Drive from Peoria to Normal Train Station.
Train to Chicago.
Taxi cab to downtown Chicago hotel.
Brunch at the American Girl Store in Water Tower Place.
Shopping to break the bank at the American Girl Store.
Taxi cab to Shedd Aquarium to see new Oceanarium.
Beluga whale show, dolphin show, Sponge Bob 4D movie, holding a starfish as big as your head.
Picnic on the lakefront with a view of the marina, Lake Michigan, Grant Park, and the Chicago Skyline.
Taxi cab to Michigan Avenue,
Playing on park playground next to Water Tower Place.
Having nails "buffed" by (probably very bored) make-up counter girl.
Dinner at famous pizza place.
Taxi cab to Union Station.
Train back to Normal.
Drive back to Peoria, arrive at 11:20 pm.
Me: What was your favorite part of Chicago?
Daughter: The PARK!!!!
Showing posts with label The Girl. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Girl. Show all posts
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Oh! You Mean . . .
Daughter: Is your hair in a bush?
Me: What?
Daughter: Your hair - it's in the bush, right?
Me: What??
Daughter: (Pointing to my head, where my hair is in a bun) Your bush - right there on your head!
Me: Oh! You mean . . . my hair is in a bun. BUN. Not bush.
Daughter: Oh, yeah. Bun.
A few minutes later . . .
Daughter: Can you put my hair in a bush too?
Me: What?
Daughter: Your hair - it's in the bush, right?
Me: What??
Daughter: (Pointing to my head, where my hair is in a bun) Your bush - right there on your head!
Me: Oh! You mean . . . my hair is in a bun. BUN. Not bush.
Daughter: Oh, yeah. Bun.
A few minutes later . . .
Daughter: Can you put my hair in a bush too?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Pardon?
I took my daughter to have her hearing tested yesterday. She has a history of ear infections and we wanted to be sure she doesn’t have any hearing damage. (I can guarantee she can hear just fine . . . selective hearing, but fine.) Of course, the first thing she said to me yesterday morning was, "My ear hurts, Mommy." Great. We are going to get your hearing tested and you have an ear infection. Fabulous.
On our way to the audiologist, I called the doctor’s office to schedule an appointment. Naturally, the first available appointment that didn’t cut into lunchtime, naptime, or my previously scheduled and re-scheduled dentist appointment was 4:15 pm. I gave her some Motrin and walked into the audiologist’s office.
While I was filling out paperwork, the audiologist called my daughter’s name. She went back with the woman and I could hear her talking. The woman said, "What’s your baby’s name?" My daughter answered, "Bella." I could hear a few more exchanges before I entered the room. I was glad she was talking to the woman.
You see, my daughter talks CONSTANTLY if she is awake. The mouth never stops - she has a constant commentary on life and everything around her. However, she is shy in certain situations, particularly when meeting new people in a strange environment. Then she clams up until she feels comfortable. I consider this a fairly normal three-year-old behavior. Apparently, the audiologist does not agree with me.
She asked my daughter and I to have a seat in the "box," which contains a chair and two speakers on each side. It is kind of weird looking and is about the size of a really small closet. I wasn’t comfortable at all and neither was my daughter. And it didn’t help when the audiologist got in my daughter’s face and said, "You need to say these words after I say them. Say AIRPLANE."
Silence.
The woman repeated herself, but closer, "Say AIRPLANE!" My daughter made a face and turned away from her. This woman has probably been told to "get down to their level" when dealing with kids. However, someone needs to explain to her that getting down to their level is different than getting in their face. Because NO three-year-old I know responds well to a stranger making commands at them nose-to-nose.
The woman tried a different (and dumbed down, I must say) tactic, but in the same military style. "Can you point to your nose?" More dirty looks and turning away. "How about your hair?" Nothing.
The woman let out an exasperated sigh. "Well, I guess we are just going to have to try a different way. The way we use with newborns who aren’t verbal." I tried to explain my daughter’s behavior to this clueless woman by saying, "I’m sorry. She can be a little shy when she is in unfamiliar situations with new people. She can talk and hear just fine. She just a little shy at the beginning." The woman was not persuaded and replied, "It’s fine if she is shy . . . but she must actually TALK for me to test her appropriately."
