Me: Guess who's coming for a visit tomorrow? It's someone special.
Her: Grandpa.
Me: Nope. Keep guessing.
Her: IS IT GRANDPA?
Me: It's someone just as good! You know who's coming to visit? Auntie Heather.
Her: Sadiedoit.
Me: What?
Her: Sadie do it.
Me: Sadie do what?
Her: SADIE DO IT.
Me: Oh. Um...okay. Guess who's coming for a visit tomorrow?
Her: Auntie Heather.
Me: You're right!
Showing posts with label toddlerhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label toddlerhood. Show all posts
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Two Years, Three Months
Status: Bratty.
Sleep Schedule: Routine, for now
Likes: Jumping on couches; jumping on dogs; putting necklaces on dogs
Liked Two Weeks Ago: The Backyardigans
Passionately Dislikes Now: The Backyardigans
Mood at School: Anxious
Favorite Song: "The Itsy Bitsy Spider"
Favorite Song Two Weeks Ago: "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star"
Passionately Dislikes Now: "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star"
Afraid of: Garbage trucks; loud noises; the idea that someone might not be paying attention to her for, like, two seconds
Favorite Holiday: Halloween, followed closely by any birthday celebrated in the immediate vicinity, preferably accompanied by singing, blowing out of candles, and cupcakes
Gifts Received at Christmas: Too many to count
Favorite Christmas Gift: a rubber caterpillar toy that lights up when you whack it against things
Caterpillar's Name: "Caterpillar"
Favorite Thing to Whack the Caterpillar Against: Dogs
Sleep Schedule: Routine, for now
Likes: Jumping on couches; jumping on dogs; putting necklaces on dogs
Liked Two Weeks Ago: The Backyardigans
Passionately Dislikes Now: The Backyardigans
Mood at School: Anxious
Favorite Song: "The Itsy Bitsy Spider"
Favorite Song Two Weeks Ago: "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star"
Passionately Dislikes Now: "Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star"
Afraid of: Garbage trucks; loud noises; the idea that someone might not be paying attention to her for, like, two seconds
Favorite Holiday: Halloween, followed closely by any birthday celebrated in the immediate vicinity, preferably accompanied by singing, blowing out of candles, and cupcakes
Gifts Received at Christmas: Too many to count
Favorite Christmas Gift: a rubber caterpillar toy that lights up when you whack it against things
Caterpillar's Name: "Caterpillar"
Favorite Thing to Whack the Caterpillar Against: Dogs
Monday, December 5, 2011
A Bunch of Random Crap; Literally, That's What This Post Is
Her new thing is identifying red lights and green lights. Do you know how many stoplights there are in Studio City? Neither do I, but Sadie is helping to remedy this by helpfully pointing out each one of them.
We've been to the Americana at Brand three times since the holiday season began, and I think we could go every day for the rest of her life and she wouldn't get tired of it. Yesterday morning we met Amy and Narinder, Melanie and Dave for a really nice brunch, because I've been promising myself that I'd start inviting people out for more brunch dates. Afterwards we walked around the Americana, which is what it would look like if Christmas vomited on the lovechild of the Bellagio and Bedford Falls. Narinder got Sadie a balloon shaped like a dinosaur, and there are no words to describe what her mood was like the rest of the day. "Euphoric" comes close.
Okay, now I'm getting into the groove. I was dealing with a lot of anxiety for awhile over the pushing incidents at school, and Sadie's reaction to them. Which was, namely, to not want to be touched in any way by other kids whether it was pushes, hugs or random trips and falls. This is a problem, you know, because toddlers are all about invading the personal space of other people. When I sit and watch the other kids at school I notice little skirmishes happening constantly. Two kids will begin to argue over a toy, and it escalates incredibly quickly. From "Mine!" it goes to "MINE MINE MINE!" and then suddenly someone is smacking someone else. Sometimes there aren't even words first. The teachers intervene, the kids are pulled apart, and not one minute later the whole thing is forgotten and one is playing with the precious toy while the other is elbow deep in play dough.
Except with Sadie, it isn't like that. A kid pulls a toy from her hand, and she stares after them, crestfallen, but doesn't react. A kid pushes her aside on their way to the slide and she reels back in fear, sometimes yelling, "Be careful!" or other times, just bursts into tears.
At least, that's what was happening. Today we went to the Coop, and sat in the bouncy house. I had to be in there with her -- she wouldn't go inside by herself. But as we sat in there, kids came in and kids came out, and they cannonballed into each other at high velocities, and none of it seemed to bother her too much. That all changed, of course, the minute I tried to get out of the bouncy house without her -- she wouldn't have it, and stared at me with tear-filled blue eyes: "Mommy in the bounce house? Come in? MOMMY COME IN THE BOUNCE HOUSE." I'm hoping that means this storm might be passing.
Another nice thing happened, and that was that another of the moms at school chatted with me for awhile about what it's like having a sensitive kid. Her son, Sadie's classmate, is the youngest of four boys and one of the sweetest and most easygoing kids I've ever met. (Footnote: I haven't met many. Kids, that is.) Hearing her refer to Sadie as "sensitive" in such an off-handed way put it into sort of a nice, relaxing perspective. She has four boys, so she would know. Of course, shortly afterwards it put me into a panic. MY CHILD IS SENSITIVE, AND THIS UNIVERSE IS SO HARSH AND UNFORGIVING, HOW WILL SHE COPE??
