Precision

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I spent last night caring for a sick Cecilia.  Chris was out of town; there was vomit involved.  I’m a bit traumatized today.  I am, however, quite impressed with my kiddo.  With the exception of waking herself up puking, this kid managed to hit the barf bucket (i.e. trashcan lined with Kroger bags) every time.  She was calm and steady.  Cecilia did whimper a bit between up chuck session, but she figuratively kept her shit together when she needed to.  This is not a one time phenomenon - she even had this skill at age 4.  I know this is a strange thing for a parent to be proud of, but it puts joy in my heart. The less regurgitated food for me to clean, the better.

But like I said, between sessions, she didn’t keep it together.  Cecilia must have a grace under pressure skill.  As her mom, I know my child doesn’t have that kind of attentiveness and precision every day.  For example, my child cannot undress properly.  BEFORE you get concerned about me discussing my child undressing on the internet, let me explain.  The clothes in her laundry basket are all jacked up, especially pants.  Most people take off their pants similarly to the way you’d scoot out a sleeping bag - a little bit of unzipping, a little shimmying, and a little pulling it down.  My kid removes her pants as if she was peeling a banana.  She grabs the waistband of her underwear and pants and peels them down, turning them inside out in the process.  At this point, the unders/pants combo shucking comes to a stop -  they’ve hit a bumper - her socks.  More pulling, more stretching.  The socks pop off into little balls that lodge inside the inside-out pant legs.  It now appears that her pants are wearing underwear on the outside and have kneecaps made of socks. Hopefully, at this point, she puts them in her dirty laundry basket, but probably not…

Washing and folding her laundry feels like a puzzle.  It sort of reminds me of those Chinese fingercuffs that require you to relax in order to escape.  I just have to remind myself to relax, especially when I’m dragging those still wet little sock balls out of her pants.  Sock balls do not dry in the dryer.  I dream of the day that she can do her own laundry.  Six is old enough, right?

Cats not in the Storage or the Kitty Igloo

Categories: home | No Comments

I hope you read that to the tune of “Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin 

Nashville has been hit with a winter storm, and unlike all the previous ones predicted, we did get enough snow and ice for people to freak out and the city to shut down.  Finally! All the crazies are justified with their bread and milk hoarding!  For us on the south end, what was suppose to be a couple inches of snow turned out to be a little bit of snow and a lot of ice.  Just enough to make it look like thick compacted snow until you step out on it and discover that it slips out from under you. It’s not suppose to get above freezing for another few days, and the low tomorrow night is NEGATIVE THIRTEEN DEGREES FAHRENHEIT.  I’m not an all-caps kind of girl, but that warrants some all-caps.  I live south of the Mason-Dixon line, y’all, and I didn’t sign up for this. No way; no how.  

So everything is frozen. I’m not going anywhere, and I will be stuck inside with three crazy dogs, a bored six year old, and a swamped CEO husband with only ONE bottle of wine for a week.  Dammit.  Those crazy may need bread, but I forgot to go to the liquor store.  If the weathermen (and women) would stop crying wolf over every “Winterstorm” then I would know when to take them seriously.  Maybe I should just stock extra bottles in the storm cellar.  It can be my plan for “State of Emergencies“.

So back to the cat…

My outdoor kitty, Lazarus, will not come indoors because of the dogs. (This is always the case - she’s always welcome indoors.) She will not go in the shed with a kitty igloo, food, and a HEATER.  She will not go in the kitty igloo on the front porch with food. She just looks at me with this expression that says, “I’m not a dog, woman; I do what I want. Now hold me.” Lazarus has, however, managed to get to her usual haunt - under the house - despite being extra insulated and closed up about two weeks ago by a crew of four. Proof that cats will do whatever the hell cats want to do no mater how many people say otherwise.

So now I get to stay awake at night and worry about her as the temperature drops, and not to mention her sister, Jones, whom I haven’t seen in a couple days.  Jones is very resourceful gal, and I’m hoping and praying she’s okay.  There’s only so many times you can wander the neighborhood yelling “Jones!” (We really should give our cats more cat like names.) Until then, I guess I’m going to move a kitty igloo into the storm cellar under the house.  I’ll just put it where my emergency wine rack will be going.  I may need to hide visit down there to plan it all out; you know, undisturbed by all the upstairs creatures.

Stay tipsy warm, y’all!