Pots are stoves!

<cue hysterical laughter>

Yesterday:

1. Phoebe calls to me “Mama, Evangelina [murdering cat] has a bunny. I think it’s dead because it’s not hopping around”. Oh great. 3 year old PTSD anyone?

2. Dead mouse in my rain boot. Discovered when putting the boot on my bare foot to run outside. Almost impossible to dump out, had to fish it out with a stick. At least that explains the smell in my guest room that I couldn’t track down a couple of months ago.

Today:

1. Sodden deceased mole brought in by the other murdering cat. This is so tame and run of the mill that I am almost relieved.

2. Phoebe comes in the kitchen: “Mama there’s a frog on the sheepskin in the living room. Can I please be the one to get it off there? Please please?” Me (hoping against hope, despite my amphibian phobia): “Is it alive?” Phoebe: “I think it’s dead”

Really. Too much, really too much.

What’s Taking Up Space in My Brain

In addition to mucho transitionos at work, some painful, some not so, I am encompassed by the Latest Major Life Decision I’ve concocted for myself: whether to move yet further south, to where my brother, s-i-l, and nephew are. It’s a big deal, since we just made a major move a year ago, and I don’t want to drag myself, and more importantly Phoebe, through it again without being pretty damn sure it’s the right thing to do.

In addition to the standard stress and upheaval of a major move to a new and basically unfamiliar place, in order to do this I’ll need to go through a major renegotiation with Ex about visitation. We had a nasty battle last year to get permission to move down here, and while jurisdiction may have changed, the players haven’t, and I’m not pleased with the prospect of doing it again. If at all possible, this time I will not go the court route. I’d like to at least try to do it more quietly, calmly, and with less confrontation (and legal expenses). There’s no way we could visit as frequently as we do now, so things would Have To Change.

The Thorn In My Side

I’m eager to get even farther away from Ex, and not at all eager to re-engage him on a controversial topic like moving another 500 miles away, given the past week of dealing with him last week while we were up north. He makes tons of noise (literally) about how much he misses Phoebe, how much he loves being with her, how awful it is when we go home… but we were up there for a week and as far as I can tell (and as merely the mother, custodial parent, and sole caregiver, I’m not entitled to any information about what he does with her), he did nothing actually child-oriented with her at all. No museum, no playground, nothing of the kind.

He bought her a ton of crap, with absolutely no regard to size or appropriateness (he bought her a pair of boys’ skateboard shorts, about size 9. I’m not kidding). He gave her candy and ice cream for breakfast (also not kidding. But not on the same day, so why am I complaining?). And now that we’re home, he’s calling repeatedly and berating me about why she’s not playing with the crap he bought her.

Oh God. I just got afraid that one of these times he’s going to take my non-tv-watching child to some PG-13 movie with sex and violence and product placement and who knows what-all else.

But, Growing Things

When we got back, there was a radish! We picked it and ate it proudly. Sadly, Phoebe didn’t like it. They are pretty strong and peppery I guess. Maybe I can get her to eat them in a salad with salt and other stuff to cut the flavor. Any kid-friendly radish serving suggestions?

In other garden news, Tthe peas are much bigger and I’m pretty sure there are little lettuces and chards coming up (it’s kinda hard to tell the difference between them and the weeds), but no carrots yet. I don’t really understand – it’s not like carrots are hard to grow. We still have to plant sunflowers, pumpkins, corn, squash, and maybe something else. I know, time’s a-wastin’.

About childhood

P: Mama, I have a surprise for you!

M: Oh, how exciting! What is it?

P: (mysteriously) It’s a surprise

M: Ok! Can I have it?

P: Yes! Here it is! (hands me an invisible package)

M: Ooh! What is it?

P: Unwrap it!

M: Ok! (mimes unwrapping) Wow! I love it! What is it?

P: What is it?

M: (sotto voce) I don’t know, what should it be?

P: No! You tell me!!

M: Oh-kay! It’s a beautiful sweater! Thank you so much…

P: It’s not a sweater

…ad infinitum.

Some variation of this conversation happens All. Day. Long. I’m required to guess what dolls are thinking or saying, where worms are in the garden, what the cats are doing at any given moment. I’m not allowed to say I don’t know, and I’m not allowed to ask Phoebe for the answer, or what she thinks about the topic in question.