Aaaanyway. One of the reasons why this post is so incoherent is because Scott has been gone for about ten days now, and he returns tomorrow, and the re-entry is always a little rocky so to be honest, I'm of mixed emotions about it. Here's how Sadie's and my states of mind tend to swing when we're living alone together for more than a week at a time:
DAY 1: Life is normal. Whee!
DAY 2: Hey -- where did Daddy go? I get suspicious looks and some serious attitude from my kid.
DAY 3: Sadie switches from grumpy to extremely clingy, on the off-chance that I, like her other parent, might become prone to long, unpredictable absences.
DAY 4: Okay, now we've settled into a groove. I get adventurous and do a bunch of laundry and cook meals for the following week. We spend the evening giggling.
DAY 5: My back's starting to hurt, and I could really use a full night's sleep.
DAY 6: SO. TIRED.
DAY 7: Sadie is convinced Daddy is never coming home, and when he calls over FaceTime she tends to busy herself with something else. I've crashed out at 9pm the past three nights after drinking too much wine.
DAY 8: When Ana shows up to take Sadie after four days of absence, Sadie is thrilled and I want to hurl myself into her arms and sob with relief. Then I spend the morning in the bedroom in front of the computer, quietly freaking about all the work that hasn't been done and the fact although I did laundry four days ago, I've neglected to actually put it away and now the hamper is already half full again.
DAY 9: Renewed commitment to the task at hand. It's her and me, together in this cold, cold world. (Oh -- and two dogs who need constant attention but haven't been walked in a week). We're both up to the task. We won't cry. We won't back down. We're tough. Invincible.
DAY 10: Oh hey, Daddy's home!
One month later: lather, rinse, repeat.
We've been to the Americana at Brand three times since the holiday season began, and I think we could go every day for the rest of her life and she wouldn't get tired of it. Yesterday morning we met Amy and Narinder, Melanie and Dave for a really nice brunch, because I've been promising myself that I'd start inviting people out for more brunch dates. Afterwards we walked around the Americana, which is what it would look like if Christmas vomited on the lovechild of the Bellagio and Bedford Falls. Narinder got Sadie a balloon shaped like a dinosaur, and there are no words to describe what her mood was like the rest of the day. "Euphoric" comes close.
Okay, now I'm getting into the groove. I was dealing with a lot of anxiety for awhile over the pushing incidents at school, and Sadie's reaction to them. Which was, namely, to not want to be touched in any way by other kids whether it was pushes, hugs or random trips and falls. This is a problem, you know, because toddlers are all about invading the personal space of other people. When I sit and watch the other kids at school I notice little skirmishes happening constantly. Two kids will begin to argue over a toy, and it escalates incredibly quickly. From "Mine!" it goes to "MINE MINE MINE!" and then suddenly someone is smacking someone else. Sometimes there aren't even words first. The teachers intervene, the kids are pulled apart, and not one minute later the whole thing is forgotten and one is playing with the precious toy while the other is elbow deep in play dough.
Except with Sadie, it isn't like that. A kid pulls a toy from her hand, and she stares after them, crestfallen, but doesn't react. A kid pushes her aside on their way to the slide and she reels back in fear, sometimes yelling, "Be careful!" or other times, just bursts into tears.
At least, that's what was happening. Today we went to the Coop, and sat in the bouncy house. I had to be in there with her -- she wouldn't go inside by herself. But as we sat in there, kids came in and kids came out, and they cannonballed into each other at high velocities, and none of it seemed to bother her too much. That all changed, of course, the minute I tried to get out of the bouncy house without her -- she wouldn't have it, and stared at me with tear-filled blue eyes: "Mommy in the bounce house? Come in? MOMMY COME IN THE BOUNCE HOUSE." I'm hoping that means this storm might be passing.
Another nice thing happened, and that was that another of the moms at school chatted with me for awhile about what it's like having a sensitive kid. Her son, Sadie's classmate, is the youngest of four boys and one of the sweetest and most easygoing kids I've ever met. (Footnote: I haven't met many. Kids, that is.) Hearing her refer to Sadie as "sensitive" in such an off-handed way put it into sort of a nice, relaxing perspective. She has four boys, so she would know. Of course, shortly afterwards it put me into a panic. MY CHILD IS SENSITIVE, AND THIS UNIVERSE IS SO HARSH AND UNFORGIVING, HOW WILL SHE COPE??
Aaaanyway. One of the reasons why this post is so incoherent is because Scott has been gone for about ten days now, and he returns tomorrow, and the re-entry is always a little rocky so to be honest, I'm of mixed emotions about it. Here's how Sadie's and my states of mind tend to swing when we're living alone together for more than a week at a time:
DAY 1: Life is normal. Whee!
DAY 2: Hey -- where did Daddy go? I get suspicious looks and some serious attitude from my kid.
DAY 3: Sadie switches from grumpy to extremely clingy, on the off-chance that I, like her other parent, might become prone to long, unpredictable absences.
DAY 4: Okay, now we've settled into a groove. I get adventurous and do a bunch of laundry and cook meals for the following week. We spend the evening giggling.
DAY 5: My back's starting to hurt, and I could really use a full night's sleep.
DAY 6: SO. TIRED.
DAY 7: Sadie is convinced Daddy is never coming home, and when he calls over FaceTime she tends to busy herself with something else. I've crashed out at 9pm the past three nights after drinking too much wine.
DAY 8: When Ana shows up to take Sadie after four days of absence, Sadie is thrilled and I want to hurl myself into her arms and sob with relief. Then I spend the morning in the bedroom in front of the computer, quietly freaking about all the work that hasn't been done and the fact although I did laundry four days ago, I've neglected to actually put it away and now the hamper is already half full again.
