Where's My Baby?

I thought I had her all figured out.  She's my funny, kind, stubborn- but not really, sweetheart Moo.

 

Then last Friday happened.  It was the day she got her hands on half a bottle of Nighttime Triaminic Cold and Cough Medicine.  Grape.  Apparently, it's a popular flavor.  Poison Control was called (I've been in touch with them before) and her consumed dosage was calculated based on age and weight.  Sure enough, 12 doses of Benadryl were now floating around in her system, plus 6 or 8 doses of something else I can't pronounce.  Bottom line; she'd be fine.  According to Poison Control, she'd either get a little hyper or really tired, it's really hard to know which way the kiddo will go. 

 

In Molly's case, she turned into Crack Baby, or Chucky, your choice.  Nasty, violent, bossy, rude, persistent, off kilter, and funnier than ever.  The strange thing is that it hasn't really wore off.  I'm wondering if the Triaminic was just a window for a new stage with her.  She's been scratching us, turning the t.v. or radio up full volume just to piss us off, peeing on the rug (on purpose), telling me I'm not her mom, spitting, throwing mac and cheese on the floor (which gets smashed into rug fibers and is now an act of God to remove in His own time), spraying anything and everything with a nozzle to the point our house has layers of hairspray on the walls, Windex on the floors and Febreeze embedded on the rug above the mac and cheese.

 

She insists on showering several times a day and needs her hair "blow dried" after each shower.  I don't know, perhaps that's the secret behind her luxurious head of hair. 

 

After returning from a trip to the pool, I realized Mike had stashed the back of my van with fire-starting twigs and leaves.  I've learned to not ask questions and just go with it.  As I was wrestling a 1-inch plastic toy bear out of the shop vac hose,  I realized something had happened.  Molly's mouth was open, drool dripping off her lips, her face was red, yet she made no sound.  That's never a good sign.  Sure enough, the automatic van door shut on 2 of her fingers.  The good news is the fingers are still attached.  I'm guessing the automatic doors reverse on themselves if there's resistance. (That's what I'm telling myself).  However, I'm secretly hoping it teaches her to quit playing with the dang van doors.  Consequences right? 

 

I have a feeling our 3rd is going to be keeping us on our toes.  Meanwhile, I'm fresh out of hairspray and Windex...