Bath Time Sucks

These pictures were taken about a year ago, but are still accurate representations of bath time hair washing.

It used to be that as soon as Hannah saw a filled bathtub (or was placed naked in the kitchen sink) the wailing would begin. The past few months have seen a shift in attitude. Who would have thought bath crayons make all the difference?

Last night, after realizing Hannah hadn't had a bath in a week, (don't judge, bathing Hannah as an infant has made us gun shy - she used to cry so hard she'd poop in the water) we fired up the tub, drug out the huge basket of bathtub toys, plopped her into a lukewarm bath and handed over the crayons. We drew circles, triangles, spirals, and squiggles. We used the pink crayon, the green crayon, the purple crayon, and the brown crayon (please be sure your toddler has pooped before getting into the tub if you plan on using the brown crayon). It was fabulous.

I asked her to show me how to float on her stomach. I asked her if she could float on her back. We played with a toy watering can and the spray bottle I got from the hospital after Hannah was born. All of these succeeded in her hair getting mostly wet. But not quite wet enough to wash her hair.

The screaming began as soon as I gently laid her back in the tub and slowly poured water over her hair to get it ready for a very necessary scrubbing. As I massaged shampoo on her little noggin she continued to scream and cry and wail her displeasure. Bryan and I have remarked in the past that we are surprised the police haven't been summoned by the neighbors during bath time on suspicions of child abuse. This is how loudly and passionately she screams when we wash her hair.

And now what to do with the sudsy hair but rinse. Rinsing her hair breaks my heart. I am not often drawn to tears, but rinsing her hair and hearing the fear in her cries breaks my heart. And then there are times when I'm just annoyed. I'm not going to hurt her. I'm not going to let her drown. I don't want to get soap in her eyes. I'm so tired of this struggle. She needs to Just. Get. Over. It.

Last night was a rare combination of the two. I began in the Just Get Over It mode and then shifted to feeling so bad for her I wanted to pick her up, soapy hair and all, and just cuddle her. But that would delay the necessary. And, I would wind up needing to change clothes, and I really hate late-in-the-day outfit changes. I already have enough laundry to do, do I really need to create more because my child won't let me rinse her hair? So, I worked to get the shampoo out of her hair, fighting freakishly strong toddler arms, hands, and legs while doing my best to keep the suds from running down her face and into her eyes. All of my efforts didn't keep her from swallowing a large mouth of bathwater, causing a large sputtering coughing jag, or from stinging her eyes with shampoo suds. She's really strong.

As soon as I was finished, I quickly got her onto her feet and asked her to look at me. She looked up, tears streaming down her face, snot dripping onto her lip, and I asked her, "Hannah, do you think mommy would ever, ever hurt you?" She said, "Yesh."

Spent, soaked, and a bit sad, I turned to Bryan, and informed them both, that, "Daddy will take it from here."

Love, Toddler Style

Buddy is the most patient cat, ever. Or, he's simply too fat to move quickly enough to dodge toddler cuddles.

Hope vs. Insanity

I have heard that a definition of Insanity is repeating the same behavior and expecting different results. If this is indeed an accurate definition of insanity, then my dog, Angus is insane.

Every morning, Hannah eats a small bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios (okay, fine, she eats a small bowl of generic brand Honey Nut Happy O's). She loves her cereal. When she is finished eating her cereal and drinking/pouring the milk down her face, she looks at me, all happiness and love and asks "Cheerios?" I am happy to comply because she's just so darned cute I can't stand it.

Throughout Hannah's breakfast, Angus keeps a vigilant eye on her progress lest she decide to deem him worthy of a tasty O (the drool marks to his left and right prove his devotion to his efforts). He is never rewarded by this fickle toddler. I have explained to him over and over again that he must get down. He must leave Hannah alone. He may not have cheerios. Yet, he never leaves his post. He expects a different result than he received yesterday morning, and the morning before that, and the mornings before that all the way back to Hannah's early cereal days.

So, by one definition of Insanity, Angus is proven insane. However, I prefer to think he is hopeful. Hopeful for Hannah to change her mind and share her beloved morning meal. Hopeful that she might leave her bowl unattended and at the perfect height for his low-to-the-ground head so he may gobble the bowl's contents in a messy, milky slurp.

This, I believe, is what we people do, too. Don't we all attempt the same things over and over again hoping against hope that this time, this time will be different? How many times are our efforts and dreams thwarted until we realize our approach must change? How many changes must we make to reach our ultimate goal?

And every morning, when I see my sweet, sweet boy silently willing Hannah to share her cereal, please, oh please, just for today, I am reminded that we are all a little insane. Perhaps, tomorrow morning, I will make Angus his own bowl of cereal and reward his hopefulness.

