What I Did Last Summer or Why I Now Hate Cops

I'm back! Again.

I was forced to take a hiatus from blogging so that I could play the leading role in one of the situations you read about where a parent is dragged through the court system because they let their children play outside while mom stayed inside to clean up the hurricane that is two school aged children in the middle of the summer.

Here is the short version:

Johnny was riding his bike around the block with his friend. You know down our street, around the corner, up the next street over around the corner again and back down the sidewalk in front of my house. Every three or four houses there was a house occupied by a friend or family member. Lily asked to go play outside. I said, "Yes, but stay in the yard, don't follow Johnny he doesn't want his kid sister hanging around." I then went back inside to finish packing up to go camping. 

Fifteen or twenty minutes later I went outback for a smoke break. I didn't see Lily but I heard her and from the direction of the sound of her giggles I assumed she had crossed the alley to play at Tenielle's house with BossyPants and BellaRose, something she is regularly allowed to do. About the time I finished my cigerette, the cop showed up. 

Mr. Motorcycle Cop asked if I knew where my daughter was. Apparently, She had been running after Johnny and his friend and while they were on the next street over, right in front of Tennille's house where they regularly play. A kind and concerned (read nosy) neighbor lady saw a small child running down the sidewalk without an adult and flagged down the cop. 

The end result is that I was charged with misdemeanor injury to a child. I got a public defender and would have tried my case before a jury, but since the outcome would have been dependent on the jury liking me and this whole ordeal has thrown my BPD into chaos (I went from minimum diagnostic symptoms to all nine in a matter of 24 hours), I chose to plea out. I am currently on a year probation with a years withheld judgment. That means that if I meet all the conditions of my probation (no problems with the law more serious then not wearing my seat belt and completing a parenting class by January 15th) then the judge will likely dismiss the case. Until then, it isn't even put on my record. As long as I go take this stupid state mandated parenting class that tells me to negotiate with my children and coddle them rather than putting my foot down, none of this will show up in a background check.  Because you know, there isn't enough crime in the US so we have to waste time and taxpayer dollars telling people how to raise their kids and prosecuting them for not doing it they way the 30 something with no kids from California* thinks they should.

*I do not really hate or discriminate against people from California, They just seem to be the ones moving into the very conservative area I live in and trying to make us all liberals**. In this case, the woman really did move here from California.

**I also do not have a problem with most liberals, just the ones who try to tell me how to live and parent and what I can and cannot buy, own, or eat, while telling me that I am close-minded and intolerant.

That pretty little boy is my daughter.

Lily's attempt at a one-sided mullet.

Monday morning I had a major melt down. I was tired, my kids weren't listening, it was time to walk out the door and my son couldn't find his shoes. Then he looked down and I saw a little bald patch on the top of his head. "Johnny, did you cut your hair?" I asked. "No, Lily did it," he replied. It took me a second to formulate a reaction. Johnny is 5, Lily is not quite three. "You're two year old sister cut your hair? You LET your TWO year old sister, cut your hair?"

His hair was an easy fix, we buzz his head about one a month anyways. A bald spot on his head at school for one day wouldn't hurt, there wasn't time to fix it right that minute. I threw my hands up and went to dig in the couch cushions for Lily's shoes. The couch was covered in hair. Long hair, darker than my son's. Lots of it.

I took a deep breath. Ok, it was more involuntary and gasp like. I fought tears and I turned around and grabbed my daughter's head. She had cut all the hair on the left side of her head off. Not a little choppy trim job. She had cut her hair almost to the scalp. My baby girl had given herself a half mullet.

Captain Lily waits for Storytime

I wanted to fix it right away, but I wasn't going to let anyone do it. I needed someone who could look at her hair and fix it in the cutest, most feminine, least redneck kind of way. I was taking her to MY hairdresser, not  Great Clips. But she didn't have an appointment open until today.

It actually worked out well. She was a pirate for Halloween and the choppy, messy look was just perfect.

This morning Lily got her professional hair cut. I was all for a pixie cut. Actually, my parents, sister, and husband were all for a pixie cut, I was holding out for a mullet so I could put the back in a ponytail with pink bows so she still looked like a girl when I went to Wal Mart. (Yep, I'm scoring big points on the redneck team today.)  Kim looked at Lily's handy work and we decided an asymmetrical cut would be a little more girly and easy to keep looking nice as long as we keep it trimmed every two to three weeks.

Shot side 

Head on

Long side

Lily still looks like a really pretty boy. Kinda. I guess we will be wearing lots of pink and dresses for a while. My daughter got an edgy haircut before she was three. What can I say, she's more fashion forward than her mom.

My Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day

I will start by saying I love my kids and would never harm them no matter what I say in the next few paragraphs.

Sundays are normally relaxing, pleasant days around our house.  Football, baseball, or NASCAR plays on the TV, I sit in my chair crocheting or playing Angry Birds, the kids play with their toys or chase each other through the house. Sometimes we have family over and we talk and drink and generally have fun--or recover from the night before. This week, there was no football and NASCAR doesn't start till next week.  Somehow, between that and the house being uncharacteristically clean, the kids were lost. I put them upstairs to watch The Lion King (Lily's current favorite movie), and sat down to work on some future blog posts. BAD IDEA.

I went to the kitchen to get a snack and smelled nail polish. With fear and trembling I went upstairs. When I got to the top of the stairs, the kids were the ones experiencing fear and trembling.  I had finally learned to put all my makeup and hair gear in my latched makeup case.  Lily, who is fascinated with makeup, is not old enough or strong enough to open the latch. Despite this fact, my makeup case was open, everything was uncapped and spread all over. The air reeked of Moroccan hair oil, hairspray and nail polish. Johnny's eyes were as wide as saucers. He knew he was in trouble. I was livid.

Johnny admitted to opening the case for Lily. And to helping make the mess. He had painted his entire hands with nail polish, helped to cover my folding chair with lipstick and who knows what else. I swore loudly and marched Johnny out to the shop to work off the $30 of products he had helped to destroy: three lipsticks, a brand new foundation, and entire bottle of Moroccan oil, two bottles of nail polish, half a jar of face powder, and three tubes of lip gloss. I then went upstairs to clean up.

It took me 30 minutes to clean it all up. Johnny was told if he touched anything on my makeup table again he would not be allowed to go to his 100 days of school party Monday, and that if Lily touched anything he was to come and get me immediately. I went outside to smoke a cigarette (yes, yes, I have quit, but sometimes you just need one) and cool down. I was finally ready to face my kids, so Larch and I came inside.

I walked into the kitchen, covered my eyes and said "Larch, you deal with this, you just take this one, I'm done."

Both kids were sitting on the counter. The kitchen floor was covered in 2 or 3 banana peels and a dozen (yes a whole dozen, count them 12) broken eggs. Johnny said Lily threw all the eggs. I believe him. The last time he threw eggs, I threatened to hurt him, then we drove to grandmas, and I started treatment for my BPD.

Larch is so awesome. He set the kids in timeout (Johnny paused on his way to timeout to ask me why I was crying), cleaned up the eggs, and allowed me to order pizza instead of cooking. I could not have asked for a more understanding husband. With a smile on his face, he even asked after the makeup incident if I was going to kill the kids.  And laughed when I answered "No. I want to, but I won't."