I gave up. Clearly this woman was not going to change her way of dealing with children. I can’t imagine my daughter was the only child who has been in her office who is non-compliant. I just wanted her to hurry up so we could get the hell out of there.
Well, the woman messed around with a couple of other machines and couldn’t get a reading. Finally, she pulled out her ear-scope-thingy and looked into my daughter’s ear - the one I told her I thought was infected.
"Well! Here’s your problem! Her ear is COMPLETELY blocked with wax build up. I can’t even see the eardrum. There is no way I’m going to get a decent reading from THIS ear." Thanks lady. My daughter has always had ear wax issues and we use drops frequently to flush her ears. I thought I had it under control. Now I feel like a terrible parent because she can’t hear anything because her ears are so dirty.
The woman takes readings from both ears anyway. One is normal, the infected one has no activity whatsoever. The woman explains that this could be because of the wax, the infection, or because she is deaf in that ear. WTF? Now I’m completely flipped out.
I spend the rest of the day being depressed about my lack of parenting skills and ear cleaning abilities. At the end of the day, at the doctor’s office, I tell her doctor the whole sordid tale of the audiologist. The doctor rolls her eyes and takes a look in my daughter’s ears. She says, "There’s not much wax build-up . . . I can see both ear drums clearly. Sure, one is infected, but there is no way this child is deaf."
Ugh. Professionalism and good bed-side manners must be dying art forms.
On our way to the audiologist, I called the doctor’s office to schedule an appointment. Naturally, the first available appointment that didn’t cut into lunchtime, naptime, or my previously scheduled and re-scheduled dentist appointment was 4:15 pm. I gave her some Motrin and walked into the audiologist’s office.
While I was filling out paperwork, the audiologist called my daughter’s name. She went back with the woman and I could hear her talking. The woman said, "What’s your baby’s name?" My daughter answered, "Bella." I could hear a few more exchanges before I entered the room. I was glad she was talking to the woman.
You see, my daughter talks CONSTANTLY if she is awake. The mouth never stops - she has a constant commentary on life and everything around her. However, she is shy in certain situations, particularly when meeting new people in a strange environment. Then she clams up until she feels comfortable. I consider this a fairly normal three-year-old behavior. Apparently, the audiologist does not agree with me.
She asked my daughter and I to have a seat in the "box," which contains a chair and two speakers on each side. It is kind of weird looking and is about the size of a really small closet. I wasn’t comfortable at all and neither was my daughter. And it didn’t help when the audiologist got in my daughter’s face and said, "You need to say these words after I say them. Say AIRPLANE."
Silence.
The woman repeated herself, but closer, "Say AIRPLANE!" My daughter made a face and turned away from her. This woman has probably been told to "get down to their level" when dealing with kids. However, someone needs to explain to her that getting down to their level is different than getting in their face. Because NO three-year-old I know responds well to a stranger making commands at them nose-to-nose.
The woman tried a different (and dumbed down, I must say) tactic, but in the same military style. "Can you point to your nose?" More dirty looks and turning away. "How about your hair?" Nothing.
The woman let out an exasperated sigh. "Well, I guess we are just going to have to try a different way. The way we use with newborns who aren’t verbal." I tried to explain my daughter’s behavior to this clueless woman by saying, "I’m sorry. She can be a little shy when she is in unfamiliar situations with new people. She can talk and hear just fine. She just a little shy at the beginning." The woman was not persuaded and replied, "It’s fine if she is shy . . . but she must actually TALK for me to test her appropriately."
I gave up. Clearly this woman was not going to change her way of dealing with children. I can’t imagine my daughter was the only child who has been in her office who is non-compliant. I just wanted her to hurry up so we could get the hell out of there.
Well, the woman messed around with a couple of other machines and couldn’t get a reading. Finally, she pulled out her ear-scope-thingy and looked into my daughter’s ear - the one I told her I thought was infected.
"Well! Here’s your problem! Her ear is COMPLETELY blocked with wax build up. I can’t even see the eardrum. There is no way I’m going to get a decent reading from THIS ear." Thanks lady. My daughter has always had ear wax issues and we use drops frequently to flush her ears. I thought I had it under control. Now I feel like a terrible parent because she can’t hear anything because her ears are so dirty.
The woman takes readings from both ears anyway. One is normal, the infected one has no activity whatsoever. The woman explains that this could be because of the wax, the infection, or because she is deaf in that ear. WTF? Now I’m completely flipped out.
