My husband and I both have very dark hair, and as you’ve seen, our daughter has brilliant red locks. For some reason, the following visible equation has always been a difficult concept for many:
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Some of you with twins have posted about all of the insane things you get asked, and I thought I should share with you some of the crazy things I get asked as a brunette with a redheaded daughter.

One question we usually get asked is, “how did she get red hair?” And well, obviously, it just grew right out of her head. She got it the same way that all of the rest of us got our hair. It just sprung right out. Granted it was about two years before she got hair, but it grew just like anyone elses. I’m not sure if they want me to explain the genetics of it or what?

Next, we are generally questions about red hair in our families. And yes, we both have several redheaded relatives.

Then, some jokester always throws in the redheaded milk/mailman joke. Truth be told, our mail person really does have red hair. But she’s a a lady, and not a gentleman. So unless my husband was rendez-vousing with her and somehow managed to secretly implant the resulting zygote into my uterus–then no, that isn’t how it happened.

The worst encounter like this of all of them is when some wise guy looks Adam and says, “you sure she’s yours?” And the proceeds to wink in the most obnoxiously way possible. ugh. The wink is way creepier than the joking implication of her paternity.

(Winkers gross me out, which is another post entirely.)

Finally, the best answer to the posed question is the one Allie gives people. When people ask her where she got her red hair, she answers by simply telling them, “Kroger”.

Do you get any annoying questions about your child? Or yourself?

Before Allie’s birthday party began yesterday, she was feeling slightly under the weather. It wasn’t the sort of under the weather you would halt a party for, but it seemed more like the beginnings of another illness.

So the party began. Guests were eating, children were playing, 80’s Lady was outside chain smoking Marlboro Reds, and the table was covered with gifts (*cough* *snort* *cough*).

Then, I noticed that Allie had decided to sit down on the couch. This is the part where I tell you that Allie NEVER sits; particularly, when in the company of masses of rambunctious children. She is all about running around like that she has a 24 hour caffeine IV stuck in her arm.

So I approached Allie to see why she was sitting, because natural phenomenons such as this should be asked about. My questions were answered with,

*grunt*

” I can’t breeve right now. It hurts so bad.”

*more grunting to breathe*

We sat for a while, because I was under the seemingly false impression that perhaps her slight illness was aggravated by all of the running and playing, and probably, she just needed to rest for a while. So she rested. But after a while, she was still only going downhill-rapidly.So the pediatrician was called, and he insisted she be taken to the ER.

And off we went. The trip to hell adventure began.

Thankfully, our doctor had called the ER, and we were ushered to the back as soon as we got there. I was very grateful, because I doubt Allie would have appreciated being whisked off from her third birthday party to hang out with the six crackheads sitting in the white walled/tiled waiting room that stunk of hospital, and held silence filled with the consistent hum of the vending machines.

When Allie awoke from her sick-nap, she looked up at me and wimpered, “where–are–we? are we lost?? where’s my party?” followed by more grunting to breathe.

She cried for a while, and I cried for a while. Because hey, who wants to be at the hospital on their birthday? Let alone their third birthday? And hearing her whimper in between grunts about how she wanted a piece of birthday cake was terribly sad.

As a favor to you, I won’t go into detail about encountering the national winner of the world’s most hostile nurse award, the blood drawing, or convincing a three year old that sometimes peeing in a cup is totally logical.

“come on allie, just pee in the cup.”

“you can’t pee in a cup! you have to pee in the toilet bowl!!”

“please, just pee in the cup.”

“NO! YOU ARE NOT APPOSED TO!” (apposed=supposed.)

I couldn’t argue with her, because we both knew that she was right, though she did eventually pee in the cup. I can’t remember how expensive my bribing techniques became, but I’m not above bribery when healthy is involved.

After a few breathing treatments and a bundle of prescriptions, we were dismissed.

Then, what should have been a glorious release was marred a bit after Adam went to get the car, and it refused to start. Someone who is not familiar with driving my car, I won’t mention Adam’s name, had accidentally turned the lights off of the automatic setting and onto a setting that I will call ‘on constantly’ since I have no idea what it’s real name is.Anyway, blame placement was not the problem here, but the additional time at the hospital on Allie’s third birthday was.

I don’t have a nice ending to tie this all together, because I am still tired. But know that we did eventually make it home, where we all crawled into bed and called it a night.