DAY 9: Renewed commitment to the task at hand. It's her and me, together in this cold, cold world. (Oh -- and two dogs who need constant attention but haven't been walked in a week). We're both up to the task. We won't cry. We won't back down. We're tough. Invincible.
DAY 10: Oh hey, Daddy's home!
One month later: lather, rinse, repeat.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Shove Me, Shove Me
We're at two years and two months now, and let's see...what's going on in life? My kid's personality has bloomed and grown. Half the time, she's a little blue-eyed angel with a softly glowing halo surrounding her strawberry blonde curls. The other half, she's a crazy shitmonster.
School continues to be interesting. Currently she goes twice a week, from 1:30 to 3:30 in the afternoon. Any parent of a kid older than one who's reading this post understands why that is totally crazy. As her naptime gets pushed later and later, she's less and less happy about being woken up to go to school. Nevertheless, to school we must go, and by the time she gets there she's pretty happy. That is, until one of the other children looks at her and decides to let out a little anger.
So, yeah. Scott and I are pretty mellow, and we gave birth to a mellow, pacifistic daughter. Sadie does not like fights. She doesn't like people being angry, period. When you scold her for doing something wrong, her response is to yell "HUG, HUG, HUG" at the top of her lungs and launch herself at you until she's sure that you're too overwhelmed by cuteness to hold a grudge. I love this very much about her, and it's something I treasure and want to encourage and nurture.
Okay, that said? Her peace-loving nature makes her a natural target on the schoolyard, and it's already starting to manifest itself in ways that are going to make life tough for her. Other kids in class have learned that if they want a toy that Sadie's holding, she's not going to fight back. She gets stuff snatched out of her hands routinely; if another kid stakes a claim to something wants, she'll wring her hands and look distressed, but it won't go beyond that. Today, she picked up a bracelet and began to play with it, not realizing that another girl had already claimed that as "hers" (Toddler Rule #17: If I played with it within the last 20 minutes, it's mine). The girl protested, and Sadie jumped and literally hurled the bracelet back in the girl's direction, then scurried off to go squash some play-doh inside a garlic press.
Upside? I secretly suspect the moms in my class are jealous of her good manners. "Oh, how cute," they sigh when she accepts a green plastic necklace from another kid with a heartfelt "THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR THE BEADS." (By the way, she speaks in all-caps now.)
The downside? Well, we've been learning that over the past few weeks. It started with a girl in class who pushed Sadie...just once...just to see what would happen. What happened is that Sadie's lip trembled and she wandered away to complain to the air. After that, it was like open season on the shy kid. She's been pushed a number of times, and when one kid is yelled at and taken away, another comes to take their place.
Last week, I had a gnarly cold, so Scott took her to school. When he came home, he reported that Lady Pushalot had been picking on Sadie, and had received a stern talking to from a teacher. When I brought her in today, I noticed a difference in Sadie's behavior. She walked in hesitantly, looking around constantly. As luck would have it, two boys came barreling up right as we walked in, pushing and shoving each other cheerfully. Her response was to step back in alarm, eyes open wide, hugging her own body. It took her several more minutes to gather up the courage to step into the classroom and make her way to a safe toy.
Watching her make her way ever so cautiously around the room, I found myself thinking about our dog, King. King is ten years old and weighs a whopping eight pounds. He is the size of a very small cat. When he hasn't been groomed recently, he's so short that his stomach fur brushes the ground. When King goes to the dog park, he's surrounded by dogs who weigh literally ten to fifteen times as much as he does.
And yet.
At the dog park, nobody messes with King. He goes about his business, peeing on rocks and whatnot, and if other dogs sniff him he'll respond with a friendly sniff of his own. But if they get too friendly, he's not afraid to give a sharp little snarl -- just something that says, "Dude. STEP OFF." And then they do, and everybody's happy.
So when I watch my daughter in class, I find myself thinking about King, and wishing he could speak Human so he could give my daughter a few valuable classes about standing up for yourself. "Hey -- bald dog. If they get too close and you don't like it, LET THEM KNOW. Don't be afraid. We peaceful little guys have to stand up for ourselves in this crazy, 'roided out world."
But he can't do that, and I can't order her to stand up for herself. So when one of those brawling boys -- let's call him McShovin -- came up to her on the playground today and joyfully pushed her to the ground, causing her to burst into hysterical tears, I felt trapped and hamstrung. I went over to hug her, aware of the temporary hush that had fallen over the yard, but for once I had no idea what to say to make it better. I just kind of stood there, awkward, as a teacher took the offender aside and sternly told him that hitting wasn't okay, that she was going to stop him from doing it.
As she did so, another of Sadie's teachers came up to me. "I want you to tell McShovin that it's not okay to hit Sadie," she said.
"You... want me to tell him?"
"Yes."
She led me and Sadie, still hiccuping with tears, back over to McShovin. He was standing there with the other teacher, looking at Sadie with mild curiosity.
"McShovin, Sadie's mommy has something to say to you."
He didn't want to hear it, and he turned away, but the teacher brought him back to us. His mother was sitting twenty feet away, engaged in conversation with other moms, and I wasn't sure if she could overhear our conversation, but what I did know was at that moment I was being stared at by two teachers and a wide-eyed little boy. Most importantly, my own daughter stood there in silence, looking at her accuser, waiting to see what I would say. And that's why I took a deep breath, looked this kid in the eyes, and said loudly enough for everyone on the schoolyard to hear me:
"McShovin, DON'T. PUSH. SADIE."