I spend the rest of the day being depressed about my lack of parenting skills and ear cleaning abilities. At the end of the day, at the doctor’s office, I tell her doctor the whole sordid tale of the audiologist. The doctor rolls her eyes and takes a look in my daughter’s ears. She says, "There’s not much wax build-up . . . I can see both ear drums clearly. Sure, one is infected, but there is no way this child is deaf."
Ugh. Professionalism and good bed-side manners must be dying art forms.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Good Morning, Shorty
I’m fighting a chest cold. I really tired and my voice sounds like I’ve been smoking three packs a day for the last 20 years. So, perhaps I wasn’t in the best mood when I received a phone call at 5:36 this morning. Yes, my phone rang at 5:36 a.m., waking me, my daughter (who was sleeping next to me), and the dog up.
Me: Hello?
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . is,sdff sd;aspi wetheere serhsa there?
Me: What?
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . . this Shorty’s number?
Me: NO.
Asshole Caller: Oh. Sorry.
I snapped the phone closed, said a few swear words under my breath and put my head back down. The phone rings again.
Me: HELLO.
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . . this Shorty’s number?
Me: NO. Same number.
Asshole Caller: This ain’t Shorty’s number?
Me: NO!
Asshole Caller: Oh. Sorry.
I snapped the phone closed again and said a few swear words out loud. My daughter, who does not like to be awakened AT ALL, starts to whine and groan. I tell her to go back to sleep before all cranky hell breaks lose. We are almost back to sleep when . . . the phone rings AGAIN.
Me: HELLO??!!??
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . . this Shorty’s number?
Me: Yeah . . . here you go.
I put the phone up to my daughter’s face and say, "Here . . . someone wants to talk to you. Talk to them." I have fully anticipated the long screechy, wailing, whiny, scream that will come out of her mouth.
Daughter: NOOOOOOOOO!!!! I DON’T WAAAAANNNNNAAAAA TALK ON THE PHONE! NOOOOOOOOO!
Asshole caller hung up. And never called back.
Behold . . . the power of a crabby three year old.
Me: Hello?
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . is,sdff sd;aspi wetheere serhsa there?
Me: What?
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . . this Shorty’s number?
Me: NO.
Asshole Caller: Oh. Sorry.
I snapped the phone closed, said a few swear words under my breath and put my head back down. The phone rings again.
Me: HELLO.
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . . this Shorty’s number?
Me: NO. Same number.
Asshole Caller: This ain’t Shorty’s number?
Me: NO!
Asshole Caller: Oh. Sorry.
I snapped the phone closed again and said a few swear words out loud. My daughter, who does not like to be awakened AT ALL, starts to whine and groan. I tell her to go back to sleep before all cranky hell breaks lose. We are almost back to sleep when . . . the phone rings AGAIN.
Me: HELLO??!!??
Asshole Caller: Yeah . . . this Shorty’s number?
Me: Yeah . . . here you go.
I put the phone up to my daughter’s face and say, "Here . . . someone wants to talk to you. Talk to them." I have fully anticipated the long screechy, wailing, whiny, scream that will come out of her mouth.
Daughter: NOOOOOOOOO!!!! I DON’T WAAAAANNNNNAAAAA TALK ON THE PHONE! NOOOOOOOOO!
Asshole caller hung up. And never called back.
Behold . . . the power of a crabby three year old.
Friday, February 13, 2009
And Then We Went A-Valentining
We went to Target on Wednesday night after work to purchase Valentines. The party at school is today and my daughter needed to have Valentines to give to all of her "friends." As we were making our way to the Valentines aisle, we discussed what was going to happen to these Valentines - that she was going to write her name on all of them and then give them to her friends at school at the party.
After getting the important questions out of the way (first, will there be candy at the party and second, can she use a marker to write her name), she agreed to write her name on 20 cards for her classmates plus on the card she picked out for my parents, Gran and Papa.
We barely had to stop in the Valentines aisle because she immediately saw the box she wanted - Hello Kitty with temporary tattoos (I'm so proud!) We wandered through a few more aisles and I picked up a few more staples . . . diet coke, hairspray, animal crackers, fruit snacks, and a couple of packs of underwear for me. (Yes, sometimes I buy underwear at Target. Sexy, huh?)
