I am often asked why my daughter Katelynn, age two, has such a unique and difficult different personality compared to my other three children. The explanation is quite simple, as my parenting plan has been deliberately and markedly different for Katelynn since the beginning. (After all, she is my last baby.) So, in light of all the curiosity surrounding my childrearing approach, I felt it only fair to share the methods of my madness success. Here’s how I do it:

Setting the Example

1. Teach your child the concept of taking responsibility by blaming yourself for all her problems. [Her therapist will blame you later anyway.]

2. No one is perfect. You can easily teach your child this concept by pointing out other family members’ flaws and weaknesses. Doing it to their faces also teaches her the concept of brutal honesty. She has to learn it sometime.

3. Give her lots of opportunities to learn from your mistakes. This one requires no further explanation. You make a LOT of mistakes.

4. It is inevitable that she will be present for many arguments between you and your spouse. Keep the name-calling and punch-throwing to a minimum. If possible.

5. Teach her that money doesn’t grow on trees. It grows in a garden at Daddy’s office. And he’s the Master Gardener. That’s why he is never home. (And will never be at any of your school activities. And sometimes has trouble remembering your name. But Mommy will buy you a pony if you stop crying about it.)

Playtime

1. Watching Monsters, Inc. five or six times a day is a perfectly acceptable playtime activity. Don’t worry, after several hundred days, she will lose interest. [And start watching Beetlejuice instead.] Either way, you will have more uninterrupted time to mess around on the computer sleep play Sudoku go get a pedicure clean house.

2. Terrorizing the cat is also an acceptable playtime activity. However, prior declawing is recommended. For the cat. Not the kid.

3. Other children should be encouraged to relinquish share their toys when she asks for them. You, however, do NOT have to give her the last oatmeal raisin cookie. Remind her that you endured eighteen hours of non-medicated labor, four hours of pushing, and a fourth degree peri-rectal laceration to bring her into this world. She can just get over it. She doesn’t like raisins anyway.

4. If she wakes up in the middle of the night and wants to play, go for it! Remember, she is probably making up for the quality time she didn’t get when you were on the computer sleeping playing Sudoku getting a pedicure cleaning house all day. You will assuredly feel exhausted, but take comfort in the knowledge that she will probably not sleep in after playing with you from 3 to 5 a.m.

Language Skills

1. Do not be concerned about using swear words in front of her. Be realistic. She’s going to hear them anyway on television. Or from her older siblings. Or on Beetlejuice. At least teach her the correct spelling, context, and pronunciation of said words.

2. If she uses her “new words” in a public place, feign shock and disbelief and then proceed to blame television. And her older siblings. And Beetlejuice. Later, in private, praise her for correct context and pronunciation.

3. She will practice using “No” and “Shut-up” on an extremely frequent basis. This is NOT a bad thing. Unless she is saying it to your pastor/preacher/priest/rabbi. In that case, blame satan.

Discipline

1. No. spanking. No. yelling. Period.

2. As an alternative, use the counting method. When she is engaging in an undesirable behavior, count to three. If you reach three and she has not stopped the behavior, go ahead and continue counting up to a maximum of 100. By then, she will probably have moved on to a different [forbidden] activity and you will have forgotten why you started counting. Problem solved. (Added benefit: she will learn to count to 100 well before her peers making her look like a child prodigy thereby ensuring your nomination for “Mother of the Year.” Woot!)

3. There is a very effective method for dealing with particularly offensive actions such as scribbling on the walls with a Sharpie or pouring out the sugar canister onto the new living room frieze carpet. Get out your camera and shoot away. These are the Kodak moments life is all about. Besides, you’ll have fun scrapping it later.

4. If you are occasionally compelled to scold her for misbehavior, and she responds by scowling, crossing her arms, and making that “hmmph” sound (and maybe saying “shut-up”), it is okay to burst out laughing. Most likely, you won’t be able to stop yourself anyway. Because it is so. damn. cute. And reminds you of yourself. And is so. damn. cute.

5. Do not tolerate tantrums in public places. Just buy her the damn Barbie or bag of Skittles already.

Individuality

1. Do not attempt to mold her to your image. She is her own person.

2. Relax and give in to her every request. She knows what’s good for her far better than you do. Or ever will. Again, don’t make her future therapist’s job too easy.

3. Milestones such as weaning and potty training are to be done on her timeframe, not at your convenience. She will more than likely be ready sometime before kindergarten. If not, do your research and find a school that is flexible about these sorts of things and send her there. No matter how much it costs. The Master Gardener will just have to put in a little [more] overtime.

4. Let her express herself. Sometimes [hardly ever] she will do it quietly. Sometimes [almost always] it will involve screaming, crying, door slamming, slapping, kicking, biting, use of the phrase “you’re ruining my life” and possibly blood. Lots. of. blood. Stay calm and encourage her to express her feelings.

5. Encourage exploration and discovery. Put away all poisonous substances and steak knives and let her have the run of the house. Remember, that which does not kill her, gives you more free time.

