Sunday, November 23, 2008

Doesn't feel like a day of rest to me

Sundays that Dean works are my least favorite day. Especially if I have not gotten around to giving the girls baths the night before. Somehow I feel like they need to smell good, in addition to being dressed in their matching tights and cardigans. Frankie was unusually cooperative this morning. She only used about a quarter of a bottle of shampoo in the bathtub, which is distinctly under her full bottle average. She begs and moans about needing it to make "soup" for her plastic dolphins, who, she claims, just "love it so much and I don't even know why, Momsie." This morning the soup also contained a number of floating "vegetables" which were actually small bits of her foam bathtub letters that she had bitten off. Like I've said before, if it will occupy her, and I can use my lip liner in peace without someone asking to see "how you do that, Mom, can I? can I? can I? can I?," I am willing to make some major concessions.
This afternoon hasn't been going so smoothly, however. I thought I had hit the jackpot when both kids went down for a nap at the same time. But, alas, just as I was about to dance a jig, Molly was visited by the Poop Fairy ten minutes into her slumber, and that was the end of that peaceful respite. Frankie was never bothered by her own excrement or other bodily fluids. In fact, she resisted being potty-trained vigorously, insisting "I just like pooping in my diaper." She probably thought it was rather warm and insulating. But Molly, like her cousin Sylvie before her, finds that poop really interferes with her ability to relax in her crib. She will crawl around for hours reeking like she's got a rotten cauliflower tucked in her pants but if it is sleeping time, her sensibilities become acutely delicate and she won't stand for it.
After both naps went bust, my dad came over and we all went for a walk in the brisk November slush. But when we returned to the house, my father committed the unpardonable sin. He left without giving Frankie a hug and kiss. Try as I might, I could not stop the floodgates of indignation and sorrow that erupted. She stood at the front door, tears streaming, hands waving impotently toward his departing van, yelling "HUGANDKISS, HUGANDKISS, HUGANDKISSSSSSSSSSS!!!!." And thus began about an hour of weeping and gnashing of teeth over the slightest problem, with a periodic plaintive "Opa forgot my-sniff, sniff- hug and kiss," until I was about to lose my ever loving mind and was forced to turn to the housewife's best friend, and I know you are thinking Valium, but I actually mean the television. It is amazing how fast those tears dried and Opa and his affections were thrown over for the cold comfort of cathode rays.

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