each time I must clothes shop w/my young kids, I think nudists may have it figured out.
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1st days, homeschooling, dogs, and plastic beads.
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Parent discrimination @ my house. Have little ones? Bet it’s at your place, too.
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I don’t care how adorable your kid is. You put a mullet on him or her, the game is over.
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the story of our recent adventure on Monte Sano Mtn…. http://fb.me/WJmNb1ka

Mommy vs. two-year-old. It’s a standoff like no other. http://mommymayhemblog.com http://fb.me/zFL0le1P

There are epic rivalries recorded throughout history. 

Coke vs. Pepsi.

Darth Vadar vs. the Force.

The Hatfields vs. the McCoys.

I am pretty sure there is one rivalry that began outside the gates of Eden and will continue til the end of time.  It’s outlasted every other rivalry and is still going strong today. 

Mommy vs. 2-year-old.  It’s a standoff like no other.

My sweet, crazy-haired Leighanne is 2 ½.  She is funny, precocious, lovable, and one of the greatest joys of my life.

She is also a maniac. 

I have gone so far as to research bipolar disorder and try to see how many characteristics she has.  Really, the only one that matches up so far is the extreme mood swings without warning.  Ecstatic to rage within a 5-minute time span, pretty much all day every day. 

God gives us the 5-minute turnaround time between moods so that we will not implode.  It’s like interval training when you run.  Just when you think your heart is about to give out and you’ll be found on the side of the road, your high intensity interval comes to an end and you are given a breather.  A time to re-group.  A time to recover.

During those precious few minutes of peace and tranquility, I gather my little maniac into my arms and shower her with hugs and kisses.  We play hide and seek (the kind where you just cover your eyes), we play on the swingset, we put her clothes back on (remember this is the child who wishes she were born in a nudist colony).  We have fun. 

And then it happens.  I can almost see the transformation occurring.  Her cherub-like face scrunches up, her little fists gather at her sides, and her breathing becomes labored.  She is mad as a hornet, and I must bear the brunt of her wrath. 

I take a deep breath, say a prayer for deliverance, and jump in.  Somehow she has missed the briefing that Mommy will always win.  Whether we’re talking about a fit because she thinks she’s entitled to seven popsicles, or because she wants to open every newspaper on our cul-de-sac, shred it, and scatter the pieces throughout the neighbors’ yards, she is passionate about her causes.  She will fight to the death…or to eventual peaceful surrender in order to win back her favorite blanket. 

When you’re in this kind of serious mental and physical combat, training is imperative.  I’ve caught Leighanne doing pull-ups on the swingset and perfecting her yoga moves on her nap mat.  She’s an intimidating foe when she wants to be. 

And yet, as she crosses her chubby little arms and glares at me with angry eyes because I took away her sister’s toothbrush (which she was putting in places I can’t even mention), I see a far-off glimmer of peace returning.  The wave of tranquility is nearly back.  The ebb and tide of 2-yr-old emotions is coming full circle.  I can nearly set my watch to it.

We’ll continue this rivalry, mommies and 2-yr-olds, as long as time endures.  As long as 2-yr-olds believe they are the rightful masters of the universe and we are but their feeble-minded servants, the battle will rage.

They definitely have an advantage, though, and they know how to use it.  Look at this face. 

They’re adorable.  And they know it. 

when working with play make-up, you have to stop and wonder who exactly chooses the colors for eye shadow…the… http://fb.me/EHPskkfA

Recently a friend of mine posted something on facebook about her young daughter waltzing in with freshly painted fingernails, courtesy of her big brother.  This got me thinking about the joys of little girls and their natural inclination to be “accessorized”.  Nobody taught them to do it, no one whispered in their ears how lovely they would be if they enhanced their natural beauty with products.  They just do it.  It’s in their genetic make-up (no pun intended).

With three girls in this house, we have had more than our fair share of beauty sessions.  I love these!  Sponge curlers, play make-up (which you have to stop and wonder who exactly chooses the colors for eye shadow…the character played by Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman comes to mind), plastic high heels, Mardi Gras beads, giant feather boas, etc.  We’ve done it all many, many times. 

While I’m on the subject, let me explain what goes on when sponge curlers are used around here (which is pretty often).  My middle child begged and pleaded for them, so I searched Target (after being told by an employee that they didn’t have them) and happily purchased them for my sweet girl.  All smiles and hugs, we went thru the rest of the day in great anticipation of bath time and application of the fabulous multi-colored sponge curlers.  I tried to warn her that she would have to sleep in them overnight and that might not be so comfy, but she would not be deterred.  Onward we went. 

Of course she wanted to use only the smallest curlers on her long hair, so I painstakingly separated her hair into small sections, securing each curler carefully. 

