Too Scawwy

05.25.06

            “Cautious” was a word that would not have applied to my child before she had words of her own.  She’s was a full-speed, run-with-scissors, climb up and jump off anything kind of kid.  And then she learned to talk.

            The first time I noticed language feeding into common sense was at the new West Duluth McDonald’s playland, the one with the stairs inside the tree.  She wouldn’t climb up there to go across the “skywalk” and come down the slide.  I asked, “Why don’t you want to go up there?”

            “Too high,” she said, and the simplicity of that explanation caught me off guard.  Since when had anything been “too high” for my little daredevil?  And where on earth did she learn the concept of “too high” anyway?

            I’m betting she learned it from her Daddy. 

            From day one he’s questioned my ability to keep this kid alive.  “Don’t drop the baby,” he would counsel, and then laugh like it was a joke, only it really wasn’t.  We flew to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Florida when Little Miss was eighteen months old to visit Papa and Nana, and Daddy said, (and more than once, I might add) “Don’t drown the baby,”  As if doing so was somehow part of my evil master plan.

            If I were to take a wild guess I’d think his concern must stem back to my whole issue with cooking.  Cooking’s not really my thing.  I’d start making a nice meal, then get caught up in something else like reading, email, whatever… and wouldn’t notice when things in the kitchen started to go bad.

            My brain requires constant stimulation.  It’s impossible for me to just sit do nothing for even 5 minutes while I wait for… something to cook, the kid to get tired of playing at the playground, the dentist to call me in for my turn, the stop light to turn green.  I have to read, write, daydream, talk on the phone or I just can’t bear it.

            In Florida at eighteen months old my Little Miss loved the swimming pool.  Fearless.  In fact we didn’t spent a whole lot of time at the pool that trip because what she loved most about the pool was jumping off the side with total unconcern about being caught.  It became her goal to run around the pool to where I wasn’t waiting for her and leap in.  And me with the words, “Don’t drown the baby” swimming in my head.  It gave me stress.

            Now she’s 2 and a half yearsold, (“I’m going to be 3 on my next birthday, Mom,”) and her mastery of language is phenomenal.  As well as her concept of “too high,” “too deep,” and “too scawwy.”

            We were invited to swim at Grandpa’s hotel last night.  I thought Little Miss would love it because she has this little obsession with water that includes the bathroom sink, the garden hose, the beach, and puddles.  I swear she’s wet more than she’s dry these days, and it has nothing to do with potty training. 

            I can’t tell you how annoyed I was when she hated the swimming pool.  Well, okay, maybe I can.  Here’s me:  I worked all day after only 4 hours of sleep, ate way too much at Timberlodge, and now I am cold and wet in a swimming pool and my child refuses to come into the water.

            I did, in fact, get her into the pool, but that whole process was the quintessential description of “dragging someone kicking and screaming.”  Obviously a phrase developed by parents of a stubborn (whoops, I mean “strong-willed”) 3 year old.  She was screaming, “No!  Put me out!  Too scawwy!” 

            I’m holding her in her swimsuit with the built-in inner-tube assuring her that it’s okay, Mommy will keep her safe.

            “No!” She screams, her bigangry voice resounding throughout the pool area, “Daddy keeps me safe!  I want to get out!”

            Hmph.  Fine.  I lift her to the side of the pool where she stands dripping and glaring down at me.  “You in biiiig trouble, dude.”

            “Why am I in big trouble?” 

            “It’s too scawwy for me.  You don’t keep me safe.”

            Whatever.  I dive under the water and swim the length of the pool, which tickles her to no end.  For the next hour she’s a little dictator, pacing the side of the pool, gesturing imperiously, and saying, “Swim under water, Mom, like my fishes.”

            I was exhausted when we got home.  The closest I got to getting her in the water again was to sit on the pool edge to make big splashes with her feet.  And she acted wary and suspicious of me the whole time, afraid I was going to pull her in against her will.

            As I cuddled her in her bed (which for some reason lately is actually the floor) I said, “Well, maybe next time you’ll go in the pool more.”

            “Yes,” she agreed,“Daddy come and keep me safe.”

            Thanks a lot.

            Sometimes Mom does all the work.  But Daddy’s always the hero.

 

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2 fish, 3 days: so far so good

05.18.06

            What do you do with a bright, energetic, creative, strong-willed almost-three year old daughter on the twelfth rainy day in a row?

            Truly a nightmarish dilemma, one to which many Duluthians can probably relate.

            Every movie we own is now irritating and boring.

            Well except that one, which has become truly, truly aggravating.  Whatever possessed the British-born Wiggles to attempt to make an American Cowboy movie for children?   And whatever possessed Mommy to buy it?  Oh yeah, the cowboy phase we went through a few months ago.  That’s right, I remember now.  It was a few minutes before the Dora the Explorer phase.