Well. I can't say for whom it was more cathartic -- Sadie, McShovin, or me, a thirty-three year old woman who spent more years than she cares to remember getting picked on, taunted and just plain overrun by schoolyard bullies who were always far too intimidating to talk back to. Will it change anything? I hope so, but I'm not sure. If there's one lesson we soon learn as kids, is that relying on your parents to fight your battles only works for a very finite amount of time. But it felt good to do it. And it felt good when, later on, we rode home in the car and I said, "Do you remember when McShovin pushed you today?" and she replied, "IT'S NOT OKAY."
King would be proud.
School continues to be interesting. Currently she goes twice a week, from 1:30 to 3:30 in the afternoon. Any parent of a kid older than one who's reading this post understands why that is totally crazy. As her naptime gets pushed later and later, she's less and less happy about being woken up to go to school. Nevertheless, to school we must go, and by the time she gets there she's pretty happy. That is, until one of the other children looks at her and decides to let out a little anger.
So, yeah. Scott and I are pretty mellow, and we gave birth to a mellow, pacifistic daughter. Sadie does not like fights. She doesn't like people being angry, period. When you scold her for doing something wrong, her response is to yell "HUG, HUG, HUG" at the top of her lungs and launch herself at you until she's sure that you're too overwhelmed by cuteness to hold a grudge. I love this very much about her, and it's something I treasure and want to encourage and nurture.
Okay, that said? Her peace-loving nature makes her a natural target on the schoolyard, and it's already starting to manifest itself in ways that are going to make life tough for her. Other kids in class have learned that if they want a toy that Sadie's holding, she's not going to fight back. She gets stuff snatched out of her hands routinely; if another kid stakes a claim to something wants, she'll wring her hands and look distressed, but it won't go beyond that. Today, she picked up a bracelet and began to play with it, not realizing that another girl had already claimed that as "hers" (Toddler Rule #17: If I played with it within the last 20 minutes, it's mine). The girl protested, and Sadie jumped and literally hurled the bracelet back in the girl's direction, then scurried off to go squash some play-doh inside a garlic press.
Upside? I secretly suspect the moms in my class are jealous of her good manners. "Oh, how cute," they sigh when she accepts a green plastic necklace from another kid with a heartfelt "THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR THE BEADS." (By the way, she speaks in all-caps now.)
The downside? Well, we've been learning that over the past few weeks. It started with a girl in class who pushed Sadie...just once...just to see what would happen. What happened is that Sadie's lip trembled and she wandered away to complain to the air. After that, it was like open season on the shy kid. She's been pushed a number of times, and when one kid is yelled at and taken away, another comes to take their place.
Last week, I had a gnarly cold, so Scott took her to school. When he came home, he reported that Lady Pushalot had been picking on Sadie, and had received a stern talking to from a teacher. When I brought her in today, I noticed a difference in Sadie's behavior. She walked in hesitantly, looking around constantly. As luck would have it, two boys came barreling up right as we walked in, pushing and shoving each other cheerfully. Her response was to step back in alarm, eyes open wide, hugging her own body. It took her several more minutes to gather up the courage to step into the classroom and make her way to a safe toy.
Watching her make her way ever so cautiously around the room, I found myself thinking about our dog, King. King is ten years old and weighs a whopping eight pounds. He is the size of a very small cat. When he hasn't been groomed recently, he's so short that his stomach fur brushes the ground. When King goes to the dog park, he's surrounded by dogs who weigh literally ten to fifteen times as much as he does.
And yet.
At the dog park, nobody messes with King. He goes about his business, peeing on rocks and whatnot, and if other dogs sniff him he'll respond with a friendly sniff of his own. But if they get too friendly, he's not afraid to give a sharp little snarl -- just something that says, "Dude. STEP OFF." And then they do, and everybody's happy.
So when I watch my daughter in class, I find myself thinking about King, and wishing he could speak Human so he could give my daughter a few valuable classes about standing up for yourself. "Hey -- bald dog. If they get too close and you don't like it, LET THEM KNOW. Don't be afraid. We peaceful little guys have to stand up for ourselves in this crazy, 'roided out world."
But he can't do that, and I can't order her to stand up for herself. So when one of those brawling boys -- let's call him McShovin -- came up to her on the playground today and joyfully pushed her to the ground, causing her to burst into hysterical tears, I felt trapped and hamstrung. I went over to hug her, aware of the temporary hush that had fallen over the yard, but for once I had no idea what to say to make it better. I just kind of stood there, awkward, as a teacher took the offender aside and sternly told him that hitting wasn't okay, that she was going to stop him from doing it.
As she did so, another of Sadie's teachers came up to me. "I want you to tell McShovin that it's not okay to hit Sadie," she said.
"You... want me to tell him?"
"Yes."
She led me and Sadie, still hiccuping with tears, back over to McShovin. He was standing there with the other teacher, looking at Sadie with mild curiosity.
"McShovin, Sadie's mommy has something to say to you."
He didn't want to hear it, and he turned away, but the teacher brought him back to us. His mother was sitting twenty feet away, engaged in conversation with other moms, and I wasn't sure if she could overhear our conversation, but what I did know was at that moment I was being stared at by two teachers and a wide-eyed little boy. Most importantly, my own daughter stood there in silence, looking at her accuser, waiting to see what I would say. And that's why I took a deep breath, looked this kid in the eyes, and said loudly enough for everyone on the schoolyard to hear me:
"McShovin, DON'T. PUSH. SADIE."
