Circus Christmas

Because we've spent the last couple of years in Phoenix for Christmas, I haven't really decorated the house for the holidays since Kate was 3. Pathetic, I realize, and now that I do some calculating, I guess if Kate was 3 the last time I decorated, then Kiki wasn't born, which is extra pathetic. We are home this year, and I was ready to drag out all of my gear to get this place gussied up. In the past, I've done everything gold and silver, with little hints of red. My house is decorated with a lot of red anyway and so Christmas decor just makes home so festive. This year I decided that I would really jazz things up by adding some little hints of light green, so a trip to the store was necessary. I took the girls, and they (especially Kate) were very excited to help me pick out some decorations.

We roamed the aisles looking for something that would be just right. I kept trying to steer Kate in the direction I was hoping for, but her eye was caught by this giant set of ornaments that looked like it had fallen off of the back of a train destined for Ringling Brothers. Purple, turquoise, hot pink, red, and, yes, light green. I (shameful admission) tried to talk her out of loving them. And then I thought to myself, "She is SIX. You are....not six. Give her the Christmas she wants." We bought purple and pink ribbon, hot pink beads, a bright green tree skirt, and a hideous, truly hideous, angel. Kate was thrilled. I have let go of my visions of a Christmas destined for the pages of a magazine, and have embraced the vision of a child who still feels the magic, who can't wait for Santa, who BELIEVES. And if this is what that looks like, then all the better.

I caved on another matter, this one in regards to Kiki.

My frustration has been building about her refusal to potty train, and I finally gave in and bought her a little potty. I hate those things. What could be grosser for a parent than to have your child void their bowels into a CONTAINER that you then have to empty and clean? Not much, I say. Kiki's looming third birthday and Pull-up attachment has made me paranoid that I will be "that lady" whose kid can't go to preschool because they are still wearing diapers. Hence, the "poo bowl." That's what it is. I don't want to call it a potty, because that is all cute sounding and causes one to disregard what is actually going on here.

Well, Kiki totally digs it.

After all, what could be more awesome than having yourself a good BM while watching TV? Frankly, I did not realize that Kiki would consider that the prime advantage of this apparatus would be its PORTABILITY. So now, not only do I have a poo-bowl in the house, I have a TRAVELING poo-bowl. Kate came running out (carrying the potty) to show Bruce a favorable result, "Kiki peed, Kiki peed..." tripped, and looked at the kitchen floor and said, "...and...there it is."

Poo-bowl + carpet= OCD nightmare

P.S. Kiki disappeared and fell silent tonight while I was cooking dinner. When I hollered from the kitchen and asked her what she was doing and she said, "Nothing!" I knew I was completely screwed.

An entire tube of sunscreen was massaged into her, the sink, and the mirror.
Like the decal over the sink? It's the only thing that stopped me from beating her like a red-headed stepchild.

Not repentant.

One more Kiki tale- We were all watching the UFC last night (for the unindoctrinated, it's grown men purposely beating each other) and she turned to me and said, "I don't want to be on TV!"