            During the rainy period my Little Miss announced that our dog is not an animal, but rather a “pet.”  And that she wanted a pet of her very own. 

            “Jazz is your pet, Sweetie.”

            “No, Mom, Jazz is the family pet.  I need a pet of my very own.”

            “What sort of pet do you want?”

            “Turtle.  Like at the zoo.”

            Ooh, turtle.  Umm… Mom accesses mental turtle database… salmonella carrier… lifespan up to 40 years in captivity…

            “Ah, Miss, maybe a goldfish would be better.”

            “Yes, I want a goldfish.  An orange one.”

            Whew.  That was easy enough.  “Okay, we’ll talk to Daddy.”

            She asks Daddy for a goldfish one evening while I am at work.  So now Daddy thinks the whole fish thing is basically his idea, and he’s elevated himself to Super Daddy status once again.  He tells her he’ll take her to get a goldfish on Saturday.

            Wednesday… Friday… I laughed to listen to her tell me, “I get my goldfish on Saturday,” because she has no idea when Saturday is.

            Or does she?

            Saturday mornings we always watch Signing Time together, which is a fantastic show on PBS that teaches American Sign Language.  This week we learned to sign “stop” and “go,” and how to play an ASL version of Red Light, Green Light.  Afterward my sweet darling said, “Today is Saturday.  I need to get my goldfish now.”

            I am constantly amazed at how smart an almost-three-year old can be.

            When Daddy woke up my Little Miss said, “It’s Saturday, Dad!” told him “We need to get my goldfish,” and sang the “Dad is Great” song.  Wait, I think he sang the “Dad is Great” song.  Yeah, that sounds about right.

            Aqua Hut here we come.  We walk in and a gal asks if we need help.  “I need a goldfish!” Little Miss says.

            As we walk toward the tanks of fish the gal asks her, “What color goldfish do you want?  Do you want a black one, or maybe a spotted one?”

            My girl stops walking and looks up at the lady, “An orange one,” and she says it like she’s wondering what the lady can possibly be thinking.  Nobody’s pulling one over on this girl, I tell ya.

            She picks an orange fish.  I tell her to pick another one, and she doesn’t quite know what to think of that.  “I get TWO fishes, Mom?  Two fishes?  For me?”

            Then she gets to pick out a bowl, purple and orange aquarium rocks, and a tree.

            At home we set everything up according to instruction and after a little bit my girl has two fishes swimming in a fishbowl.

            She is enthralled.  She asks, “What’s their names, Mom?”

            “Igor and Camille,” I say, thinking I’m making a joke.  “Or Bosco and Bob.  Flotsam and Jetsam.  Flim and Flam.”

            “Igor and ‘Mille,” she says, very serious.  And so the fish have names.

            For the next three days the fish go everywhere she goes.  “Put my fish in the front room, Mom.”  At naptime, “Put the fish on my shelf mom.”  In the morning, “Fish downstairs, too, Mom.”  For three days she stares into the bowl, and gives me the blow by blow, “My fishes are swimmin’ in the water.  Come quick!  My fishes are eating!”

            Every few hours I am relieved to find both fish alive.  They’re swimming, they’re eating, it’s all good.  I’m pretty impressed.  Generally if something can’t cry for food around here it doesn’t last long.  But we’ve kept two fish alive for three days running.

            Sometimes rainy days are tough.  Sometimes a couple of goldfish are like sunshine.

 

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Mixed Drinks

05.11.06

 

            So somebody around here started something.  I’m not going to say who, but aside from me and the Little Miss only one other person lives here, so I imagine you can figure it out.

            Seemingly out of the blue, as I’m pouring her some apple juice, she says, “Mix it, Mom.”

            Um, mix it with what?  I already mix it with water …

            “I want apple-grapefruit juice.”

            You’re kidding, right?  I mean apple juice and grapefruit juice mixed together in the same cup?  Who came up with this idea?  Ish!

            “I want it mixed, Mom!”

            Okay, I’ll mix it.  What do I care?  I don’t have to drink the stuff.

            This is all fine and dandy, and not a horribly unreasonable request as long as we have both apple and grapefruit juice.

            The trouble arises when we’re out of one or the other.

            “I want it mixed, Mom.”

            “You can’t have it mixed.  We only have apple.”

            “I want it mixed.  Now!”

            “Now” is the new phase we’re in. As in “I want to go to Grandma’s NOW.  I want to play outside, NOW.  Go to the store NOW, Mom.”

            Which is how the discussion went last night, being that we were all out of grapefruit juice at bedtime. 

            We’re not going to the store now.  We’ve been running all day.  I’m tired.  She hasn’t had a nap.  She needs to go to bed – NOW.  (Oh yeah, I can play this game, too).