Well. I can't say for whom it was more cathartic -- Sadie, McShovin, or me, a thirty-three year old woman who spent more years than she cares to remember getting picked on, taunted and just plain overrun by schoolyard bullies who were always far too intimidating to talk back to. Will it change anything? I hope so, but I'm not sure. If there's one lesson we soon learn as kids, is that relying on your parents to fight your battles only works for a very finite amount of time. But it felt good to do it. And it felt good when, later on, we rode home in the car and I said, "Do you remember when McShovin pushed you today?" and she replied, "IT'S NOT OKAY."
King would be proud.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Merrily, Merrily, Merrily
Yeah, I can't keep up.
I get now why moms keep blogs throughout their kid's first year. It's freaking boring. Nap, eat, poop, nap, make a funny face, nap again.
But I can't keep up anymore. Every time Sadie does something awesome I think, "I should put that on the blog." But then she does something else. And then fifty more awesome things. And then she says, like, forty-six words in a row, and sings the words to "Don't Stop Believin'" and writes out Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech on her place mat in blue crayon.
I'm just kind of following her, in awe. Occasionally I stop to take video, but she's too smart to fool now, and immediately stops whatever cute thing she's doing to give me a look like "Bitch, please." Oh yeah, swearing is another thing she does. That's my fault. She knows "crap" and "Oh, shit." I can't tell her not to say them, because that only makes her say them more. I can't punish her for saying words that, to be honest, Mommy says all the time and couldn't stop saying if my life depended on it.
Then again, I'm probably failing all of the mom classes, and I don't worry about it anymore. I don't helicopter -- I don't have to, because I have a weird kid who enjoys sitting in one spot at the park, sifting sand through her fingers and occasionally noting, "I found trash." I fully endorse getting kids drunk on planes for overseas flights. I gave her a sip of my wine tonight because I thought it was funny. She asked for another sip but I said no, so please don't call CPS on me.
We have an amazing kid. She is hilarious, insightful and wise. When we have conversations over her head, she retains bits and tosses them back at me days later. When I sing a song in her presence, she remembers the cadence and the melody, even if the meaning of the words themselves are lost on her. Similarly, she can read a familiar book to herself and speak the lines exactly the way I say them. She is paying attention, all the time.
The thing I like best about being a parent is teaching her something new and watching as she files it away in her brain to retrieve for later. I taught her that the man on my Labyrinth tee shirt was named David Bowie, and now she knows that David Bowie is his name. She asks me what something is in passing, and I'll answer her absently: "shampoo." The next day she'll ask me again, but by the time I answer "shampoo," she'll have focused on something else. But the third time, I'll pause and point to it, wait until she's really paying attention, and I'll say, "this is shampoo. It's called shampoo." And wonder of wonders, the next time she sees my bottle of shampoo, she knows that it's called shampoo. And will, forever, until the end of time, know that this thing is called shampoo. That blows me right the hell away.
Sure, the responsibility wigs me out. Wouldn't it wig you out, too? It should. Everything you say is of ultimate importance. You can tell them anything, and they will believe it. If you tell them that a wind blew the door closed or that Tootie from "Yo Gabba Gabba" lives under the bed and snuck out to slam the door before running back under the bed to hide, these explanations are equally plausible. One may cause more nightmares than the other.
I'm going to stop trying to catalogue everything that happens, and just settle back to enjoy the ride.
I get now why moms keep blogs throughout their kid's first year. It's freaking boring. Nap, eat, poop, nap, make a funny face, nap again.
But I can't keep up anymore. Every time Sadie does something awesome I think, "I should put that on the blog." But then she does something else. And then fifty more awesome things. And then she says, like, forty-six words in a row, and sings the words to "Don't Stop Believin'" and writes out Martin Luther King's "I Have a Dream" speech on her place mat in blue crayon.
I'm just kind of following her, in awe. Occasionally I stop to take video, but she's too smart to fool now, and immediately stops whatever cute thing she's doing to give me a look like "Bitch, please." Oh yeah, swearing is another thing she does. That's my fault. She knows "crap" and "Oh, shit." I can't tell her not to say them, because that only makes her say them more. I can't punish her for saying words that, to be honest, Mommy says all the time and couldn't stop saying if my life depended on it.
Then again, I'm probably failing all of the mom classes, and I don't worry about it anymore. I don't helicopter -- I don't have to, because I have a weird kid who enjoys sitting in one spot at the park, sifting sand through her fingers and occasionally noting, "I found trash." I fully endorse getting kids drunk on planes for overseas flights. I gave her a sip of my wine tonight because I thought it was funny. She asked for another sip but I said no, so please don't call CPS on me.
We have an amazing kid. She is hilarious, insightful and wise. When we have conversations over her head, she retains bits and tosses them back at me days later. When I sing a song in her presence, she remembers the cadence and the melody, even if the meaning of the words themselves are lost on her. Similarly, she can read a familiar book to herself and speak the lines exactly the way I say them. She is paying attention, all the time.
The thing I like best about being a parent is teaching her something new and watching as she files it away in her brain to retrieve for later. I taught her that the man on my Labyrinth tee shirt was named David Bowie, and now she knows that David Bowie is his name. She asks me what something is in passing, and I'll answer her absently: "shampoo." The next day she'll ask me again, but by the time I answer "shampoo," she'll have focused on something else. But the third time, I'll pause and point to it, wait until she's really paying attention, and I'll say, "this is shampoo. It's called shampoo." And wonder of wonders, the next time she sees my bottle of shampoo, she knows that it's called shampoo. And will, forever, until the end of time, know that this thing is called shampoo. That blows me right the hell away.
