· I turned 32. We marked the occasion with a trip to “The Lion King.” R loved it, which was great, but really, the excitement she had leading up to the show was birthday gift enough for me. She was literally running in circles around the lobby at the Murat.
· We dropped nearly a grand on repairs for Dave’s car. Always fun, especially during the holidays!
· R pushed a little girl down as I was chatting with her mother at day care. The moms already don’t like me, and the one who is occasionally nice to me… I was at a loss. The following day, I picked her up at day care and her teacher told me she had punched a little boy in the mouth. I looked at the poor little boy and his lip was fat and accessorized with dried blood. NICE.
· The following Monday when she went to day care, we went over the rules: “R, you’re not going to hit J or anyone else, right?” To which she replied: “As long as they don’t hit my baby doll.” Apparently that was the deed that earned poor J a knuckle sandwich. Sigh.
· I took R up to my Mom’s for Thanksgiving, which made me very nervous because of the big-girl panty thing. But she sweetly asked when she had to go and I willingly pulled over at a rest area, a McDonald’s, what have you. We ate dinner at my step sisters (pictures here).
· We stopped to see both sets of my grandparents in a tiny north-central Illinois town. It was a good visit, R can be quite charming if she puts her mind to it. She blew kisses and played peek-a-boo like a pro.
· R asks to open her Christmas presents approximately 1,456,789,257 times a day, to the point where Sunday evening I spent half an hour making and putting together a green and red construction paper chain, from which she removes a link each night. And asks if she can open her Christmas presents.
· Dave and R have turned up ill. Last time this happened, I crowed about my superior immune system and my “awesome mom-ness” making me impervious to germs. I was stricken hours later.
· I have cleaned poop out of R’s underwear at least 6 times. Things were going well! I swear!
· R is in a stage that makes me want to strangle her. If you have to clean her up after the fifth pants-pooping of the day, she screams as though you were wiping her butt with a razor blade. She acts as though you used acid, not shampoo, to wash her hair. If she doesn’t get what she wants when she wants it and how she wants it, a tantrum ensues. She sat on the bottom step in time out for nearly an hour because she refused to take her medicine on Sunday. This morning, she wouldn’t eat anything Dave offered her for breakfast and then refused to put on her shoes and coat when it was time to go. Good times.