Nora: “Mommy, why is Rowan crying?”
Me: “Probably because he’s hungry.”
Nora: “Maybe it’s because he doesn’t like the way Daddy’s arms feel. Because every time daddy holds him he starts screaming.”
Me: “Could be.”
I’ve got to get a new strategy for writing. Turns out that if I leave the task until nighttime, it just doesn’t happen. You see, the witching hour begins at our house around 4:00 p.m., right after nap time—when one would think the kids would be well rested, and therefore not whiny, clingy, and claiming to be starving, despite the fact that they refused to eat half or more of their lunch—and ends, roughly, between 7:30 and 9:30 p.m., the range of time during which one or more of the children fall asleep.
And by that point, after many, many consecutive nights of restless sleep, there is absolutely NO chance that I am getting up out of bed to compose anything of any worth. So, sadly, I haven’t even been trying.
The new idea is to get the writing done during the daytime. Right now, as I hopefully type away, my oldest is with the babysitter and her oldest girl, at a swim lesson. I have her younger daughter here at the house asleep for a nap, along with my two youngest. All is quiet, although I am hearing an occasional whimper and moan from both of the bedrooms. Please, please, stay asleep dear children!
It seems the weather has changed for the better around these parts, knock on wood, if one is willing to overlook the tornado watch that went on here for much of the day yesterday. So, we spent a good deal of time out in our yard on Sunday, pulling weeds and raking leaves—getting ready for some spring planting.
While the two younger kids were indoors napping, Nora and I helped Liam with some tasks. She and I set about pulling small weeds from inside the cracks between our patio stones. One weed I uprooted clearly upset an ants’ nest, as the little buggers starting climbing out of the crack by the tens and twenties.
I called Nora over to show her, knowing she gets a kick out of all things bugs. I love how she’s not grossed out by them, and enjoys picking them up and holding them when she can.
For the first couple of summers when we encountered bugs and insects I made a point to tell Nora about how we should be mindful and considerate around them, taking care not to smush them if we can. For the most part, she abided by these measures.
Seems as though we might need to have the talk again, because as soon as she saw all the ants, after she exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, look at all those little guys!” she followed up with, “Mama, wanna see how I kill the ants?”
“Hmmm?” I asked, half distracted.
“Wanna see how I kill the ants?”
Curious, I told her I did.
“Hold on,” she said, and then ran through the back door of the garage to the front porch.
She came back a moment later with a piece of sidewalk chalk, and began to explain as she acted out the steps:
“First, I take my chalk and I chalk them. See? Like this. I chalk them and then they become dead. They become dead,” she repeated, as if I hadn’t heard her clearly enough the first time around.
I returned to my weeding, wondering what had happened to my bug-loving child, only to be interrupted by her steadfast chalking and grunting.
“Got him. Got him. Got him. Got him, too!”
This reminds me of warm summer nights when I used to smush lightning bugs with my cousins in the alley behind our house, on the lids of rusty old trash barrels, just so we could see the brief smear of glowing luminescence when we did. Much as I want Nora to learn to be kind to all living things, I guess bug-killing is right up there with other childhood rites of passage, like learning how to ride a bike, and telling a fib for the first time.
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Speaking of telling a fib, our middle child—Miss Frances—has been in the habit lately of outright lying when she wants something, but one or more adults tell her no. She simply tells whoever is saying no, that the other parent said she could (But mommy said so—or—But daddy said so). She’s not even two yet! Where does this come from?!
Take for example, this little incident:
Yesterday morning there was a little cup of trail mix that Nora or Frances had left out on one of the end tables from the day before. All that was left in the cup were a few peanuts and raisins, as someone had eaten all of the M&Ms from inside it. Frances asked me if she could have more M&Ms, and I told her no. She countered with, “But daddy said so!”
Ha! Daddy was not even home at the time. He was at work, and I knew better.
“Daddy did not say so,” I told her sternly.
“But daddy give me,” she pleaded, hoping against all hope I would say:
“Oh? Daddy give you? Well, in that case, let me go get you some more chocolate.”
Instead, I said, “Daddy gave that to you yesterday. And you’re not eating chocolate for breakfast today.”
At least the baby is not giving us any trouble.
Yet.
Our oldest child is in a Montessori pre-school program a few mornings a week. On Fridays, a woman comes to her classroom to teach the students some beginning Spanish.
At first, Nora couldn’t easily remember what new Spanish words she’d learned when I asked her after school. But after several lessons (she used to not attend on Fridays), she’s able to relay more and more vocabulary.
At lunch today, she sang us a song with the lyrics: Adios amigos, Goodbye friends! over and over again.
Then, out of the blue, many hours later, on the drive home from picking up our car from being serviced, she said to me, “Mommy, do you know what buenos días means?”
I do, but asked her to tell me what it means. She thought for a moment and then replied, “It means hello.”
I clarified that while we do use buenos días to greet someone, it actually means good morning.
“Nuh-uh. It means hello. How do you know, anyway?” she said.
I told her I learned Spanish when I was in school and that I speak a little Spanish with my students at my job.
