crush, explain that the valediction is no more than a matter of a warm fuzzy, rather than the literal translation of the word? I began to open my mouth like a fish gasping for water. My mind began racing, reaching, groping the air for an explanation to this word “Love” appearing in her Thank You card.

Would I break her heart again if I let the cat out of the bag? She seemed so happy and seemed to have completely forgotten what’s-his-name for the first time all summer. So, I did what any good mother would do. I smiled and closed my mouth. Or, closed my mouth, then smiled.

I realized the summer is going to be long, new children will be in her class when she starts Kindergarten, and it’s totally possible she will forget all about this unwitting admission of love from her friend, Ben.

Let’s hope the omission of an explanation, which is tantamount to a lie, doesn’t come back to bite me on the back side.

Cheers.

What the Hell!?

My house is a constant ebb and flow of manic insanity that only slows when my little lollygagger goes to bed; which in itself is an all night process. On one such night, the lollygagger ran up the stairs with mamma in hot pursuit.

Before going any further with the main theme of my story, you must have a brief introduction to our pets. Maura, the Akita, is a runt at her heaviest weight of 80 lbs. She sheds all year and loves to lean on me when I’m dressed for work. Murray, the fattest cat in California, enjoys torturing Maura by hanging on her curly tail and not letting go until poor Maura drags him for 10 minutes and he just gets tired of hanging on. Then there’s The Little Princess (that’s what happens when you let a four year old name the new kitten), who has a perma-whistle nose (will give full story in a later post) and sounds like Darth Vader.

With two cats that live indoors on a full time basis, you never know what to expect while on the long journey to the top of the stairs. Will we hit a wall of fresh cat box odor? Will the dog be grazing from the cat box? Will the cats race us to the top and trip one of us on their way? Will they perhaps reach over the railing and grab our hair as we make our assent? Not this night. No, this is the night my lollygagger stepped on a freshly vomited fur ball four steps from the top. Her immediate reaction was to shout “WHAT THE HELL!?” from the top of her voice.

During my lecture to my sweet little lollygagger on the difference between adult words, and words more appropriate for children, the lollygagger’s daddy was down stairs, lecturing up to me about using adult words and ensuring me it’s a phrase I use too often. He was so into his lecture, he never asked what happened to make her say such a thing.

During my momentary self evaluation of commonly use phrases, the lollygagger’s daddy was making his own way up the stairs. He stepped on the same cat vomited fur ball that I hadn’t cleaned up yet, which was wet enough to squish between his toes, and he let loose with “WHAT THE HELL!?”

Vindication has never been so sweet.