Allie ran into my arms earlier with her red hair falling out of the lopsided ponytail I instituted before a trip to the park. She was educating me for the fifty-bajillionth (that is so a real number) time about the fact that “Hannah Montana is MILEY SIREN!”. The whole time I was thinking about the fact that while saying Siren instead of Cyrus is hilarious, the world needs to stop in its tracks– because my baby is three today.

Three years old.

One, two three. Uno, dos, tres. Une, deux, trois. Count it in whichever way makes you feel the most comfortable.

I’m still in disbelief. And it’s still three.

And just–wow.

I’d like to say that most days I feel as if I’m on top of this mom gig, like that I have it down pat and I am ready to roll in all situations. But it’s not true. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that there are some times when I look all around the house for that parenting guide that should be individually specified and included with all babies. Well, I looked, and it’s not in the cabinets or under the couch? It wasn’t in her bassinet, and it didn’t burst out of my party barn when she came squealing into this world. Mine must’ve not arrived. Did you get a parenting guide? Because sometimes I feel like I’m playing catch up.

Most days with Allie are akin to being accompanied by a giant ray of sunshine. Don’t get me wrong–there are days when it’s like I have a lightening bolt poking at my shoulder. But on the sunny, more frequent days, she’s just there being as bright and shiny as possible, lighting up the room with her random quips and serious toddler thoughts on life.

“I fink you are the best cooker, and daddy is the best tickler.”

“Pink is the best color, because it is for girls. Girls are awwwwwwwesome.”

“I have told you THREE times that I don’t like standing in the corner.”*stomps feet*

Three year old wisdom is priceless.

While this is only Allie’s third birthday, she believes she is on the cusp of puberty. She’s been wearing around a bikini top pretending like it’s a bra for the past two weeks. I steal it from her and wash it as frequently as possible. But it has somehow become her second skin

I also try to convince her that wearing bras is not fun or logical at this point.

But her response while pointing at her nipples was, “I need it to hold my boobies!!”

Can’t argue with her there, I can see how she needs to contain her massive jugs. *insert eye roll*

Many, many moons ago when Allie first began talking, we adored and cherished the small mispronunciations of certain words. Now, we rarely get to hear one of those, because she’s managed to finesse her way of speaking.

While it’s probably not ‘good’ parenting to encourage her when she says something in a hilarious manner, my little girl is trotting around in a bikini top thinking that she is wearing a bra and knows the ways of the world. The fact that she calls all people named Louise, “Da Weeds” is something I’m holding onto– tightly and with both hands.

I love how hard she laughs, and that like her dad & I she appreciates humor. I’m pretty sure if I had to I would give up a lung just to hear her laugh deeply from her belly.

I love her ‘your mama’ jokes, even though I’m her mama and sure to be the butt of many of them. (When I find out who taught her to say, ‘your mom’ to everything…It. is. on.)

Sometimes when I’m upset, Allie will offer to ‘hold me’. She hugs my neck and brings my head to her shoulder like that I’m one of her baby dolls, and she silently rocks me. It’s so genuine and endearing that while the vertebrae in my back are ready to pop out and declare war to free themselves from the weird position imposed, I stay as long as possible. She runs her tiny fingers through my hair, and tells me that it will all “be okay”. And I smile, because she’s Allie, she’s fantastic, and I get to be her mom.

I truly cherish each day she is so young and carefree. I know that one day she will be in middle school, and it will be, “OH MY GOSH..Sally Jo Whatsherface wore the same shirt as I did to school today. I’m going to PASS out!!”

Until then, I’m clasping onto every day that is riddled with her logic and humor.

My baby is three.

Lately, Allie has picked up a very interesting habit that involves completely denying her identity and claiming she is someone else.

Example:

“Allie, come here!”

“I’m not Allie. I’m Hannah!”

” What?”

“Yes, I’m Hannah!”

“Your name isn’t Hannah. It’s Allie.”

“Well, *insert super long pause* you SHOULD have named me Hannah!”

Later that day, she was Uniqua. She was also Ava and Lucy. Every new name involved a 20 questions type game concentric to the fact that I had denied her the faux name at birth.

But her trump card was the 30 minutes she spent as Bill Cosby.

You just can’t argue with a kid who wants to call herself Bill Cosby. Especially if you spent a year of your own life attempting to convince your mother to legally change your name to America. The others in the running were hooker handles like: Candi, Goodi, and Sassi.