Our last stop was the greeting card aisle so we could pick out some cards for Gran and Papa and various other people. Unfortunately, she found the musical cards and wanted to open all of them. I let her open one (of course, she chose one that played "Wild Thing" very loudly) and no more. She was disappointed, but was quickly distracted by the cartoon character Valentine's Day cards.
First, I had to convince her that Gran and Papa would not like a SpongeBob SquarePants Valentine's Day card. I'm pretty sure my parents have no idea who SpongeBob is and, more importantly, probably don't care. My dad can't even get Thomas the Tank Engine's name right, even though he's my nephew's absolute favorite thing (and the only thing he's allowed to watch on TV - my nephew, not my dad). My dad always calls him Tom the Train or Thomas the Boring Engine or something like that.
Recognizing she was losing patience quickly with the Target experience, I gave in and let her pick a Go, Diego, Go! Valentine's Day card for Gran and Papa. I glanced at it, threw it in the cart, and paid. We left the store before the hunger-induced screaming started.
When we got home, she was excited to write her name on all of the cards. Since I knew she probably wouldn't make it through all of them, I made her write on Gran and Papa's first. After she finished her name, I read the card. It was only then that I realized the card said, "I hope this Valentine's Day is full of the Wildest Adventures!!" or something like that. Great. Now my three year old has given my parents a card that implies they should be having wild and crazy sex on Valentine's Day. I wrote an explanation in the card that she picked it out and that they were lucky they weren't getting a SpongeBob card.
Then we got to the school Valentines. She was still excited until she realized the cards were pretty small and her name has eight letters. She made it through two cards with all eight letters of her name. The rest of them have some combination of the letters of her name. As she was writing her cards (and growing more bored by the second), I started unpacking the rest of our stuff. I sat next to her to unwrap all of my new underwear.
She looked over at me, let out a long dramatic sigh, and said, "Do I have to write my name on those too??"
Now, that would be even sexier, huh? My three year old's name written on my underwear?
HOT-T-T-T.
After getting the important questions out of the way (first, will there be candy at the party and second, can she use a marker to write her name), she agreed to write her name on 20 cards for her classmates plus on the card she picked out for my parents, Gran and Papa.
We barely had to stop in the Valentines aisle because she immediately saw the box she wanted - Hello Kitty with temporary tattoos (I'm so proud!) We wandered through a few more aisles and I picked up a few more staples . . . diet coke, hairspray, animal crackers, fruit snacks, and a couple of packs of underwear for me. (Yes, sometimes I buy underwear at Target. Sexy, huh?)
Our last stop was the greeting card aisle so we could pick out some cards for Gran and Papa and various other people. Unfortunately, she found the musical cards and wanted to open all of them. I let her open one (of course, she chose one that played "Wild Thing" very loudly) and no more. She was disappointed, but was quickly distracted by the cartoon character Valentine's Day cards.
First, I had to convince her that Gran and Papa would not like a SpongeBob SquarePants Valentine's Day card. I'm pretty sure my parents have no idea who SpongeBob is and, more importantly, probably don't care. My dad can't even get Thomas the Tank Engine's name right, even though he's my nephew's absolute favorite thing (and the only thing he's allowed to watch on TV - my nephew, not my dad). My dad always calls him Tom the Train or Thomas the Boring Engine or something like that.
Recognizing she was losing patience quickly with the Target experience, I gave in and let her pick a Go, Diego, Go! Valentine's Day card for Gran and Papa. I glanced at it, threw it in the cart, and paid. We left the store before the hunger-induced screaming started.
When we got home, she was excited to write her name on all of the cards. Since I knew she probably wouldn't make it through all of them, I made her write on Gran and Papa's first. After she finished her name, I read the card. It was only then that I realized the card said, "I hope this Valentine's Day is full of the Wildest Adventures!!" or something like that. Great. Now my three year old has given my parents a card that implies they should be having wild and crazy sex on Valentine's Day. I wrote an explanation in the card that she picked it out and that they were lucky they weren't getting a SpongeBob card.
Then we got to the school Valentines. She was still excited until she realized the cards were pretty small and her name has eight letters. She made it through two cards with all eight letters of her name. The rest of them have some combination of the letters of her name. As she was writing her cards (and growing more bored by the second), I started unpacking the rest of our stuff. I sat next to her to unwrap all of my new underwear.
