I don't think I want to know

Earlier today while I was in my room, Kathleen was pottering about, doing whatever it is that two year-olds do to entertain themselves while Mom is busy.  As we live in a small duplex, and life is generally quiet, I was able to hear Kathleen gulp something wet, and then sigh with satisfaction.  A moment later, she came into my room, with a cup that had just been emptied of water.  

There were a few problems, however.  1. There were no cups of water around the house 2. Kathleen cannot turn on the water by herself  3. The only accessible cups were in the dishwasher, dirty.  

So, where did the cup of water come from?  I'll never know.  Kathleen's not talking.

A Picture is Worth A Thousand Words

First I saw the dishwasher.  Then I saw the door frame, followed by the inside of the door.  After I discovered the outside door, Kathleen went to time out.  While in time out, she showed me her piece de resistance.

Then we had a conversation about appropriate materials to color on.

Lack of memories, courtesy of Versed

Recently, Kathleen and I took a trip to the hospital.  Unlike many trips to the hospital, this trip was planned and not life-threatening (or the result of life-threatening events).  She simply had to have an ultrasound of her kidneys and bladder and a procedure called a VCUG (if you have questions, ask Laura).

Ultrasounds are not traumatic; all that happens is some gel and a wand rubbed in the vicinity of the targeted internal organs.  Well, they aren't supposed to be traumatic, unless you happen to be a two year-old who lives here and is named Kathleen.  She did have the opportunity to impress the ultrasound tech with her ability to say the ABCs as a distraction. 

VCUGs, however, are traumatic and so Kathleen got her first (and hopefully only) introduction to a pediatric sedation team.  Yes, team.  She got the royal treatment from a pediatric sedationist, two nurses, two Child Life workers, and entire basket of toys and books.  The ultrasound tech commented that he usually considered this rigamarole overkill, 'but with your child, I think it's probably appropriate.'

After 2 1/2 hours (20 minutes at the start of her Ketamine excepted) of songs, books, toys, more songs, more toys, more books, and a whole lot of crying, I would have to disagree with the tech.  I think that in Kathleen's case, all of that rigamarole wasn't enough for Kathleen and her (as one nurse dubbed it), 'feisty spirit.'  The next visit is Brandon's turn.

Little Miss Too-Dependent

As I sit writing this dressed up in my running clothes and ready to go out, Kathleen is sitting in the kitchen singing songs and pretending that she isn't holding up our morning walk.  

When my younger sister was born, my mother tells of how I was loathe to relinquish the favored position of youngest.  I expressed this mostly in a desire to never grow up.  I wouldn't potty train.  I always wanted to be held.  And I would tell my mother that I wanted to be fed 'like a little birdie.'  I wasn't aware at that point that little birdies eat their parents' vomit.

So, once again, I shouldn't be surprised that dearest Kathleen is just a chip off the old rock.  Or perhaps a boulder.  Because not only is Kathleen singing right now in her high chair, she is also not eating her oatmeal.  Kathleen and I have oatmeal for breakfast every morning, and she has no problem with oatmeal.  She likes oatmeal.  She can't wait to have breakfast.  

Our only difficulty is that she doesn't like to eat it herself.  Kathleen is perfectly capable of feeding herself.  She doesn't even make messes any more.  However, everyone has preferences, and ours differ.  Often.  So once again, my morning schedule is delayed because of my two year-old who wishes she were one.  Where is the child that insists that they can do it all themselves?  I haven't seen any here.

Food is Love

I once had a roommate who would say with a smile, "mmmmm, food is looove."  And based on my eating habits of the last week, I think she is right.  

As one can tell by my previous picture, tomatoes are finally in season out here in Utah.  I think that one of life's great pleasures is picking your own perfectly ripe produce and turning it into tasty things.  Like the aforementioned tomato-pesto soup with dumplings and cream.  Or tomato cream sauce on homemade pasta.  

I was at the grocery store recently and found some absolutely delicious, thick, perfect bacon on sale.  I bought 4 pounds and we had BLTs that night.  With fresh tomatoes, homemade bread, and homemade mayonnaise.

And then there were mangoes.  39 cents apiece.  Almost as good as the ones that are worth moving back to Egypt for.  Blended with ice cream for mango mousse.

To top off my week of gastronomic bliss, I have a fresh peach pie baking in the oven.  Made with local peaches picked off the tree two days ago.  I'm not sure if I'll die of happiness or a heart attack first.

I love summer

because tomatoes can be on the vine in my garden one minute, and part of tomato pesto soup 30 minutes later.

Yes, That is Kathleen's Hair

And no, I don't know where it came from. Just don't tell Kathleen it's there.