I’m getting a little sick of this game.

Garden Goodness

In other news, our peas are up! Four tiny bright green shoots have emerged from the dirt (along with many weeds – already). I hope at least a few more come up. We planted close to a dozen, I think, and one third is not a satisfying rate of return for me. I have almost finished turning over the soil in the rest of the garden plot, so if the weather cooperates we’ll be planting more in the next couple of days.

Also the lilacs are nearly in full bloom, the apple trees are covered with blossoms, and the entire backyard smells like floral delight. I thought about cutting some branches to bring inside, but the messiness of the house deterred me. It’s pathetic and infuriating.

The other day they were talking and I heard her say “I love you best”. I didn’t take it too personally, but I definitely rolled my eyes.

I have to add that lately she has frequently said “You are the best mom EVER” and “You are my favorite friend” and completely heart-melting avowals of that ilk. So it’s hard to complain.

Here she is, loving soup best:

However, I told Phoebe she could have as many as she wanted, and that she could have them for breakfast (raisins and oatmeal and no sugar, how bad can it be?), so I was really popular for a while this afternoon. She said “for real???”

Also I called my uncle and landlord to come fix the furnace which mysteriously stopped working – because I had bumped the master switch with the laundry basket and turned it off on my way down the stairs, and was too dopey to check it. And that’s not the first time I’ve done that, including the calling for help part.

However, once he was here he wet-vacced my basement which had several inches of water in it. I felt really guilty that he did it, and I got the impression from him that I should be doing it, but I just can’t. I’d rather wear galoshes to do laundry than take on pumping the flooded basement with Phoebe running around in the fetid water while I do it.

Guilt guilt guilt.

• Played Concentration, Go Fish AND Old Maid

• Did mazes and counting and numbers in Phoebe’s ‘school’ workbook

• Repotted phlox (I know, it’s supposed to be ground cover and I put it in a container. So sue me.)

• Took a long walk/tricycle ride with a cousin who made dandelion jewelry for Phoebe

• Played in a mud puddle (ok, so I just watched that part)

• Planted peas in the ‘garden’

• Fell completely apart and basically didn’t recover through dinner, bath, and bedtime

• Fell asleep almost immediately upon doing nummo

Whew!

Today:

10:30am-11:45am : Several times I remind Phoebe that gymnastics is today. She  toys with the idea of not going, and I tell her that I think if she goes she’ll really like it, get to go on the trampoline, see Miss Joan, her friends, etc.

12:15pm: Phoebe bumps her head. She is inconsolable. Nummo only helps a little. We have the gymnastics conversation again. In my head I debate the wisdom of forcing her to go to gymnastics against her protests. We read a book, then read another while I brush her hair.

12:45: I tell her that by now it’s almost too late to go to gymnastics; by the time we get there it will be more than half over at this point. I expect this to be good news. It’s not. Panic, more tears, she really wants to go now. She says “Is it 1 o’clock now??” I tell her that we can go and she will not miss the whole thing if we leave right now. She scrambles for the door. I throw my keys, phone, and grocery list in my purse and follow her out.

1:15pm: She falls asleep.

1:15-1:25pm: Debate in my head: if I try to wake her up when we get there, she’ll probably cry and be groggy and only get to do 10 minutes of gymnastics. If I don’t, she’ll be disappointed and betrayed that she didn’t get to go.

1:27pm: Drive by gymnastics. Don’t turn into the parking lot. Say “Phoebe?” a couple of times, no response.

1:35pm: Park at the grocery store. Feel guilty about not waking her up, think about how little it makes sense to wake her up for 10 minutes of gymnastics. Think wistfully about the other moms sitting around chatting while I sit in the car with no adult company.

2pm: Play solitaire on the iPod. Listen to Terry Gross.

2:30pm: Fall asleep for a while. Hope drool isn’t visible to other shoppers in the parking lot.

3pm: Phoebe wakes up. Immediately says ‘let’s go to gymnastics’. I regretfully tell her she slept through it. I make it sound like I tried harder than I did to wake her up. She sobs, she can’t believe it, she will never go to gymnastics again, it’s been so long since she was there.

3:10pm: Still devastated by the loss of gymnastics. Doesn’t want me to look at her. Doesn’t want to do anything else.

Sigh.

No, no photos this time.