“THESE ARE ITCHY!”  (at first I was slightly concerned that she had said something else)

“THEY’RE PULLING!” 

“WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO BE FINISHED?!” 

After no less than 20 minutes (this was my first time using them), 30 or so curlers had been secured in her hair and it was off to bed.  I tucked her in, mentioning anything and everything I could to distract her from the fact that her head was being cushioned on all sides by hard plastic.  Maybe she won’t notice, I thought.  This hope, about a child who notices when there’s a single drop of water on her toothpaste tube (which makes it unacceptable b/c her hands get wet), was a small one.  I thought there would be no way in you-know-where that she would tolerate this. 

And yet, amazingly enough, she not only happily laid down her head and ignored the awkward feeling of curlers, she slept all night without a peep.  Not even her recurring nightmares about spiders and Malificent (the bad guy in Sleeping Beauty) woke her that night.  I started to wonder if sponge curlers had some kind of toxic smell

causing her to sleep better than usual.

I woke the next morning with a bright-eyed, bushy-tailed 5-yr-old standing inches from my face, a big smile and a hairbrush greeting me.  6:30am.  This kid normally has to be dragged out of bed at 10am. 

We got to work.  Honestly, somebody should put a warning on these curlers that they will take you longer to remove than to put them in.  Luckily, it was a snow day and we had nowhere to be, so the tedious job of removing the curlers without pulling her hair could be done without rushing.

The desire for beauty comes at an early age in girls, folks.  Not even her big sister (and her own father) laughing when they saw her could deter her enthusiasm.  We used sponge curlers every night for the next week, experimenting with different sized curlers and tweaking this and that.  I suppose I should be thankful she doesn’t want to wallow in dirt like her baby sister, but this may be another area in our home where some moderation might be a good thing.  Until then, we will continue with the curlers and high heels and fake earrings and boas.  And I will try not to take it personally when she looks at me, almost disapprovingly, when I fail to live up to her levels of accessorizing (which is pretty much every day).

Little girls.  There’s nothin’ like ‘em.

It is a well kept secret that little girls have just as much affection for dirt as boys. http://mommymayhemblog.com

I am making a statement right here, right now. 

That thing everybody says about little girls being particular about staying clean and not enjoying good, old-fashioned dirt?  Totally untrue.  Not only is it untrue, it is, in fact, a gross misrepresentation of the female child. 

Or at least my female child.

Take, for example, exhibit A.  Last weekend I glanced out the storm door as I walked across the upstairs hallway and this is the scene I came upon:

So where’s Leighanne? Oh.. she’s outside in the dirt. [HD]

Most kids would dabble in the dirt.  Grab a couple handfuls, maybe.  Smear a little on their faces or clothing.  Dig around a little in search of worms or other such treasures. 

What does 2-yr-old Leighanne do?  Nothing short of completely toppling the (very heavy) flower pot/urn and dumping the contents in their entirety all over the sidewalk.  But is that where she stops?  No way.  She then proceeded to plop herself down in the middle of the dirt pile and shower herself with handfuls of the stuff while grinding it into her legs and bottom at the same time.  I was frankly quite shocked that she remained clothed.

Happy as a clam.

Examine, if you will, exhibit B.

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This video was taken at the Botanical Gardens.  Their children’s area is pretty amazing, full of all sorts of interesting things such as wishing wells, bamboo mazes, and oversized chairs. 

What does my child opt for? 

Dirt angels. 

The sweet little boy with us that day had barely a grain of sand/dirt on him.  He kind of watched, dumbfounded, as this Einstein-haired little tornado of a girl happily cackled as her arms and legs flailed in the dirt, her wet bathing suit acting as virtual velcro to the dirt.  I literally could not brush all the sand and dirt off her body when she was finished.  Suddenly the cold water she had previously played in for the last 45 minutes was much too cold to tolerate when I tried to use it to rinse her off.  I lost that battle.  She rode home in her carseat, naked, still pretty much covered in a thick film of dirt from head to toe. 

Which, if you know anything about Leighanne and her unreasonable hatred of clothing of any kind, was probably her master plan from the very beginning.  In fact, as I type this, a lightbulb moment is going on for me of all the times something very similar to this has happened, resulting in nudity. 

And this love of dirt seems to run in the family.  Observe exhibit C, taken about three years ago when Lauren was two. 

I’d put my girls up against just about any little boy out there.  They could take him.  It is a well kept secret that little girls have just as much affection for dirt as boys.  Don’t believe me?  Come over later as I literally vacuum the dirt out of Leighanne’s bed.      

