Christmas in the air, baby on the wall

So far, every age has been my favorite. At three months, when she started smiling at us. At six months, when she was laughing. At nine months, when she became more mobile. At 12 months, when she started walking, and ever since with her expanding vocabulary and communication skills. 

This age is not my favorite. This age is exhausting and terrible. She's increasingly finicky and opinionated. If she doesn't get what she wants, she melts into a blubbering limp noodle. If she gets what she wants, but not EXACTLY the way she wants it (i.e., her water in the pink cup instead of the purple one), she melts into an unreasonable, inconsolable terrorist. 

And she hits! Oh. My. God. The hitting. She's outta control. Nothing helps. Not ignoring it, not timeout, not acknowledging her frustration, not using my angry voice. I'm about to just slap her back each time. I know it's terribly hypocritical and ineffectual to teach someone not to hit by hitting, and I really don't feel like being abusive, but it's all I have left. The weird part is that most of the time, she's happy when she slaps you. She will gladly walk up to you, seemingly innocent, and then bam! You just got slapped. We're hoping it's just a phase, but meanwhile, we are living in fear, and she lives on the wall. I'm hashing out a plan to set her up on a playdate with other children, in hopes that when she hits one of them, they will take her down to China town. Of course, this requires someone else's child to be the sacrificial lamb, but it's a cruel world, and I feel like this lesson is better taught by someone other than me.

Here is an illustration of how big of a turd she's been lately, as evidenced by our holiday photo shoot.

The Devil's child.

At first, this one seems cute until you really zero in on her face. Then you see that it says, "I'll effing cut you."

In other news, we acquired our Christmas tree this weekend. It was an all-day event. This tree really kicked our ass this year. First, I knew it would be super muddy and realized as I was bundling up the wee one that she has no shoes to accommodate the messy terrain. So we made a quick stop at the local Wal-Mart, all bundled up in coats, scarves and hats. Of course, they did not have normal plastic rain boots for toddlers, and the plain pink snow boots were not available in her size. That left us with Disney princesses or Dora. Stuff with big characters all over it gives me anxiety, but I was really starting to sweat, so it needed to be a snappy decision. We went with the princesses because they lit up when she walked, but they went up to almost her knees and had no give, so when she was thrown off balance, she just toppled over.

The 10 layers she was wearing probably didn't help

When she fell down, she just laid there because she couldn't really bend any of her limbs. We were there for the normal hour or more on a quest for the most perfect tree. It began to rain. We were all soaked. Beeb was soaked and muddy. The two of us were non-committal about every tree. In truth, probably any tree would've been just fine. And then Trinity comes up to me and says two words that no mother wants to hear, especially when you're stranded in the woods: "I poop."

 Uh oh. Shit just got real. Literally. So I yell to Travis, "We gotta get outta here!" and he instructs me to just pick any tree so we can go. I start to panic. I don't want to ruin Christmas. And then, in the farthest corner of the lot. I see it. The tree I want. He bends down to start sawing, and I scream "NO!" What if it's not right? So I do a quick feverish scan of all the other trees, and then come back and declare this one The One. Trinity thinks it's hilarious that Travis is bent down underneath a tree, so she decides to help.

 Every other family at the tree farm grabbed a tree stroller, so you could wheel your tree back to the tractor after sawing it down. Not Travis. Why? Because Travis is a man. This seems to be his excuse for all his other gross and annoying habits as well. This tree is bigger than any other tree we've ever had before, but he still thinks he needs to carry it back. Being that we are in the far corner doesn't help, but he heaves it onto his shoulders and huffs and puffs it all the way back to the tractor pick-up area. He is now sore, and probably bruised. But still a man.

Princess Poopypants

She smells terrible.

We board the tractor with a few other families, and Trinity starts to get vocally angry that no one has helped her out in the diaper department yet. So she refuses to sit down, and starts screaming "I poop! I poop!" I'm sure the other riders were like, "Oh, that's what that smell is." So as Trav goes to pay for the tree, I take her back to the truck to change her diaper and realize I didn't bring wipes. I do however have tissues since her nose has been runny, and by some miracle that makes me almost believe in a god, I find a water bottle to create makeshift wipes. Let's just say it was still a horrible experience. 

We get the tree back home, and it doesn't fit in the part of our house where we usually put our tree. So first we have to trim it. Then it doesn't fit in our tree stand. So Travis fashions something out of wood blocks and other random wood pieces to weigh the stand down. It doesn't work. The tree topples over. He finally gives up and sends me out for Wal-Mart trip # 2 of the day. Don't judge me. It's like 2 minutes away and really convenient in times like this. I find the daddy of all tree stands and bring it home. We finally get it all set up, and I start decorating, and we run out of lights before I get to the top. I feel so defeated. This time Trav runs out for Wal-Mart trip #3. This is some type of record I'm sure. Wal-Mart does not have the lights we need. Poor Trav. Now I have to wait until he can get them from work on Monday.

So close, yet so far away. 

 Let's hope the rest of the Christmas season goes a little smoother. Happy Holidays everyone!