6. Three words to live by. “Oh, go ahead.”

Eating

1. When? Whenever she will.

2. Where? Anywhere she wants.

3. How? Utensils are entirely optional. Any food can be finger food. “Eat it or wear it” worked for Fudge’s dad.

4. What? Whatever stays in her mouth long enough to be chewed into swallowable pieces. Also, if she prefers foods that are not in one of the main food groups, consider adding a custom group just for her. Customizing is HOT right now.

5. Respect the 10-second rule.

6. Furthermore, everything tastes better with ketchup on it.

Clothing and Getting UnDressed for Success

1. Her Mother’s-Day-Out does. NOT. care. if she comes as Snow White. Again.

2. Pajamas aren’t just for sleeping anymore. Hell, you wear them until noon everyday right?

3. Her Mother’s-Day-Out does. NOT. care. if she comes in her pajamas. Again.

4. Nudity is acceptable. It does not mean she will grow up to be a stripper. A streaker maybe.

5. You hopefully gave up your idealistic notions of anti-materialism by the time child number one turned five. It is not realistic to shield a child from the media’s influence on the average American’s desire for high priced brand name goods. So don’t fight it, embrace it. Shop for her wardrobe in only the best speciality boutiques and high-end department stores. Show her how to hand wash her cashmere. Never, but NEVer, let her play dress up with your Manolos. Train her in the art of detecting knock-offs and teach her the Platinum Rule: Ain’t Nothin’ Like the Real Thing, Baby.

Sleeping Habits

1. Encourage and allow up to seven stuffed animals and/or baby dolls in the crib or bed at a time. This does not include silky blankets for comfort, fleece blankets for warmth, and a pillow.

2. Repetitive readings of Goodnight Moon at sleeptimes are necessary for her brain to facilitate creation and growth of vital neurons and synapses across which chemicals like seratonin and norepinepherine flow to keep her moods balanced. Your mom never did it and look how depressed you are.

3. At any time, she can enforce the “Mommy’s Bed is My Bed” law. It’s all good; co-sleeping is very trendy. You hip mommy you.

4. See number four under “Playtime.”

Finally and possibly most importantly: Ignore the little things. And the big things. Oh, hell, ignore it all. Remember, it’s not that you’re lazy or don’t care. It’s that you’re just too damn tired to argue.

This evening, Rob was out of the house for about an hour running errands. Okay, to be honest he was grocery shopping because I was not in the mood to make a grocery run tonight. Or any other night. Or day.

Anyway.

So while Rob was gone, I helped Jake and Jenna with their homework and then ran around the house like a madwoman cleaning, straightening, and generally picking the place up. [To relieve some of my guilt.] And when Rob arrived home, I continued to fold laundry while he put the groceries away. Since I was not in the mood to do that either. I’m pretty moody by nature. In case you were wondering.

After the laundry was folded and put away, I proceeded to the bathroom medicine cabinet where for reasons unbeknownst to me I was moved to start tossing out expired medications. Which is not very interesting in and of itself since we had some Siberian Ginseng that had expired in December of 2001. I should probably be embarrassed to admit that. I’m not.

I finished that task and felt a real sense of accomplishment with all I had managed to get done. And perhaps more importantly, with the fact that I had managed to avoid doing anything related to groceries.

All in a day’s work.

So, I felt I had earned the privilege to have some quality computer time until we went to sleep.

I stepped out of the bathroom, and, to my shock and utter displeasure, Rob had beat me (by about a millisecond) to the laptop. I KNOW. How very rude of him.

“Uhhh, I finished the housework I was doing and was justthissecond coming in here to get on the computer,” I whined said.

“Calm down. I’m just checking my e-mail and I’ll be done.”

I’m not sure if I was more upset because he was making me wait or because he told me to “calm down.” But I was livid. Left hand on my hip, I went into a long, loud soliloquy about how I had been working so. damned. hard. doing laundry and helping the kids with homework and picking up the living room and loading the dishwasher and throwing out expired medications and now all I wanted to do was sit down and relax and . . . um . . . you know . . . compute. And stuff.

When I finally finished my tirade, he had just one thing to say.

“I’m done.”

WHA???

For Rob, reading e-mail is normally at least a thirty-minute-long thing. He so obviously hurried through his Inbox JUST TO PROVE THAT HE COULD.

I bet he also went grocery shopping just to prove he could.

I sure hope he has something to prove the next time the baby has a dirty diaper. Cause I know I have something to prove the next time I refuse to give him a back rub.

Dear Emma,

You just finished your fourth week of pre-kindergarten and you love it. I always knew you would, but you have exceeded even my expectations of how well you would make the transition. I suppose after four years of playing with the same person day after day (me) you were ready for the change. We both were.

You seem so grown up. Many days, you get yourself dressed and brush your hair and teeth without anyone telling you to. You make sure your backpack is unloaded of yesterday’s papers and you never forget to grab it on your way out the door.

When we get to school each day, you give Katelynn and me kisses and hugs, put your backpack on, and let yourself out of the car. Halfway to the school’s front door, you turn and wave. Sometimes you blow a kiss too.

