Last night at bedtime Miss A was clutching a costume jewelry pearl necklace and of course refused to hand it over. Being a mother of weak fortitude and one that would probably let her kids sleep with a pet monkey if it meant they would sleep soundly all night, I shrugged it off and told her I’d be right back. I had a nagging feeling about her holding the necklace as I’d seen her put it in her mouth, but I went down the hall to check on Miss C.

“Right back” turned into about 5 minutes and of course my wild girl was awake and out of bed when I opened her bedroom door. She scampered across the room and scrambled on to her bed, an impish grin plastered on her face, and I saw she was still gripping the necklace, only I could tell it was broken and some of the fake pearls had spilled on her rug.

Day-um.

“Miss A, you didn’t eat one of those beads did you?”

“Um…yes.”

“How many did you eat?”

“Um, one, two, three, four!” She wiggles her fingers as she counts aloud, clearly amused with herself.

The inquisition begins.

“Are you kidding mommy? How many did you eat? One…two?” My voice reaches a new level of pitch with each question.

“Yes. One! Two! Three! Four!”

Miss A responds with pride as if she’s just eaten brussels sprouts.

I assume she was just feeding off of what I was asking, but I don’t doubt that she swallowed at least one pearl.

I gave her a stern talk about not putting things in her mouth because she could choke.

“I could CHOKE?”

“Yes baby. You could choke and DIE.”

Her eyes got big as saucers.

Hey, you don’t mess around when it comes to ingesting foreign objects. I’ve never had to perform the Heimlich and I don’t want to start with my own children.

Then I feel bad and soften it with, “Oh but you’re just fine. You’re just fine. It’s in your tummy and you’re going to poop it out. But it might hurt.”

Her eyes grow wide again.

OK, so I am a sadist. I don’t want this to happen again. I mean business!

“Oh, it will be fine. Just fine. Just don’t EVER do that again. We only eat food, OK?”

“OK…not gum?”

“No, just food.”

I spoke to the nurse at our pediatrician’s office and we’ve launched Operation Poop the Pearl. She laughed and assured me that kids eat weird things all the time.

But Southern ladies in training should wear their pearls, not eat them.

Miss C: I’m Daisy!

Miss A: I’m Minnie!

Who’s mommy?

Miss C: Goofy!

——————-

A commercial for a wrinkle cream, one of those miraculous before and after results types, comes on TV.

Miss C: “Mommy you need that!”

I do? Where do I have wrinkles?

Miss C: All over!

——————-

Finally, if you’re needing a Baptism by fire experience in humbling, just take your 5-year-old daughter with you to try on bathing suits. You’ll both end up either laughing or crying (either way, tears will be shed.)

It’s official. My boobs have fallen and they can’t get up.

I also don’t recommend choosing the dressing room next to the 90 pound tan teenage girl because you’ll be tempted to crawl under the dividing wall and strangle her when she talks about something not fitting right. I really think effective birth control for teenage girls would be to have them watch moms trying on bathing suits via hidden camera. That would pretty much stave off the desire to have sex or eat for a while.

He was eerily still.

I peered into the bowl and I knew.

“Mommy what’s wrong with Blue Red?” Miss C walked over and stood beside me.

“Uh, I think he’s just sleeping…oh. I think Blue Red is really ASLEEP. He’s not moving.” (Emphasis on “asleep,” which was code for hubby: “Blue Red is dead. I need some parental backup!”)

Miss C lost her Betta fish Monday night. She had had him for nearly three years, which in fish years seems to be fairly antiquated.

She wanted to bury him with a blue dolphin flashing light we got at the circus a few years ago, but we talked her into laying him to rest with some of his plastic plants from his fish bowl. We’re going to have a burial later today and although our neighbor’s daughter seems keen on attending, I asked that she respect our decision to have a private funeral. Blue Red would want it that way. He is now floating in state in a plastic dollar store cup up on the mantel.

Blue Red was part of the grand big girl room and big girl bed unveiling three summers ago. Miss A was just a few months old and we had Miss C moved out of the crib and nursery. A fish seemed to be the perfect accessory to her new bedroom and the hubby took her out shopping for a friend with fins.

I know Miss C is handling this well because one of the first things she asked after we confirmed Blue Red’s death was, “Can I get a new fish?”

Being a typical girl and Type A planner like her mama, she already has the details mapped out. The new fish shall be a girl, it shall be red, and it shall be named Violet. Considering Blue Red was blue and black, this makes perfect sense to me.

We’re going to wait until the weekend to pick out a new fish, though. It’s only right that we honor Blue Red’s memory for a few days.