I’m sort of glad I stuck with Amanda. sort of…

Adam and I were sitting in our living room casually discussing something random like our electric bill or how cool it would be if Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory was a real place that you could visit, when Allie walks up to join the conversation.

“Mommy,” she interjects, “I know what is a bad word!”

Due to the phrasing of her question, I was falsely under the impression that she was going to give me her definition of what a bad word happens to be. (I know. ..I know.)

Ever so curious, I bravely asked, “What does it mean when a word is a bad word?”

“A bad word means it’s bad. Like when someone says OH MY SHITS!!”

I just continued to look at her, nod, and try to explain the obvious while my husband was about to burst from laughter and had to go to the other room so that she wouldn’t see him. It isn’t funny that she broke out a curse word like it was job. But the way she used it was terribly amusing.

All I have to say about this situation is OH MY SHITS!

Someone in this household, I won’t mention any names, decided to stage a coup d’etat last night. Yes, a certain redhead decided to forgo any household rules regarding sleeping habits by awakening from sleep at 10 pm and not returning to such a state until 4 a.m.

Apparently, the unidentified suspect was apparently under the impression that while she was sleeping her parents slipped off to do exotic things like drink the tears of a unicorn or play hopscotch with the Queen of England.  I MUST STOP THIS, she thought.

Ultimately, said suspect has left her parents (and herself) tired and grumpy.

During, Nosleepapoolaza 2008, I managed to trip and bust my butt on our hardwood floors at least three times. Since I like for others to laugh at me just as much as I laugh at myself, I will document the best of the falls:

I walk out of our bathroom and slip on a pair of socks someone (the male in our home) decided to discard in the middle of the floor.

I caught myself from that fall, because as a clumsy person, I am familiar with such incidents.

After catching myself, I proceed to hop to my bed, but ultimately end up tripping AGAIN over the shoes the male someone also left in the middle of the floor.

I did not recover as well from this slip.

It ended with me busting my butt on the floor (HARD), and yelling various swears at Adam (lots of ‘em, i promise).

NoSleepaPoolaza 2008 has left me tired, grumpy, and bruised. Amuse me world wide web, amuse me.

When I did my Christmas Hoopla post, I mentioned that we never had Santa growing up. However, I should mention that I have had a Santa Clause since then.

My first run-in with Santa Clause was the first Christmas that Adam and I were married. Feeling that my never experiencing gifts from Santa was a grave injustice, my husband decided Santa should visit me. While I crashed early on Christmas Eve he wrapped several presents for me from Santa, some were even childlike toys. My Little Ponies, Operations, etc. Various gifts that Santa would have purchased for me had I been a child. I had no idea, and when I awoke that morning, I was quite surprised.

Really, I was excited. It was quite a romantic gesture from a guy who is rarely the King of Romance. Not that I expect him to be, but romance is nice every once in a while–even for a cynic like myself.

I don’t know. It’s very cheesy and silly. But it nice of him to feel like I deserved Santa Clause. And he’s visited me every year since then. (No longer bringing childlike gifts, because seriously, what the hell am I going to do with a game of Operation? That blaring sound that occurs when you accidentally hit the metal part makes me want to poke myself in the eye with a needle..)

Anyway, Merry Christmas from my family to yours!

It’s strange how most of the time you can watch your child’s reactions and fail to recognize them as yours–both the positive and the negative.

Sometimes when Allie smiles, I see myself. Her smile is wide and happy, toothy and beautiful. She’ll flash you her smile for free. Such a generous gift should be treasured.

Allie laughs at stories like I do. If she’s heard the story before and knows that a punchline is hilarious, she starts giggling before the funny part even happens. She’ll laugh even when you’re telling the boring part because she knows what is coming.

If you ask Allie a question that she thinks is a bit stupid (for lack of another word), she give you a snide glare. She glances at you, throws both arms up in disbelief, and shifts her irises to the top left corner of her eyes in a slow but meaningful roll. It’s her two year old way of telling you what’s up.

Allie will tell you a story several times in a row. I do that. If she laughs at a story 10 times in a row, she fails to see why you can not manage to do the same. I feel her on that.

I just can’t get enough of her. She even smells like wonderful– if you could possibly bottle it up. A little bottle of wonderful.