Last Monday after you blew kisses, I gave you the hand-sign for “I Love You.” You looked at your hand and wiggled your fingers until you figured out how to give it back to me. So, we started doing that everyday too. During the car ride Friday, you finally asked me what the sign means. (I thought you knew!) After I explained it, you made the sign but then pulled your thumb in and asked if that meant “Rock On.” Try not to pay so much attention to your brother, okay?

You tell me stories about learning and playing with the other kids in your class, and when you tell me their names, you always say “my friend” first. You have a lot of friends. A couple of times, you have told me that one of the kids is your “friend again.” Apparently, sometimes arguments over Crayola colors and monkey bar positions come between four-year-old girls, but all is forgiven by the next day.

When I dropped you off today, you saw a little blond girl walking in with her mother. You yelled, “Allie,” and ran towards her. As you got close, both of you stretched out your arms and grasped hands. Allie’s mom stopped where she was, and we both watched as the two of you disappeared into the school, hand in hand. It was such a bittersweet moment.

Up to now, it’s been my hand you reached for as you navigated new or scary territory. My hand that pushed the hair out of your eyes when you fell and scraped a knee. My hand that patted your back when you did something wonderful. My hand that boosted you to the things you couldn’t reach.

As you grow up, I hope you keep your enthusiasm for school and learning. And I hope you keep your enjoyment of spending time with friends, new and old. As you grow up, I will always be there clapping, cheering, crying, laughing, tickling, helping, teaching, and guiding you. I will be there to give you a hand whenever you might need one. And to give you the “I Love You” sign.

All my love,

Mommy

Looking back, I vaguely remember commenting to Rob late Saturday that my throat was sore. And, I know I said something to my Mom about it on Sunday. By Monday, the left side of my throat was outright hurting. Bad. Bad enough that I started alternating Tylenol and Motrin every two hours. On Tuesday, the pain continued (as did my Tylenol/Motrin regimen) and my throat and glands felt swollen. The swelling evidenced itself by causing a [oh so sexy] thickening and deepening of my voice.

Rob, Jake, Jenna, and I watched the Big Brother finale Tuesday evening and I was in so much pain that I was barely talking. And when I did speak, it was through clinched teeth because it hurt even to open my mouth or move my tongue. Jenna was being such a sweetheart rubbing my neck and jaw area to help the pain. I got no sleep Tuesday night.

Wednesday, I asked Rob to call my doctor’s office as soon as they opened to schedule an appointment. I got a 9:30 a.m. slot. Thank. God. The Physician’s Assistant I saw, Pauline, took one look at my throat and said I was getting three needles. First, I was getting blood drawn to check my white cell count. Second, I was getting a dose of Rocephin, an antibiotic, by injection. And, last, I was getting an injection of a steroid to reduce the swelling. See, I don’t have tonsils anymore, but the swelling on the left side of my throat was so bad that the tissue hung down to my tongue instead of forming the arc-shape it usually does. [And ewwww.]

Before I left, I asked Pauline to give me a prescription for something with codeine in it. (The bi-hourly Tylenol and Motrin wasn’t even touching the pain.) She wrote me one for Lortab 7.5 [woot!] elixir [ewww]. She said she needed to see me back today. I left with the impression that I had strep throat. I had the wrong impression.

I got to my appointment today at 2:00 p.m. and, naturally, the first thing Pauline did was take another look at my throat. After looking, she said, “I hoped it would look a lot better today, but it should at least be looking a little better. It’s not.” She next put a gloved finger in my mouth to feel the tissue in my throat. Brave woman. Lucky for her, I don’t have a very strong gag reflex.

Pauline looked at me somberly and said, “This is very serious.” Turns out, I have a PERITONSILLAR ABSCESS (in my throat, obviously, since I don’t have tonsils). I won’t even go into the details of that diagnosis. Google it if you’re curious.

So apparently, these abscesses can be resistant to antibiotics and can swell enough so as to cut off one’s oxygen supply. “One” meaning me. As in me not being able to breathe. No kidding.

Oh, and also, a peritonsillar abscess was responsible for George Washington’s death.

Who knew?

Pauline, that’s who.

She wrote me a prescription for a mega-dose of penicillin and said to come back in on Monday. Oh, and, if I start feeling the least bit worse tomorrow or over the weekend, I am supposed to go straight to the Emergency Room–do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars–where they will haul me back to the operating room for emergency surgery. As in cut that bad boy open.

So, I’m pretty doped up on the meds. (Lortab. It’s a good thing.) And, as I am about to drift off to sleep before I can finish this entry, I wonder. Will I be startled awake by a lack of oxygen to my lungs, heart, brain, and vital organs? Inquiring minds want to know.

And in my moment of crisis, guess where Rob is. He’s making the two hour drive back from his father’s house. Rob dropped him off there after he was discharged from the hospital today. After his echocardiogram. Which showed valve damage. Necessitating a heart catherization next Monday. And most likely open heart surgery next Friday. Seriously.

I am left to wonder what will be next.
These things come in threes you know.