            So I’m reflecting on who started this “mixed drinks” idea with my girl, anyway.  I know I had no part in it.  And I wonder if this is a bad thing, a pre-cursor of things to come in her future … like, umm … Fuzzy Navel, Long Island Iced Tea, Sex-On-The-Beach (god forbid my child should ever say such words) or my own favorite, Vodka Collins … are we instilling in a two year old a love for mixed drinks?

            Oddly enough this train of thought leads me to the solution of mixed juice, at least for the evening.  There’s a small bottle of grenadine in the refrigerator.  I can make her apple juice at least look  like apple-grapefruit juice.

            Yeah, yeah, I realize that’s merely feeding in to my mixed drinks concern, but I’m tired.  This whole parenting thing is much harder than it looked like on the outside.

            Before I had my own kid I could see right off what everybody else was doing wrong with their kids.  If they didn’t spank, they should.  If they did spank and it wasn’t effective, well, they were doing it too often and for trivial reasons.  If kids didn’t listen then obviously the parents were yelling too much.  Common sense, all of it.

            Shows what I knew.

            I had never factored in strong wills, personality differences … exhaustion.

            This is an amazing, frustrating, aggravating, beautiful experience – and surely one like no other.  I’m glad I chose the Mommy Road.  I have brief moments of regret only at six in the morning when I would do almost anything for one more hour of sleep.  And at bedtime, when I would do almost anything (like adding grenadine to apple juice) to get one extra  hour of writing time. 

            The grenadine worked like a charm.  She went right to sleep. 

            And so did I.

            Thus I sit here on deadline day clicking the keys furiously.

 

            Sometimes you know what you’re doing.  Sometimes you only think you do.

 

 

Reader Weekly archive: http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/370/Sheri_Johnson.html

 

Living on Love

 05.04.06

            Okay, my kid doesn’t eat.  Seriously.  If she eats two spaghetti-o’s  and a lifesaver between waking up in the morning and going to bed at night it’s been a good day.  So I can guess why she’s a crabby little snot, but I can’t figure out how she keeps growing.

            I swear every week her pants get a little shorter and she manages to reach things I could have sworn were safe from her curious little fingers (okay, it doesn’t help that she’s observed her mom pulling kitchen chairs across the room in order to reach items in the cupboards … but still).

            Here’s a typical food day at our house:

            Morning:  Mom has forty ounces of coffee.  Little Miss has a cup of watered down juice and asks for toast.  She takes one mouse nibble and says, “I’m full, mom.”  Five minutes later she says, “My tummy hurts.  I need some ice cream.”  She settles for yogurt.  Three bites, tops.  More juice.  On a really healthy day she’ll drink milk.  Mom eats the toast, but yogurt … just … ew.  Can’t do it.

            Midday:  Mom has twenty ounces of coffee.  Little Miss asks for noodles or macaroni and cheese.  She eats five bites or less of either.  “I want some ice cream, Mom.”  Sometimes I cave at this point (hell, sometimes I cave at eight in the morning – it’s food, right?  Calcium?)

            Suppertime:  Mom makes a fresh pot of coffee.  Little Miss eats four bites of chicken and eight bites of broccoli, but only after Mom says, “Hey, little baby bird, cheep-cheep!” and feeds her like a mama bird (well, a mama bird that has a spoon, that is).

            Food isn’t the only thing we avoid around here – we also avoid bedtime.  For one whole day the baby bird trick worked for that, too … “Curl up in your nest, baby bird, cheep-cheep!” but she caught onto that one almost immediately.

            There’s no question she’s an absolute crab-ass, especially when it rains the whole weekend.  Combine being malnourished and overtired with stubborn (excuse me, “strong-willed”), active, and creative – and it’s no wonder I often think I’m going to lose my mind.  I love my husband, I do, but let me tell you, the thought of sending her “somewhere else” every other weekend is unbelievably appealing.  Except he says it won’t work that way… something about a shotgun, a shovel, and a new garage… so I guess I’d better just watch my p’s and q’s.

            Among all our whining and complaining we must be doing something right.  I heard last weekend that she was an angel at the circus and at the restaurant afterward, at least compared to the other kids.

            She says ‘excuse me’ – even to the dog.  She sometimes needs prompting to say ‘please,’ but she always says ‘thank you’ – even in the midst of an all-out temper tantrum.  And she says it in this tiny-little baby voice that melts my heart and makes me forgive her anything.

            But that’s my job, isn’t it, forgiving anything?  I’m the Mommy, after all.

            Perhaps we can live on love (and coffee) alone.  Lord knows we’ve done it long enough.

            I keep saying next time I’ll marry for money, but this time around … love seems to be working for all of us.

            Sometimes life can be better.  Sometimes it’s perfect just the way it is.

 

Reader Weekly archive: http://www.readerweekly.us/2006/369/Sheri_Johnson.html