Sure, the responsibility wigs me out. Wouldn't it wig you out, too? It should. Everything you say is of ultimate importance. You can tell them anything, and they will believe it. If you tell them that a wind blew the door closed or that Tootie from "Yo Gabba Gabba" lives under the bed and snuck out to slam the door before running back under the bed to hide, these explanations are equally plausible. One may cause more nightmares than the other.
I'm going to stop trying to catalogue everything that happens, and just settle back to enjoy the ride.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Growing Up as Hard as She Can
I see my little baby, and she isn't a baby anymore. She's a kid now.
A kid, with a full vocabulary and the ability to carry on conversations with herself. "Where's paci? I don't see it. Oh! There she is. Hi, paci," is an exchange she might commonly have with an inanimate object, one of many.
She is developing patience. She isn't very good at it, but she's trying doggedly to get better at it. As I make her dinner, she hangs on to my knees, burying her head in the leg of my jeans, begging please and suggesting, "Dinner's ready!"
She tells us what she feels like eating. When we tell her no, that we're out of watermelon or that a cookie comes after dinner, she shrugs it off and eats what's on her plate -- or doesn't eat it, and asks to get down to play. Her appetite is healthy and she has passed the picky phase that saw her eating butter noodles with Parmesan cheese for weeks on end.
She's a brat, but we're working hard not to spoil her. It's easier said than done.
I have a philosophy now when it comes to raising her, and when I stumbled upon it, it felt comfortable and right. The philosophy is: allow her to fit into the life that we already live, and avoid molding our lives around fitting her needs.
This sounds like I'm saying that I make her eat sushi-and-sake dinners, take in an 8pm Friday night showing of "Cowboys and Aliens," and leave her to her own devices while I check my email. That isn't case. (Okay, so the last one is partly true.)
What is really means is that I use this philosophy to stop myself when I realize that I'm spending too much time trying to guess what Sadie wants and what will keep her happy. I need to be better about deciding what the routine is, telling her exactly what that routine will be, and then expecting her to go along with it.
Take, for example, the process of getting ready in the morning. We eat breakfast, change her diaper and put on her daytime clothes, then move her into the bathroom where she brushes her teeth on the sink and I comb and brush her hair. On any given morning, this simple routine might be ambushed for a dozen different reasons. Perhaps today is the day that she re-discovers a book on her bedroom floor at the exact moment that I'm trying to move her to the changing table, and she demands to be able to bring the book up with her. Perhaps she would rather put the toothbrush aside and instead, put the cap on the hairspray bottle and take it off half a hundred times.
There are ways to keep her happy throughout the process, and I've learned them all. Swap out a forbidden toy with a safer one. Distract by singing songs, by making funny faces in the mirror, by promising "five more minutes and we're done." It didn't take long for Sadie to figure out that all it would take was a passing whine and her mother would contort herself into any position necessary to fix the problem.
One day I asked myself: "what would happen if I didn't fix the problem?" And instead of trying to fix it, I just let it happen. The whining continued, but it eventually wore itself out. Occasionally, it did lead to bigger fights. One toothbrush war in particular ended with blood shed on both sides, as I forcibly wrangled a toothbrush into her mouth while she screamed bloody murder and tried to stab the pointy end into my eye.
But by and large, the tactic worked. Go along with the plan, expect her to do the same, and make occasional -- but infrequent -- concessions to her changes of mind along the way. What I want her to do is to see that Mommy and Daddy are PEOPLE. We are not robots, designed for the express purpose of giving her happiness and new toys and occasional bites of their delicious pumpkin pancakes. WE ordered those pancakes. Because we were hungry, and IHOP sounded good, and you live with us now so you were lucky enough to be included on the trip. That in an of itself does not mean you have a right to grab the pancakes off of our plates, push a piece into your mouth, declare it "too much," and let the pancake molecules rain out of our mouth onto the IHOP floor.
My hope is that as I get better at applying my new philosophy, Sadie will come to understand that she is not the princess in the throne room, seated with a long line of admirers come to pay respects. I want to teach her that she has the ability to affect the feelings of people other than herself. I know that this is something that kids her age are only just beginning to comprehend, but I see the beginning of it in her and I want to encourage them. A boy cries at Target behind us and she turns to me and whispers, "Baby cry."
"Yes, the baby is crying."
"You hear that?"
"Yes, I hear it."
She focuses harder. "Why baby cry? Baby sad."
"Maybe he's sad. Maybe he wants his mommy to hold him instead of his daddy. Maybe he's tired and needs a nap." I watch her face, as she struggles to understand why another baby would be upset when she herself is not feeling upset, and what that might mean.
At home, I ask her for a hug and she pushes me away without another look, more interested in the new toy we've just bought. Then she catches sight of my face, which I have exaggerated to look extra sad. "I feel sad," I tell her. "It makes me sad that you didn't give me a kiss."
Instantly she leans forward and blows me an exaggerated kiss, followed by a bright smile that shows she expects everything to be better, now that Mommy is happy.
A kid, with a full vocabulary and the ability to carry on conversations with herself. "Where's paci? I don't see it. Oh! There she is. Hi, paci," is an exchange she might commonly have with an inanimate object, one of many.
She is developing patience. She isn't very good at it, but she's trying doggedly to get better at it. As I make her dinner, she hangs on to my knees, burying her head in the leg of my jeans, begging please and suggesting, "Dinner's ready!"
She tells us what she feels like eating. When we tell her no, that we're out of watermelon or that a cookie comes after dinner, she shrugs it off and eats what's on her plate -- or doesn't eat it, and asks to get down to play. Her appetite is healthy and she has passed the picky phase that saw her eating butter noodles with Parmesan cheese for weeks on end.