She was not convinced. “No, mommy. It just means hello.”
I felt my frustration level rising, although this could have been due to the fact that the baby was screaming and the middle child was whining about wanting me to hold her, as if I could just magically stop driving the car and respond to her wishes.
“OK, Nora,” I said. “I’m not going to argue with you. What is the point anyway, really?
Which is why moments later, after she had removed both her rain boots and socks while sitting in her car seat, and proclaimed matter-of-factly, while covering up the sunshine with an outstretched leg, “Mommy. Do you know that my foot is bigger than the sun?” I just acquiesced and replied, “Yep. Your foot is bigger than the sun.”
Someday she’ll learn that the sun is far bigger than her foot. And that Rapunzel, though beautiful in all her animated glory, is not a real person. And that candy is not a health food, even though it is really yummy. And even that a drive to the grocery store, while seemingly endless to her, does not, in fact, take forever.
I did overhear Nora telling my husband tonight that buenos días means hello, but you say it in the morning time. A nice little compromise, I think. And, close enough to the truth, anyway. So I’ll take it.
We’ve instituted a Friday night movie night custom in our house and it’s been in place now for a couple of months. The girls really look forward to being able to choose a movie and enjoy Liam’s homemade popcorn, especially when Mommy throws in some surprise M&Ms at the bottom of the bowl.
The oldest, ever like her mother, insists on not wanting to miss out on anything. She’s learned that there is a pause function on the TV and so she regularly demands we pause the movie when she needs to break for the bathroom or retrieve random objects she believes she requires during the middle of the film, such as slippers, barrettes, or cloth napkins, which double not only as hand cleaners, but also blankets for baby dolls.
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She’s also learned how to program the pause button on her CD player. She may be dancing to tunes in the living room and have to pee, so she’ll run across to the player, hit pause, dash to the bathroom, and then resume playing, singing, and dancing when she returns.
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Just last week I was enjoying watching her, without her really being aware of my presence, as she set up several stuffed animal friends on the dining room table edge. She then proceeded to put on a dancing show for them in the kitchen. This involved lots of spinning and expressive arm movements, and humming and singing, of course.
In the middle of her charade, I observed her doing a kind of pee-pee dance, as we call it around here, and then watched as she ran over to her furry friends, pressed an imaginary button, complete with her own clicking noise, and then said, “Hold on, guys. Your teacher is going to pause the show. I will be right back, so don’t go away.” Then she made me promise not to let her younger sister interfere with the friends or the show in her absence.
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This past Saturday I had plans to take the girls, my sister, and my niece to the local theater to see a family production of Cinderella. As our luck would have it though, the oldest woke up with tummy troubles, yet again, early that morning. I confess, it might have had something to do with the fact that the night before, we had fried fish sandwiches and French fries for dinner. Though her stomach had been good for days, her appetite hadn’t really returned until that point. And, up until then, she’d had some pretty safe and bland foods. I wasn’t really expecting her to eat much of the food, but she dug right in, and showed no signs of wanting to nibble politely as she had done for days before. Instead, she was like a famished runaway orphan, seizing the opportunity of a hot meal as though she didn’t know when she’d be able to eat ever again.
So, yesterday morning she woke up, puked once, and then proceeded to have diarrhea (What is it about this word, by the way, that is so supremely distasteful? Ugh!) off and on for the next several hours. Mom of the year, here, I tell you.
I explained to her that we might not be able to go to the show because her tummy was upset. I told her that we wouldn’t want to have to keep going to the potty and getting up from our seats. She thought about this for a second and then said, “But can’t we just pause it?”
I laughed out loud and explained that the show was not a movie, but a play. There would be real people on stage acting out the story, and other people in the audience would be watching, so we wouldn’t be able to actually pause the show. She looked very disappointed, and slightly confused, as I explained all of this and she contemplated what it meant.
In the end, we did go to the show. We only had to use the bathroom one time, more than halfway through the play. We could hear music and faint voices from our stall in the restroom. She wondered aloud about what part we were missing and I gave her the play-by-play as best I could, that the prince had just met Cinderella at the ball, and they were likely dancing and falling in love.
We made it back to our seats and finished the show without any other incidents, unless you consider her asking right at the end, as the cast lined up, in an extremely loud voice, whether or not she could talk to Cinderella because she had some questions to ask her.
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Then, in the middle of eating a meal together this evening, the oldest needed to go to the bathroom, yet again (thankfully, it seems the tummy troubles are behind us). As my husband was getting ready to put a forkful of pasta into his mouth, she asked if he could pause dinner. Of course, to her delight, he humored her and froze his fork in midair, while she ran to the bathroom with a big smile on her face. When she was out of sight, my husband continued eating and I just looked at him smiling and shaking my head.
If only pausing on demand were so easy for the rest of us. I’d invoke that power all the time. Maybe the next time the girls get into a heated argument about something I’ll just scream, “Pause, please!” at the top of my lungs, and see what happens. Seems like it might be worth a try.
Keeping things short tonight. This girl knows when to say enough is enough. After the week we’ve had, plus coming down with a full-fledged cold, a bubble bath and early bed are all I can fit into the rest of this day. Feeling beyond overjoyed that I get to savor another day off tomorrow. Thank you presidents, from the bottom of my heart.
