The Mixer

Watch out for the mixer

All day yesterday, my toilet was not flushing properly. I thought it might be tree roots growing into the pipes. Hoping that I could avoid calling a plumber, I tried some recon. I used the plunger, but it wasn't clearing the toilet to flush. I put on a yellow kitchen glove and stuck my hand down the toilet drain, where I found a deodorant stick.
"George!" I said to myself, more ecstatic than pissed, since fishing out deodorant saved us $400.
I saw George walking around that morning with the deodorant, and I found the cap to it. I put the cap on my dresser and asked him, "Hey, buddy, where did you put the deodorant?" He didn't answer me, and I forgot about it.
George has a bit of a sneaky streak, that he gets from me. He gets other things from me, like having an emotional range that is ten miles wide, ranging from tear soaked, quivering sympathy to wall-punching anger.
George has been finding himself in time-out frequently because he has a problem hitting. He hits when he is upset, or when he feels like he is misunderstood, and sometimes he hits when he is overcome with happiness, and wants the moment to end. Like when were snuggling and laughing, and he feels flooded with emotion, he will be super happy and then his face freezes up, and he pulls back his hand to throw the fist. Maybe it's the vulnerability that makes him act defensive.
Because time-outs aren't working, we have to take TV away. Yesterday morning he woke up in a shitty mood, and hit my husband, who then said, "No TV all day!"
I was actually very surprised by how much better we function without TV. It integrated itself in our life, and I leaned on it as a support mechanism that allows me to get a lot of work done around the house, calming and engaging the kids. The lack of television had the kids playing with all their toys, and playing together. Personally, I found I didn't sink into the couch with the kids and waste time online. We cleaned the house and did various other things, like make chocolate chip cookies.
The mixer is out, and taking up 75% of our counter space, so I figured we should use it. Save ourselves the arm strength. However, as the kids stood on their chairs at the counter and I turned it on, I realized this has potential for a 9-1-1 phone call. One kid reaches in for a chocolate chip, and all their fingers will snap into a mangled wreck when the handle starts turning it along with the dough.
I don't know the safety features on this machine, so I assumed the worse, and said, "Don't touch it, or it will rip your hand off. "
Kiki freaked out and hugged George like a saving grace, worried sick he would put his hand in the food mixer. Kiki is not the type of older sister who Shepards her brother around, feeding him, cuddling him, or looking out for his well-being. Or so I thought. She does show tremendous concern that we will leave him places. When George starts throwing a baby fit at a store, and I have to walk away saying, "OK, George were leaving. See you later!!"
Kiki always panics, "We can't leave him!"
I assure her that we won't leave him, wasting the entire psychological effort.
Kiki held George in a bear hug while the mixer turned, and I looked lovingly on the two of them. We put the cookies on the baking sheets, and slid them into the oven. I pulled them out, like I always do. I get into a basketball defense position, with an arm outreached to block any running child from coming into the vicinity of the scorching oven area. I shout, "Hot, Hot, Stay Away!" Until the cookie sheet had been lifted from the oven to the stove top.
After they cooled we ate cookies and wrote Christmas cards. They scribbled on the card, and I translated the hieroglyphics into English. It ended in a yelling match over a purple glitter pen, but it was still a very nice time.