The stuffed animals seem to have mated and multiplied, and cover most of the entire floor. http://fb.me/NqdfpDiI

Anyone who has ever been in the military, or known someone going thru basic training, or even just watched a movie about military life knows it’s not easy.  “Challenging” doesn’t begin to describe the rigorous physical and mental demands placed on soldiers in training and soldiers out on the field.  All branches of the military push their members to their absolute limit, and then some.  Many would-be soldiers can’t take it and abandon their dream of serving their country in this capacity.

Something occurred to me the other day.  Part of military life is sleeping in the barracks, often times on BUNK BEDS.  I am absolutely convinced that they use bunk beds for a very specific reason: to weed out the weak and plant such amazing discipline and physical dexterity in their soldiers that they’ll be prepared for anything.  

Somewhere along the line, some furniture designing genius decided that bunk beds could be used in the civilian home as well.  The physical demands and discipline they provide, however, are not for the little people who actually sleep in them.  Oh no.  The purpose of bunk beds is to train mothers everywhere in flexibility, muscle toning, and practices in self-control.  

The most dreaded day for me occurs every other Monday morning:  

Sheet changing for those darn bunk beds.  Those instruments of agony.  Those tools of the devil.  

Picture with me, if you will, the process of removing the sheets.  I am 5’10” and have always enjoyed my height.  However, when dealing with bunk beds, being vertically challenged would be of great benefit.  I cannot tell you how many times I have about knocked myself out by hitting the back of my head on the top bunk frame as I tug and pull at the sheets on the bottom bunk.  This brain damage has also occurred many times during the sweet last moments of the day when I’m tucking in my offspring and lovingly kissing their sweet cherub faces.  “Good night, baby.  Mommy loves you and wishes you the sweetest dreams filled with lambs and bunnies…”  WONK.  THUD.  Double vision and disbelief that I forgot AGAIN to duck as I back out from under the range of the top bunk.  Suddenly the sweetest moment of the day has turned into one that makes me swallow words I shouldn’t say and makes me practice self-control by not throwing a tantrum right there.  

And that’s just the bottom bunk, folks.  That’s the easy part.

Next, I must climb the ladder to the infamous top bunk.  I proceed to clear the bed of an indecent amount of stuffed animals ranging from rats (her current favorite) to puppies to unidentified creatures of all sorts.  Pillows and toys and library books go flying thru the air as I toss them onto the ground.  I take a deep breath and meet the challenge of removing the fitted sheet head on.  I grab the corner and pull with all my might, nearly toppling over the rail myself to meet an unpleasant death at the bottom with all those stuffed animals.  Finally, all four corners are loose and I plunk back down the ladder.

I spend the next hour and a half summoning the courage and dexterity necessary for the most strenuous part of the challenge: putting the clean sheets back on the beds.  I turn on the Rocky theme song as I walk into the room, my arms full of sheets and bedding.  The bunk beds seem to laugh at me, mocking my feeble efforts to subdue them.  I do a little stretching, a little praying, and dive in.  

The bottom bunk goes reasonably well.  A lot of bending over and watching constantly for that tricky top bed frame that seems to get lower every time I have to do this.  I finish the job, unscathed and feeling empowered.

Next, the top bunk.  The ladder seems to have gotten taller and steeper than I remember.  I push on, though, dragging the sheets up with me.  Here’s the tricky part: I must pull each corner of the mattress up while at the same time stuffing the fitted sheet under it.  My biceps ache.  My back aches.  My endurance is waning.  Finally, I give a final heave and pull the last remaining corner snugly over the mattress corner.  

Now, I must demonstrate my flexibility.  Unless I want to climb the ladder five more times, I must stretch to reach the remaining sheets, blanket, and quilt waiting on the bottom bunk.  I somewhat resemble a trapeze artist, virtually suspended in midair while my feet hang onto the top rail.  I manage to drag everything up with me and then crawl back and forth from one end of the mattress to the other, tucking and pulling and straightening for all I’m worth.  It occurs to me that I must look a little like our puppy when he is pacing back and forth, searching for a good place to use the bathroom (which is usually on my new carpet).

I descend the ladder.  The stuffed animals seem to have mated and multiplied, and cover most of the entire floor.  Two by two I carry them up along with pillows and shams and arrange them neatly on the bed.  

By the time I am finished, I am too tired to declare victory.  I reach for the finishing touch, my daughter’s well-loved blanket that lays across the bottom of her bed.  I lovingly place it right where she likes it, taking care that her monogrammed name is perfectly positioned.  I exhale.  I have done it.  

And just as I stand up,  WONK.  THUD.  A last departing blow from the top bunk.  Mommy: zero.  Bunk beds: 1,724

I will spend the remaining 14 days preparing for our next scheduled encounter.  Sometimes I look at the military longingly.  What a piece of cake.