Been There Done That

Some things in life should never be repeated.

For example: popular songs artists have done remakes of by previously recorded artists. Take for instance the group, Heart. To remake their songs—in my opinion—is a crime. Or, take bubblegum ice cream. (For me, it’s as bad as making tuna fish ice cream.) I don’t care if the bubblegum ice cream is blue, pink, purple, or shades of neon peanut butter, that flavor does not need to be repeated; what it needs is to REST IN PEACE.


Another fine example is: The ‘Land Before Time’ videos 2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11…12…and…
You know what? I’ve lost count. How many are there?

I was “boredly” shocked to discover--
(*insert clarification*) boredly is a fine-tuned Camryn-ism word. Definition:
/’bor/ Boredly; bor.ing: meaning extremely dull. Use of the word is to take the place of the word “Bored” to create a more exaggerated image and disgraces the memory of Merriam Webster.

NOTE: Do not use it in your future vocabulary. People will either A: stare at you. B: roll their eyes. C: snicker behind your back. Or... they may pelt your head with a brick when your back is turned…which is far worse…in my opinion.


So, continuing on, in The Land Before Time “one trillion” sequels later, I was “BOREDLY” shocked to discover that Spike—the big homeless dinosaur they picked up along their journey to find the Great Land in the 1st movie—still cannot speak.
I think in the last movie (21st sequel…?) Spike actually makes a moaning sound (Don’t correct me if I’m wrong, because I really don’t care) but all the dinosaurs run around in glee because Spike finally attempted to say something.
The dumb dinosaur hasn’t spoken before, why now? He probably just burped or something! Who gets that excited when someone passes gas?
Alright—the Land Before Time had it’s day in the sun. WE GET IT ALREADY!! The fat lady has sung! Just kill her off! End our misery!!!


Now all these references to ‘repeats’ has a purpose of why I mentioned them in the first place. Last week’s blog article about the Vaseline episode by itself should have been enough, but unfortunately…it did not end there.
The VERY next day, my potty-training--now Vaseline slimed--3 year old changed her own diaper after her nap. What a good girl, you might think…..

“Mommy, I had a sore bum.”
“Your bum is on the other end,” I say in a deadpan voice, staring at the now empty container of baby powder in her hands.
She giggles and laughs. “Yep!”

?

Clothed in her new ‘Casper the Friendly Ghost’ getup, I reach down to pick her up to take her to the tub. Because she has dumped so much powder on herself, when I lift her up-- she puffs smoke. She’s like my own personal human “choo choo” train. You can squeeze her and she can toot her own horn--and yes, she blows ‘smoke’ from both ends ;)

I attempt to wash her really well in the tub. At least I try. The powder rinses off easily, but the Vaseline still bubbles up and water rolls off her skin in thick drops as if I had just waxed my car. *Growl*

I need therapy (she probably does too) but I don’t share my chocolates. Plus, I don’t think giving her chocolate would solve her latest obsession of covering her body with household products.

As I enjoy my chocolate, ignoring the sound of my hips groaning in a chorus of bulging protest, feeling my jeans pop out another crease like bubble wrap, I gleefully devour the Andes mints my husband bought for me—for days specifically like this. Chocolate therapy demands attention and I obey like a hypnotized hippo, scarfing down the bag like a menopausal St. Bernard.

On days like this, I’m never stable.
My family has learned to give me clearance of at least 15 feet.

5 blessed days pass. Sunday rolls around. Our family is getting into the car for church when I notice that the 3 year old is missing. Everyone is in the car waiting and groaning as I begin the search.
I am SoOoOo fortunate I don’t have to look far. My daughter was born with an internal tracking devise and I follow the sound of her giggles coming from the panty.

The pantry is dark, but as I fling open the door, sunlight from the kitchen window glitters off her pearly-white little tushie as she stands there in front of the pantry cupboards StaRk naked. Her Sunday dress is in a heap on the floor. Her arms are spread out as she licks her wrists as if she is a life-sized lollipop.


I am (again) in a state of shock. I can’t react. My mouth is frozen in the shape of an ’O’ and about the size of a donut. I simply stare at the toddler who had been dressed and ready to walk out the door 5 minutes earlier. Now she is licking herself. In the pantry. Naked.

“Hey mommy!” she gushes happily, beaming the widest grin I had ever seen on her mischievous face.
I’m a little more reserved. “Uh sweetie……what are you doing?”
“Eating!”

Has she taken up cannibalism?
“What are you eating?”
She takes a huge giraffe lick up her forearm and I blanch as she replies, “Honey!”

Sure enough. Why couldn’t I see the plastic teddy bear clutched in her other hand? She has clasped the thing so tightly--squeezing every ounce out of the new jar of honey--she suffocated that poor plastic bear. The Winnie the Pooh bear’s face is mutilated, its eyes jammed inward and its cheeks distended as though bloated and suffering from a severe case of mumps. She has squeezed the poor wretched bottle to the depths of emptiness and coated her entire body with honey like a second skin.

You thought I was kidding, huh?

She happily slurps the goo oozing down her wrists, constantly repeating and singing in concentration, “Yummy, yummy, yummy,” SLURP, “yummy, yummy, yum…mee..yum…yum…”
Great. I now have a walking 3 foot 3-year-old dripping with honey from every extremity like a melting ice cream cone. And her flavor? Honey BBQ chicken.

Another mess, another headache, another bath.

Forget the wailing protest of my buttocks as I walk in the opposite direction of the bathtub and head straight for the cupboard where I stash the chocolate. My jeans may be singing the tune of the Death March, but I ain’t listenin! I need more chocolate!!