Really, it’s strange how comprehensive the age two can be–a bundle of new emotions and vocabulary. Both are often free flowing with little limitation.

My baby will be three in less than three months. I’m an emulsion of happy and sad. I’m so glad she’s healthy and happy, but have a pensive feeling about the fact that she’s growing up. I can already feel my heart tearing from the day she begins to reject my kisses and goes all angsty teenager on me. (please no black lipstick, please no black lipstick !!*crosses fingers*)

Scorned future kisses or not, I just love her. I couldn’t have ever asked for more.

Saturday, my little country town had their annual Christmas parade. It isn’t anything over the top or incredibly fantastic, but it is very cute and festive. I know Allie would enjoy it, and since Adam was working, my mother and I took her to see it.

(Note: A trip with my mother generally involves me having to walk back to the car 4-5 times to either channel my sanity or fetch random items. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. She’s precious. However, precious and taxing can often be synonymous.)

It was the same as always, the parade and my mother’s company. The parade consisted of random rednecks with cars that are allegedly classic, Firetrucks, horses, dogs, and, of course, Santa Clause. Even the Shriner’s in their little miniature cars & trucks!

(What they did not have –was a band!? What parade doesn’t have a band? “Where in the hell is the band?” my mother asked. Who knows? Since the old band director is locked up in the penitentiary, maybe it’s hard to find a new one? )

One of the floats was giving out books to children, and Allie happened to get one. It was fun to see how excited she was. As a child with shelves of books, she was still so happy to receive a new one.

Allie’s love for books makes me so happy. I can’t imagine not loving literature. Similarly, I can’t imagine not allowing myself to get lost in a book or a short story every once in a while. There were so many times that literature inspired me or helped out of a tough place. It was always something I could count on, no matter what, no questions asked. I’m so glad that it’s a possiblity for Allie.

I read to her every night, and she can never get enough of it. I hope it’s something that she always treasures.

As a child, when I first started reading like it was my job, I was addicted to Nancy Drew. I spent that whole Summer at the library picking out books to take them home and read them as quickly impossible. I just loved it. It was one adventure after another. At some point, I discovered Jane Austen, and it was like candy to me. Chocolate to be specific. I adore Jane Austen.

Both then and now, sometimes when I’m reading something that I love, I can’t wait to find out what happens at the end of the book, but at the same time, I get easily attached to characters and want the book to not end.

These days I do read a lot of formula fiction. I shamelessly adore Janet Evanovich, Sue Grafton, Karin Slaughter, Nancy Martin, and Faye Kellerman. But James Patterson, not as much. I am on to him. How does he crank those books out so quickly? It’s ridiculous. But I’ll be the first to admit that I love the Alex Cross series and the Women’s Murder Club series. So maybe I’m not onto him considering I keep reading his books.

Enough about me, why haven’t you read gods in Alabama? Man, I love that book! I also love Between, Georgia. While you’re at it, you should read some of the Adriana Trigiani series Big Stone Gap. It’s swoon worthy.

With that said, I’m ending this to finish my reports so that I have time to read tonight.:) Don’t worry though, I’m closing with a big pile of adorable.

You know, I often find myself wondering how the tiny little gears that crank the brain of a toddler work. It’s amazing really, their thought processes and the constant WHY? WHY? WHY? I love every bit of it. every single moment.

I like it best when I watch her think something through, even if the result is as ridiculous as the following:

Allie while admiring a picture of the Little Mermaid, “the little mermaid has red hair….

She then grabs a lock of her own red hair and stares, thinking for a moment or two…

Then, she looks at me, her eyes bordering a hopeful sort of insanity, ” MOM! MOM! MOM! I’m A MERMAID! I’M A MERMAID! SHE HAS RED HAIR!! AND…AND…I HAVE REDHAIR!! I’M A MERMAID!!! I’M A MERMAID! WOOOOO!!!!”

hmm…=?

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On a slightly related note, when I was little, like 3-4, I was totally and completely convinced that little elves ran my brain. By ran, I mean that when they needed information they just got it out of long corridors filled with the filing cabinets that housed my brainy information. I was so convinced, that once I was scared if I swallowed…I might somehow drown them. I would do anything to not have to swallow. I’m pretty sure this idea was fueled by a Muppet Babies episode in which they explored the brain and found little elves running the show.

I so should not have just told that to the internet.