She's a brat, but we're working hard not to spoil her. It's easier said than done.
I have a philosophy now when it comes to raising her, and when I stumbled upon it, it felt comfortable and right. The philosophy is: allow her to fit into the life that we already live, and avoid molding our lives around fitting her needs.
This sounds like I'm saying that I make her eat sushi-and-sake dinners, take in an 8pm Friday night showing of "Cowboys and Aliens," and leave her to her own devices while I check my email. That isn't case. (Okay, so the last one is partly true.)
What is really means is that I use this philosophy to stop myself when I realize that I'm spending too much time trying to guess what Sadie wants and what will keep her happy. I need to be better about deciding what the routine is, telling her exactly what that routine will be, and then expecting her to go along with it.
Take, for example, the process of getting ready in the morning. We eat breakfast, change her diaper and put on her daytime clothes, then move her into the bathroom where she brushes her teeth on the sink and I comb and brush her hair. On any given morning, this simple routine might be ambushed for a dozen different reasons. Perhaps today is the day that she re-discovers a book on her bedroom floor at the exact moment that I'm trying to move her to the changing table, and she demands to be able to bring the book up with her. Perhaps she would rather put the toothbrush aside and instead, put the cap on the hairspray bottle and take it off half a hundred times.
There are ways to keep her happy throughout the process, and I've learned them all. Swap out a forbidden toy with a safer one. Distract by singing songs, by making funny faces in the mirror, by promising "five more minutes and we're done." It didn't take long for Sadie to figure out that all it would take was a passing whine and her mother would contort herself into any position necessary to fix the problem.
One day I asked myself: "what would happen if I didn't fix the problem?" And instead of trying to fix it, I just let it happen. The whining continued, but it eventually wore itself out. Occasionally, it did lead to bigger fights. One toothbrush war in particular ended with blood shed on both sides, as I forcibly wrangled a toothbrush into her mouth while she screamed bloody murder and tried to stab the pointy end into my eye.
But by and large, the tactic worked. Go along with the plan, expect her to do the same, and make occasional -- but infrequent -- concessions to her changes of mind along the way. What I want her to do is to see that Mommy and Daddy are PEOPLE. We are not robots, designed for the express purpose of giving her happiness and new toys and occasional bites of their delicious pumpkin pancakes. WE ordered those pancakes. Because we were hungry, and IHOP sounded good, and you live with us now so you were lucky enough to be included on the trip. That in an of itself does not mean you have a right to grab the pancakes off of our plates, push a piece into your mouth, declare it "too much," and let the pancake molecules rain out of our mouth onto the IHOP floor.
My hope is that as I get better at applying my new philosophy, Sadie will come to understand that she is not the princess in the throne room, seated with a long line of admirers come to pay respects. I want to teach her that she has the ability to affect the feelings of people other than herself. I know that this is something that kids her age are only just beginning to comprehend, but I see the beginning of it in her and I want to encourage them. A boy cries at Target behind us and she turns to me and whispers, "Baby cry."
"Yes, the baby is crying."
"You hear that?"
"Yes, I hear it."
She focuses harder. "Why baby cry? Baby sad."
"Maybe he's sad. Maybe he wants his mommy to hold him instead of his daddy. Maybe he's tired and needs a nap." I watch her face, as she struggles to understand why another baby would be upset when she herself is not feeling upset, and what that might mean.
At home, I ask her for a hug and she pushes me away without another look, more interested in the new toy we've just bought. Then she catches sight of my face, which I have exaggerated to look extra sad. "I feel sad," I tell her. "It makes me sad that you didn't give me a kiss."
Instantly she leans forward and blows me an exaggerated kiss, followed by a bright smile that shows she expects everything to be better, now that Mommy is happy.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Separation Anxiety
I am fortunate enough to have a husband who works, and unfortunate enough to have a husband who travels frequently. Sometimes, they're even home at the same time and then things really get awkward. (Sorry. I have a secret love of Mormon housewife blogs and sometimes I unintentionally pick up their wryly serene tone.)
Really, though, it's tough. Tough on me, but much easier than it used to be, in the times before I got used to how it felt to have a partner share your home and then leave for a week or two and then, just when it was beginning to feel like a new sort of normal to live on your own again, have them walk back in the door, only to leave again a week later. Now I'm used to that hectic-ness, and look forward to one day not having to deal with it quite as often as I do now. Then again, my mom copes with the same thing because my dad still travels regularly for work, so maybe it's just a lifestyle to get used to.
A lifestyle for adults to get used to. I'm starting to understand that for a kid, it's much harder.
My memories of Dad traveling when I was a kid are hazy. He'd be gone for a week, to Dayton or Oklahoma City, and when he'd got home, if I was lucky, I'd get a present, so that was cool. I don't remember it being tough. But I see it becoming tough for Sadie.
She's a hop, skip and a jump away from 2 years old now, and old enough to understand the passage of time. She's also at a point where routine is everything. It has always been important, but now it's crucial. We have a routine for meals, a routine for saying goodbye when Ana arrives in the morning, and a very long routine for going to bed that involves EXACTLY THREE STORIES while sitting on Mommy's lap and then walking around the room saying goodnight to every single object she has ever owned or will own, ever.
Daddy is a big part of that routine, and now he's not here. (He also doesn't read this blog, or else he'd guilt-trip me into infinity for saying this.) He gets home right around her bedtime, too late to really hang out together, so usually he gets up with her in the morning and fixes her a bottle. He checks his email while she sits in his lap and watches "Sesame Street." I get up a little bit later, but not too quickly, because I know this is their hang-out time and it's important. Also, I really like to sleep in.