Yo VIP let’s kick it

Strep, strep baby

Strep, strep baby

All right stop, collaborate and listen
Strep is back mama’s gonna start bitchin’

Sore throat grabs a hold of Miss C tightly
Keepin’ her cranky daily and nightly
Will it ever stop? Yo I don’t know
Head down to Walgreens, yeah like a pro

Strep strep baby
Strep strep my poor baby

Guess who heard Vanilla Ice on the way home from the pediatrician’s this morning and cranked it for Miss C? (Oh and for me, I’ll admit that I am a total sucker for old school dance music. Yeah I am that mom at the red light.) That song conjures up images of a particular well-gelled dark haired guy I dated in college who would crank that song, much to my amusement and mortification, while he peeled out in his sports car. I was more into INXS and U2 and Depeche Mode at the time. I dated the guy for a few weeks until he told me one Friday night a woeful tale of not having enough money to take me out to dinner, but invited me over to watch a movie at his apartment and then proceeded to show me the new cologne and shirt he’d just purchased at the mall.

So apparently it is very common for kids Miss C’s age to get back-to-back strep. Who knew? All you wise mamas out there, and the elementary school secretary and my neighbor and my mother and…well you all knew and you told me so. I had a gut feeling, too, that we were dealing with strep again. I’m going to have to toss the cute Hello Kitty battery-powered toothbrush I bought the last time we went through this. That’s what I get for investing actual money in a toothbrush and not just using the dentist freebies.

Miss C’s on a new 10-day round of antibiotics, and not as feverish or quite as “sick” this time, but she’ll have to miss her first spring soccer game of the season tomorrow morning. She has a group photo at 8:30, though, so I’m going to drive her down to the field so she can at least take part in that. A girl’s gotta keep up appearances, you know.

Mommy, I want Diego! I want watch Diego! I want watch Diego and the baby mocheeeeeyu.

What baby? Diego and the baby jaguar?

Nooooo! Baby mocheeeeyu! Baby mocheeeeyu!

How ’bout Diego and the chinchilla?

Noooo mommy! I watch Diego and baby mocheeeeeyuuuuuuuuuuuu!

OK, here’s Diego rescues the cuckoo bird. It’s good. It’s SOOOOO GOOOOOOOOOOOD!

It just dawned on me I have not been out of the house since Thursday. Miss A has been sick all weekend. I have PMS. I am willingly going to WalMart this afternoon just to get out of the house since Miss C needs 21 plastic Easter eggs filled with candy by Tuesday.

If the Easter candy doesn’t make it out of my car, you’ll know why.

Because I know everyone is on the edge of their seats, here is my woeful tale of influenza. I did test positive for the flu, like so many people out there. Apparently there is a nifty nasal swab test wherein the nurse takes the world’s longest q-tip and sticks it up your nose. This also confirmed to me that I’m in the right career. For the most part as an editor I work happily alone in my little office at work or at home, I deal with words, and not many clients, and no one needs me to shove a q-tip up their nostril.

I got a prescription for Tamiflu and when I started taking it Monday I felt sort of OK, but on Tuesday I felt absolutely horrible: Bubonic Plague on a cracker horrible, crying jag and wishing I could just sleep for 36 hours straight horrible. I could barely get out of bed. And then at some point Tuesday night I had a cathartic come to Jesus sweatathon and lost about 5 pounds in sweat through my scalp and back, which is also the exact bulk amount of Girl Scout thin mint cookies I’d eaten over the last few weeks so it all evened out and I didn’t even have to go to the gym.

Walgreens conveniently had a sale on Lysol Wipes and I have cleaned every inanimate object in this house and in my purse. Seriously, when was the last time you sterilized your cell phone or your car lock clicker? Made you think, didn’t I? So far the girls are just fine, and as I type this I am washing sheets and towels in hot water and with a good dousing of color safe bleach…again. Hubby tested negative for flu but is battling his own ear and sinus crud.

As far as the timing of all of this, I just sent four large transcripts to a client last Friday for review and this week was a slow period for me at the office. It was as if karma conceded, “OK, now would be a convenient time for you to fall apart.” I’m a planner, even when I don’t intend to be.

I’m sure you can’t tell, but I’m also one of those annoying people who finds humor in just about anything and as I was slumped down in my chair in the waiting area at the doctor’s Monday, flipping through a surprisingly current magazine, I glanced around at the other patients. To the left was an elderly woman with a walker. To the right was an elderly woman in a wheelchair, with no legs. That’s right. No legs. Seriously, it was as if God was saying, “You think you’ve got it bad? At least you’re young AND you’ve got legs.”

Taking a little blog break until later this week.