Author: Emily

The other night, Kate and I were out running errands. She was really tired (and in fact had fallen asleep at one point) and very grumpy and sad. At the end of our trip, I stopped at my grandma’s to borrow some eggs (yes, I do a lot of my shopping at her house, haha).

I didn’t want to get Kate out of the carseat, so my grandma came outside to sit with her while I ran in to get the eggs and anything else that I could scrounge up. Kate was upset the whole time (2.8 minutes) I was in the house, and when I came back out, my grandma said “Can I go in and get Kate a cookie?”

I said that was fine, but when Grandma went in the house, I turned to Kate (who was still fussing/sort of crying) and said, “Kate, cookies don’t make things better.”

She looked at me through her tears and said “Yes they do.”

So Grandma returned with like 15 cookies, and Kate happily scarfed one down.

She turned to me and said, with a big grin on her face, “See Mommy? I told you.”

Ugh. The kid has a point. Sometimes I think cookies do make me feel better. I am a big-time emotional eater, and I’m trying not to pass that on to Kate… we try not to celebrate things with food, etc., but I’m not sure I’m succeeding in my quest.

So what do you think? How do I turn this train around (for myself and my daughter!)?

The other night, Kate was spending the night with her Papa and Nana, so Andy and I went on a real, honest-to-goodness date. We went to dinner, which was lovely even though I couldn’t eat a bite of my chimichanga when it arrived, and then to the local outdoor mall to walk around… and by “around” I mean “directly into Coldstone.”

Blame it on hormones (at least that’s what I’m going to do), but when we got home I was sooo tired and grumpy, and any little thing was setting me off.

While Andy was brushing his teeth, I was trying to wrestle the sheet and blanket into submission, and I yelled to him “WHAT IS WRONG WITH OUR COVERS?????” as though it was some kind of malfunction in the way they were made, rather than us neglecting to have made the bed that day (or week, whatever).

Not 10 seconds later, I was screaming – again – about something else equally mundane, and Andy pipes up from the bathroom…

“Can I, like, get you some medicine or something?”

The rage rose inside me.

“Medicine??? What kind of medicine would you like to give me?” I asked.

“I don’t know… some kind of anti-mean medicine.”

Fortunately the hormones took another quick U-turn and for whatever reason, instead of telling him where to go, I thought it was the funniest thing I had ever heard in my life.

As I sat there crying with laughter, I said to him, “Did you just ask me if you could get me some anti-mean medicine?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just thought it might keep you from screaming again.”

As I sit here and write this, it still just cracks me up. The man has a point, though. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was such a thing as anti-mean medicine? I wonder what it would consist of. I’m not entirely sure, but I have a feeling it would start with “M” and end with “argarita.”

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