The bright point of my day -- the cream in my Tastykake -- was a quick knitting meet-up with Liz. I've grown extremely fond of Liz in a short time and she's a kick-ass knitter, too. We met and had hot beverages and knit and kibbitzed. Liz is helping me out by test-knitting a pattern that has been through multiple revisions but it's such a cool pattern I think it's worth it. Here's a quick peek at what she did:
Our knitting time was all too short. After I picked up the twins from preschool, and my mother called to tell me she wasn't going to come tomorrow because
It was, in fact, a tantric tantrum.
Now rest assured that G. had a perfectly good reason for her snit. Something about her coloring book not being right. I won't bore you with the details of the screaming, the threats, the thrashing, the rending of garments (or the stuff that G. did). Suffice it to say that it was ugly. In the midst of the fury, G. starts grabbing her crotch. Her not being a pop star, I realize this suggests she needs the bathroom and I ask her if she needs to go to the toilet. She says no. I even take her to the bathroom, but she's kicking and screaming and I'm afraid
She comes to find me about fifteen minutes later. (I was locked in my bedroom with my hands over my ears, humming "The Star Spangled Banner" while shouting "I'M NOT LISTENING!")
Dear readers, she had urinated on the floor.
Yep, she had showed me that... um, she wasn't gonna take no orders from no honky bitch about where to ... um, well, I'm sure she showed me something. Please excuse me while I go try to figure out what it was.*
*When daddy came home, she immediately sauntered up to him and asked for all her treasured princess-iana that I had confiscated on the theory that any kid who pisses on the bathroom floor doesn't get to play with cool sparkly shit. Tom asks her why the stuff got taken away, and she puts on an Oscar-winning display of insouciance and ignorance, while managing to suggest by the set of her eyes that it was because Mommy's Paxil needs upping. "Were you acting like a brat?" Daddy guesses. "SHE PISSED ON THE FLOOR!" I shout. My husband, nicknamed (more or less affectionately, depending on the mood I'm in) Clean Boy, has a single reaction: "Oh God, where?!"