I will leave you with a photo and a question to ponder: What is wrong with the scene below?
If you guessed that the younger child, and not the oldest, should be sitting in the baby highchair, as opposed to on her knees in the normal seat, you are correct. At least this situation was slightly better than the one before, where the only seat open when I came to dinner was the baby highchair. I insisted I would not be the one to sit there and that someone had better move unless they wanted me to take my dinner to eat in the basement, which, given my mood, may have been best for everyone.
The oldest actually prefers the baby seat, as of the past few weeks, so she obliged and gladly moved. Is she regressing since the baby is due to arrive in seven weeks and two days? (Not that I’m keeping exact count or anything). I think she might be as she now commonly refers to herself as “me” instead of “I” as the subject of many of her sentences.
Take for example, the following statements (this drives me totally crazy, by the way):
“Me do it.” “Me want daddy sleep with me.” “Me color using red crayon.”
This caveman speak from my child who has been forming grammatically correct sentences since she was twenty months old. What, oh what, do we have to look forward to once the baby actually gets here? I can’t wait to find out (note sarcasm, please).
Keeping the post brief tonight. My sister-in-law is here visiting from Martha’s Vineyard. She flew in to Philadelphia for a conference yesterday, and is having dinner and a sleepover with us!
A couple of updates:
#1: Turns out Nora’s mysterious “cousin” Oscar who was in Europe (which I thought she completely made up), is in fact an actual person. He is classmate of hers and was indeed on vacation in Europe. She even knew the name of the country he visited—Hampsterdam! This girl is too much.
#2: Also, I’m pretty sure I’ve traumatized our littlest and that she no longer enjoys taking baths. A few days after the “poopy in the tub” incident, we experienced a repeat performance. The oldest let us know about it straightaway, and Liam took his turn cleaning it all up. Thankfully, no grown-ups were in the bath at this time.
Still, I tried—as best you can with a toddler her age—to explain that if she needs to go poopy she needs to let us know so we can take her out of the tub.
“Why?” she asked me.
“Because it’s yucky,” I answered, wrinkling my face up to show my disgust.
“Oh,” she said, looking horrified and very sorry.
Two nights ago, she was in the tub for only a few minutes when she started yelling, “Out! Out!”
I inferred maybe she needed to go potty, so I placed her on the training ring on top of the toilet. She sat, but made no business. I put her in a diaper and minutes later she pooped. Such a smart little girl. I made an effort of being all excited and proud that she told us she had to go by saying she wanted out.
And then last night I gently reminded her once again about the poopy issue. She lasted in the tub maybe a minute before screaming, “Out!” This time though, I think she was crying wolf. I fear she fears our reaction should she go again, and just wants to avoid the situation at all costs.
So, no more lecturing from me. Poor gal. We’ll see how things go tonight.
Our oldest has been to the dentist twice now in the past year for regular check-ups. Our dentist is a former classmate of mine, which always makes for a pretty funny visit.
Prior to our first visit I explained to our daughter that she was going to see a “tooth doctor.” I discussed all the things I believed the dentist was going to do, including how I thought she might get a prize at the end of the visit. She wanted to know what that might be. When I didn’t offer anything up, she asked, “Like a lollipop?” I laughed and told her no, the dentist would not give her a lollipop because they are not good for your teeth. Then she said, after some thought, “Well, but they are good for your tongue.”
Can’t argue with that! Now, if only I could discourage my mom from bringing several for her to eat on the days she watches the girls, our teeth would be happy. Our tongues, not so much.
Nora recently sent a card to Liam’s mom (she goes by Grandmère and she lives in Connecticut). After telling me what she wanted to write in the message part of the card, Nora signed her name and drew her customary picture.
Her drawing consisted of several people, as it often does. I always ask Nora to tell me about the drawing so I can label the people or objects as necessary. Generally, this adds to the endearing quality of these notes. When I asked her to tell me about her drawing, she began pointing out the people: “This one’s mommy. And this one is me. This one is Frances, and this one is Grandma.”
“Grandma” is my mom. She lives close by, here in Pennsylvania. Naturally, she is the more familiar grandparent. I talked to Nora about why she might want to include Grandmère in her drawing and not Grandma—that Grandmère would probably really enjoy seeing a drawing of Grandmère with our family since she was the intended recipient of the card.
Nora looked like she didn’t totally get it but acquiesced anyway. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “OK.” She seemed mildly disappointed.
I finished labeling the drawing and reread Nora’s note aloud. I also went over her pictures one last time, just to make sure I had everything correct: “So this one’s mommy, right? And here is you. This one is Frances, and this one is Grandmère.”
I looked to her for confirmation and she responded with a heavy sigh, “Yeah. Even though that’s really Grandma.”
I tried to keep from laughing out loud and told her I thought Grandmère would really be pleased. Sometimes these lessons in learning to be considerate of other’s feelings can be difficult to embrace.
A Watercolor by Nora: “Mama and Me”
Restless Roost 