A Day, A Night, Monkey Pants

It's beginning to look as though the plague may be lifting here, or at least may soon be.

Peeper's been pretty perky for a couple of days, and I no longer feel fevery and achy and sick, but am still God-awful congested, which includes not being able to hear a damn thing.

Shrike is coughing like a tubercular seal, and can't hear out of one ear either (makes conversation just lovely, especially when poor Peeper with her almost-three-year-old-diction is talking), but this evening she said that she's maybe starting to feel like she might want to live, so that's a big step in the right direction.

Our sleep pattern has been completely shot to hell, and the past couple of nights I've thought Peeper was down early but it turned out to be a nap, and then she was up for-fucking-ever.

Tonight, around 7 or so, she was sleepy and cranking and whiney and maybe she's not really feeling quite as well as she says yet, so in an attempt to distract and happy her up, I asked if she wanted to make cookies.

Now, what I had in mind was whipping up a batch or World's Easiest Peanutbutter Cookies, but no, she wanted sugar cookies.

And, in all fairness, those are her favorite (When offered a variety of cookies to choose from, she always goes with sugar - over chocolate chip even. Little freak.) and we haven't made any in a while, so sure, what the hell.

Then I notice that Shrike is giving me the look and mouthing that "We don't have any sugar." Whoops.

But we're committed now, so she offered to run to the store for sugar. In a downpour and lightning storm.

(While she was at the store, her dad called about some stuff that we need to get from her house. He offered to drop it off tomorrow because "You have no business being out in this weather." Ahem. She did not tell him where she was.)

Oh, and we don't have enough butter either. Nor eggs. And we'll be cutting it close on flour. And what the hell, how about some confectioner's sugar so I can make icing, too. And some of those mints that I got the other day and then ate most of them and now Peeper keeps saying "I really want some mints" but we don't have any because did I mention that I ate most of them?

Yeah, that should do it.

As I was rattling off the list to her, Peeper was saying "And eggs, and shuguw and 'nudduh kinda shuguw, and . . . "

So, while Shrike ran to the store, Peeper and I got out the bowls and the mixer and the measuring devices and the two ingredients that Shrike wasn't out buying.

When she got home, I said, "Ok, Peeper, let's cream together the sugar and butter."

"Oh shit. I'll be right back," and back out she went for butter.

We went ahead and made the icing, and by the time she got back we were ready to do the cookie dough.

While we were making it, I found a double-yolk egg; that's got to mean something good, right?

Peeper got bored with it just before I was finished and wandered off to play. I put the dough in the fridge to get cold, and played for a while, and then she conked out. At about 7:45. After a quick consultation with Shrike we decided to go ahead and let her sleep, and Shrike joined her. (See previous post.)

I got the better part of an hour of web development work done, and blogged and scouted information on pricing for a yard sale (because we are insane and are planning a yard sale for late October) and then she woke up, at 10 pm.

Around midnight, she remembered about the cookies - actually, she asked to eat one, and was quite confused as to why they didn't exist yet - so we rolled out the dough, and cut them out, and baked them and iced them and sprinkled them and then, finally, ate some.

Okay, that's kind of a lie. Of course, we ate some while rolling, cutting, icing and sprinkling. But then we ate more when they were all done.

(And froze half the dough and icing, so the next time we want sugar cookies, nobody will have to go to the fucking grocery store in a lightning storm.)

Shrike went on to bed (couch) and Peeper and I played, and watched videos, and watched videos and played and played and watched - oh my God!

What the fuck do you mean the "down for site maintenance, will be back at 6 am?!"

Okay, so maybe the vast majority of the Sesame Street website's users are asleep from 2 - 6 am, but not my kid. Not tonight. Are you fucking kidding me!?!

I was able to find some Sesame Street videos on YouTube and appease her with those, but it was a struggle.

Then I noticed that her diaper had reached it's limit, so I took her into her room for a change. That went something like this:

Peeper: No! Keep dese pants!

Whozat: No, honey, these pants have pee-pee on them, you can't wear them.

Peeper: But why?

Whozat: Because you'll get pee-pee on Mama. You can wear (looking around) Oh, you can wear your monkey pants!

Peeper: Monkey pants! Take dis (shirt) off!

Whozat: Oh, you want your monkey shirt, too? Okay, let's just get your diaper changed. Okay here's your monkey. . . Oh, that's the shirt. Let me find the pants. . . hmmm . . . shit . . . Honey, I can't find your . . .

Peeper: Monkey pants!

Whozat: I don't see . . .

Peeper: MONKEY PANTS!!

Whozat: But they aren't here . . .

Peeper: MOOONKEEEEY PAAAANTS!!!

I checked both baskets of clean clothes, the hamper, the dryer (which was damp anyway - restarted it) and all her drawers. No monkey pants.

I offered every other pair of jammy pants she has, nope.

Finally, I started nursing her (in just a diaper) and shush shush shushing (while she cried for her MOOONKEEEEY PAAAANTS!!!) and after a while she asked for more videos. After a couple of those, and some more nursing and shushing, she finally fell asleep.

As I moved her to the bed, I thought, you know, this is what my life has become. Seventeen-and-then-some years of school, and eighteen years working like a real grown-up, and a few years of hobnobbing with political muckity-mucks, and the (former) governor (used to) know my name, and now it's all about soothing a three-foot-tall crazy person through four am meltdowns over fucking monkey pants.

And, you know, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Then I went into the sunroom to let a dog out, and what do I see lying in a tiny little heap in the floor?

Monkey pants.

So, of course . . .

Yeah, I'm a fucking ninja mama.