Okay, now that I've become maudlin, here's a quick rundown of what our week has been like with Scott out of town.
Monday: Nothing out of the ordinary. We meet my friend Birge and her daughter Nova at the zoo. Sadie seems to be starting a phase wherein she wants to do crazy things like lie down on the dirty ground outside the orangutan house and declare that she's "sleeping." Scott's not there when I tuck her in, but that happens often, so I chalk up her behavior to a typical toddler phase.
Tuesday: Up at 5:45 am. WTF? She's begun to suspect something's amiss. Ana arrives and she whines, wanting to stay in my lap, but is easily diverted by the promise of taking the dogs for a walk, and a moment later toddles off hand-in-hand with Ana. That night, she gets into one of her cranky moods which can only be appeased by torturing the dogs and running around in circles until she falls down and cries because it's my fault.
Wednesday: Up at 6:30. When Ana walks in the door at 8:30, Sadie bursts into tears and orders her to leave. To say that this is unusual behavior is like saying that Cookie Monster rejecting an Oreo is unusual behavior. Fuck, even my analogies have Muppets in them. We drive to my parents' house for dinner, and she threatens a meltdown the whole way Her angelic behavior with my parents lasts until approximately 30 seconds after I've put her back in her car seat for the drive home, after which she fusses and cries for almost the entire hour that it takes to get home.
(Wednesday night addendum: She wakes up at least four times. That I can remember.)
Thursday: Up at 5:45. There is not enough coffee in the world. When Ana arrives, Sadie looks at her, looks back at me, and HITS ME ON THE ARM as hard as she can. I'm starting to get that she's mad at me. Thursday evening I take her to visit Marcia and Mirk, my grandparents, whom she hasn't seen in a month or two. She's good for about 45 minutes and then she crawls into my arms, closes her eyes and refuses to look at anyone. Bedtime at 6:15.
Friday: ???? Oh, right, Scott's home! Thank God.
Really, though, it's tough. Tough on me, but much easier than it used to be, in the times before I got used to how it felt to have a partner share your home and then leave for a week or two and then, just when it was beginning to feel like a new sort of normal to live on your own again, have them walk back in the door, only to leave again a week later. Now I'm used to that hectic-ness, and look forward to one day not having to deal with it quite as often as I do now. Then again, my mom copes with the same thing because my dad still travels regularly for work, so maybe it's just a lifestyle to get used to.
A lifestyle for adults to get used to. I'm starting to understand that for a kid, it's much harder.
My memories of Dad traveling when I was a kid are hazy. He'd be gone for a week, to Dayton or Oklahoma City, and when he'd got home, if I was lucky, I'd get a present, so that was cool. I don't remember it being tough. But I see it becoming tough for Sadie.
She's a hop, skip and a jump away from 2 years old now, and old enough to understand the passage of time. She's also at a point where routine is everything. It has always been important, but now it's crucial. We have a routine for meals, a routine for saying goodbye when Ana arrives in the morning, and a very long routine for going to bed that involves EXACTLY THREE STORIES while sitting on Mommy's lap and then walking around the room saying goodnight to every single object she has ever owned or will own, ever.
Daddy is a big part of that routine, and now he's not here. (He also doesn't read this blog, or else he'd guilt-trip me into infinity for saying this.) He gets home right around her bedtime, too late to really hang out together, so usually he gets up with her in the morning and fixes her a bottle. He checks his email while she sits in his lap and watches "Sesame Street." I get up a little bit later, but not too quickly, because I know this is their hang-out time and it's important. Also, I really like to sleep in.
Okay, now that I've become maudlin, here's a quick rundown of what our week has been like with Scott out of town.
Monday: Nothing out of the ordinary. We meet my friend Birge and her daughter Nova at the zoo. Sadie seems to be starting a phase wherein she wants to do crazy things like lie down on the dirty ground outside the orangutan house and declare that she's "sleeping." Scott's not there when I tuck her in, but that happens often, so I chalk up her behavior to a typical toddler phase.
Tuesday: Up at 5:45 am. WTF? She's begun to suspect something's amiss. Ana arrives and she whines, wanting to stay in my lap, but is easily diverted by the promise of taking the dogs for a walk, and a moment later toddles off hand-in-hand with Ana. That night, she gets into one of her cranky moods which can only be appeased by torturing the dogs and running around in circles until she falls down and cries because it's my fault.
Wednesday: Up at 6:30. When Ana walks in the door at 8:30, Sadie bursts into tears and orders her to leave. To say that this is unusual behavior is like saying that Cookie Monster rejecting an Oreo is unusual behavior. Fuck, even my analogies have Muppets in them. We drive to my parents' house for dinner, and she threatens a meltdown the whole way Her angelic behavior with my parents lasts until approximately 30 seconds after I've put her back in her car seat for the drive home, after which she fusses and cries for almost the entire hour that it takes to get home.
(Wednesday night addendum: She wakes up at least four times. That I can remember.)
Thursday: Up at 5:45. There is not enough coffee in the world. When Ana arrives, Sadie looks at her, looks back at me, and HITS ME ON THE ARM as hard as she can. I'm starting to get that she's mad at me. Thursday evening I take her to visit Marcia and Mirk, my grandparents, whom she hasn't seen in a month or two. She's good for about 45 minutes and then she crawls into my arms, closes her eyes and refuses to look at anyone. Bedtime at 6:15.
Friday: ???? Oh, right, Scott's home! Thank God.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)