What's in a name?

Hannah loves Angus. Don't be fooled by his turned head, Angus loves Hannah, too. He loves her so much he was overly protective of me while I was pregnant. He loves her so much he was our dirty diaper detector for the first few months of Hannah's life, until his overly sensitive nose couldn't handle that job anymore. He loves her so much he lets her pull on his ears and when she was younger, the extra skin above his eyes. He loves her so much he gained 4 pounds when she started eating solid food. Oh, but does Hannah love Angus. Hannah loves to hug Angus, she loves to kiss him goodbye when she leaves for daycare in the mornings, and she loves to see him when she gets home in the afternoon. Hannah loves to share her breakfast and dinner with Angus. Hannah loves to say, "Angus, come!" when she wants to see him. Hannah loves to say, "Angus, No!" when he tries to smooch her from chin to forehead in one giant slurp. Hannah loves to say, "Where's Angus?" when she forgets where he is. When we pull up in front of the house, Hannah loves to inform me that we are in front of "Angus House". Sometimes, she loves to sing his name over and over again, "Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus, Angus." Hannah does not pronounce the "G" in Angus' name.

2 Years later and we really need to change the name of this blog.

It has been so very long since the last post. In fact, I was still pregnant when I made the last one. That baby that was in my belly is now 2 years and 2 months old. Many things have happened, some amazing things and some crappy things. Let's just worry about the amazing things, shall we?

Amazing Thing #1. Hannah was born on May 23, 2007. My pregnancy and her birth allowed the only New Year's Resolution I've ever made and kept to occur. My 2006 New Year's Resolution was "Peein' on sticks in Oh-Six". Okay, maybe Bryan had something to do with it, too.

Amazing Thing #2. Bryan started a new job not long after Hannah was born. He has been an on-and-off contractor since that time. He's learned new skills, met new people, and is constantly making himself more and more employable - HURRAH! And best of all, he loves what he does.

Amazing Thing #3. Oh, screw it. There's so much that's happened in the past two years that it's impossible to categorically list them all.

On the Livestock front, we have upped the dog quotient. You know Angus, our delightfully smelly Basset Hound. He's lovely. He's smelly. You'd love him if you met him. Now introducing.....Buddy, the Yellow Lab. Yes, this means we now have a Buddy cat and a Buddy dog. However, the puppies and the kitties are not friends and do not co-exist on the same floor. It is just a known fact that when you're downstairs and say, "Buddy" you are referring to the dog and when you are upstairs and say, "Buddy" you are referring to our 20lb, cat food eating machine who does little but leave cat impressions on the beds.

Buddy (the dog) comes to us from my sister-in-law. She, her son, and her new husband will be moving to Connecticut sometime this fall when the new husband joins the Navy. In the meantime, they are fixing up and attempting to sell two homes. We are what you might call "Long-time foster owners" for Buddy until they can pick him up on their way east. Buddy is a sweet boy with one of the most subtle "I gotta pee" tells ever. He touches his nose to your arm which I've misinterpreted as, "Hi, I love you, please love me back" to my own detriment and paper towel usage.

See, if Buddy has to go and you don't let him out, he takes care of it in the house. He starts in the dining room and runs the track from dining room to living room to kitchen peeing all the while. It is a river of pee. If our house had currents, there would be an ebb and flow to this body of water. It takes approximately an entire roll of paper towel, 1/4 bottle of Mr. Clean, and about 30 minutes to clean this up. Silver lining? There can't possibly be, you say in disbelief. Ah, but I will always find one. Try me, it's a good time. Anyways, the silver lining here is that parts of my house are cleaner than they would have been otherwise.

To make things even more exciting, we have Kane Dog this week. I've mentioned him before. He is my other sister-in-law's Doberman. His nickname - Fluffy Princess. Kane is the one who taught Angus that those lumps in the cats' litter boxes are good eatin'! And last night, he taught Buddy that gem, too. As Bryan told me, "The Bad News is that the dogs got upstairs while you were at Target." I asked, "What did they do?" His reply, "Ready for the Good News?" I asked,"Good News?" Bryan informed me, "The dogs cleaned the litter boxes."

While we absolutely love Kane Kane, he absolutely loves his mama. For the first 72 hours he was with us, he was a pouty pansy. He wouldn't get off the couch. He wouldn't eat his food (which, if you knew Kane, you would know that this is serious indeed). He wouldn't play. He wouldn't allow Angus to groom his ears. Luckily, he's almost back to his rotten-hot dog-farting ways. His mama will be home in a couple of days and his world will again be complete.

While things are a bit muddier, smellier, furry-er, and poopier these days, we have more fun, more snuggles, and more doggie kisses (but not after a litter box incident) in our lives.