Make the World Go Away

I remember naps. They're those leisurely afternoon lay-me-downs I used to indulge in before I became a mom. God, I miss them.

I still get weekend naps since Ainsley still naps. I am very grateful for this and will mourn her naps when she outgrows them. But I really miss the after-school nap. You know, the turn-the-world-off-and-pretend-this-day-didn't-happen nap. Those used to be my saving grace; when I had had a particularly rough day, or when I was coming down with something, they allowed me the peace and quiet I needed to reset myself. But, in mommy-dom, they don't exist.

Friday I REALLY needed one. I had fought a migraine all day, and though Excedrin was keeping it at bay, I can't ever really get rid of a migraine unless I close my eyes for a little bit (thank goodness I only get one a month.) It was also one of those cold, gray days that are best spent under a blanket. I picked Ainsley up from preschool and told her how tired mommy was.

"Why don't you show me a movie and I'll be quiet and you can sleep on the couch?" she offered.

Why, Ains, what a great idea! Oh, how tempting. What's a guilt-ridden working mom to do? Let the TV babysit while you indulge in a luxury, or do the right thing and entertain the preschooler, headache be darned?

Temptation won. Ainsley picked The Little Mermaid, and I dozed for an hour. At one point I felt like I was being watched and I opened my eyes to see Ainsley standing right over top of me, needing to ask me a question. But other than that, it was a good deal. And I have promised myself to only do this in times of migraine duress.

But it was a reminder of those days when I was free to crash on a regular basis, without having to clear it with anyone half my height or employ a Disney princess. If you are among the napping class, exercise that freedom now. Enjoy it. Savor each couch coma as if it were your last. Seize the day, friends. Take a nap.

Things That Go "Yak" In the Night

"Ainsley threw up in her bed."

Nothing will rouse you from a NyQuil-induced slumber like hearing your kid has thrown up. I went from comatose to high alert in .5 seconds and found myself cleaning up one of the worst messes I've ever seen.

Ains doesn't tell us when she throws up at night. We always just have to...discover it. From the looks of it, she had actually fallen back asleep in her own vomit last night. If Jason hadn't checked on her at midnight, she probably would have wallowed in it all night long. She looked rather Reagan-from-the-Exorcist-ish.

Even if Jason hadn't told me already that he took her to McDonald's for dinner while I went to three after-school meetings yesterday, I would have been able to guess. I won't be able to even smell McDonald's french fries for a while.

We popped her in the bathtub and rinsed french-fry chunks out of her covers and off of her favorite stuffed animal (poor Lumpy) and got her into our bed. Jason slept on the couch so that he could go to work today and I took up the "puke watch." She got up a few times and coughed and seemed like she was going to hurl again, but by dawn we had both settled in to sleep and the worst was over.

What really amazes me is that I didn't gag, not even once. I have a rather, shall we say, sensitive gag reflex (some would say a weak stomach, but since I rarely actually throw up, I take offense at that accusation) and once I get good and grossed out there's no stopping me. Show me some bodily fluids and watch me walk around randomly heaving for hours like a cat working up a fur ball. I'm well-known in my circle of friends for this trait, and once in middle school, just for kicks and giggles, a classmate passed me a "note" that was really a loogy folded up in a piece of notebook paper. I started gagging, and since I'm not really quiet about it, got the whole class's attention. Which is just what every insecure middle-school girl wants to do.

But I held it together even as I rinsed recognizable bits into the utlity sink and worked shampoo into vomit-tangles. I've used approximately 5 gallons of Lysol and an entire cannister of disinfecting wipes, as well as done 3 loads of laundry, but I think the worst of it is over and all of the nastiness is now just a memory. At least, until I catch the stomach virus and find myself prostrate before the procelain throne at 3am, praying for death.

Out of the Mouth of Ains

Being constantly amazed by the wisdom my four-year-old spouts, I will occasionally be posting the cutest or most profound things the little darling has said that week. We've got two good ones today.

Last weekend I baked brownies. No biggie, just the ones from a box. We let Ainsley have one as an after-lunch treat Saturday.

"Are these from scratch?" she asked.

I was a little taken aback. With me as a mom (the Doughboy is my best friend), wherever has she learned what "from scratch" means?

"No, honey, they're not."

"Are they from rub?"

Think about it for a minute.

The second highlight is a little more heartbreaking. Jason was playing with her last night when she asked,

"If I'm good, will you be with me forever?"

Jason told her he would be with her for a long time, but that he couldn't be with her forever.

"Will you get old and go to heaven?"

"Yes," Jason told her, "just like your Papaw did."

"I'll miss you a lot when you go."

Gah!

She must have picked up on the sadness in the room.

"OK," she said. "Let's go listen to ballerina music and be happy."

Save a Horse....

We librarians are generally opposed to censorship. We believe in the freedom of expression and the right to read others' ideas. However, I found myself desperately wishing I could censor a window sticker I was forced to read the entire length of Richardson Road last night.

I was behind a pickup truck with two window stickers. The one on the left said, "Save a Horse/Ride a Cowboy." Yes, yes, how clever. I see what you're doing there with that naughty innuendo. Subtle. (Around the time this song came out I decided I was over country music for a while.) Then there was the one on the right: "Be a Flirt/Raise Your Skirt." Say whaaaaa?

Since when is it appropriate for a grown man (or, a male over the age of 16, presumably) to basically say, "Show me your female parts"? In public? In front of young girls? My daugther is only 4 and can't read yet, but when she can read, I know a sticker like that is going to get some questions. And while I am far from being a prude, I don't think this is something I want her to be exposed to. I know she will be eventually; after all, we will want her to go away to college. But still. "Raise Your Skirt." Please.

I seethed the whole way home. I started picturing this individual whose freely expressed sentiment offended me so as one of those hypocrites who thinks the Harry Potter books should be banned from school libraries. Then I hated myself for being stereotypical. Then I laughed at my husband for asking me if I would be offended if the sticker said, "Show Me Your Cooter."

Of course not. We all know that the cooter is a small river animal that even has its own festival.