She looked over at me, let out a long dramatic sigh, and said, "Do I have to write my name on those too??"
Now, that would be even sexier, huh? My three year old's name written on my underwear?
HOT-T-T-T.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Well, You Better Get Used to It
There is a myth in parenting that no one ever talks about. The myth that potty-training is a short term process and that, after a few weeks or a month, your child is wearing underwear, you no longer have to buy diapers, and life can return to before-child normal. You know, the time when you didn't have a daily conversation about poop.
Not so much. My three and a half year old has been wearing underwear for a year. But relieving herself in the toilet was only one step of potty-training. There are about 40 other steps that are conveniently skipped over in parenting books. The "transition from little potty chair to big potty" step. The "yes, you must flush every time you go potty" step. The "weening from potty-rewards step (otherwise known as, "no, grown-ups don't get M&Ms for pooping" step.) The "privacy without locking yourself in the bathroom" step. The "not everyone wants to see your new Hello Kitty underwear" step. The "not discussing what mommy is doing in the toilet in public bathrooms" step.
And then there is the "I wipe my own ass" step. We are currently working on this step right now. Yesterday, we had this conversation:
Daughter: Mama! I need help! (from the bathroom)
Me: With what?
Daughter: Wiping my bottom! I pooped!
Me: You can do it.
Daughter: No, I can't! I need help!
Me: I want you to try to do it. If you can't, I will help you.
Daughter: I CAN'T . . . you need to HELP me.
Me: You need to try and then I will help you.
Daughter: (Long, dramatic sigh) Allllllright, I'll try. I'm getting really tired of this though.
Not so much. My three and a half year old has been wearing underwear for a year. But relieving herself in the toilet was only one step of potty-training. There are about 40 other steps that are conveniently skipped over in parenting books. The "transition from little potty chair to big potty" step. The "yes, you must flush every time you go potty" step. The "weening from potty-rewards step (otherwise known as, "no, grown-ups don't get M&Ms for pooping" step.) The "privacy without locking yourself in the bathroom" step. The "not everyone wants to see your new Hello Kitty underwear" step. The "not discussing what mommy is doing in the toilet in public bathrooms" step.
And then there is the "I wipe my own ass" step. We are currently working on this step right now. Yesterday, we had this conversation:
Daughter: Mama! I need help! (from the bathroom)
Me: With what?
Daughter: Wiping my bottom! I pooped!
Me: You can do it.
Daughter: No, I can't! I need help!
Me: I want you to try to do it. If you can't, I will help you.
Daughter: I CAN'T . . . you need to HELP me.
Me: You need to try and then I will help you.
Daughter: (Long, dramatic sigh) Allllllright, I'll try. I'm getting really tired of this though.
Monday, December 8, 2008
In Which My Child Fails to Understand the Point of Christmas
My daughter is three years old. I am really looking forward to this Christmas because it is the first time she will really get into the magic of the holiday. But, so far . . . she is missing the point of a kid's Christmas. The gifts.
That's right . . . we're a shallow bunch in the PH world. We don't think about Jesus on Christmas and we don't believe in Santa Claus. But, just because we don't believe in mythology doesn't mean that Christmas isn't magical for us. We have many family holiday traditions that are much more meaningful to us than Jesus and Santa Claus. Anyway, all of that is for another post.
I have been asking my daughter for the last few weeks what she wants for Christmas. I don't really feel like adding more toy flotsam and jetsam to my house. We already have tons of toys the kids ignore. I'm trying to make her Christmas gifts really special - things she really wants that I wouldn't buy her ordinarily.
What's her answer when I ask her what she wants for Christmas?
New pink shoes.
New pink shoes. Nevermind the fact that the child has seven pairs of shoes right now. Nevermind the fact that four of these pairs of shoes are either entirely pink or have some pink somewhere on them. New pink shoes.
Ugh. And when I try suggesting items she might like . . . new books, puzzles, clothes, babydolls, or craft items, she says, "No! I want new pink shoes." Then I try upping the anty. How about a kitchen? Or a dollhouse? Or a new trike? "No! I want new pink shoes."
I really don't know what I expected. After all, her favorite toys are a deck of playing cards, a tape measure, a pen and paper, and her babydoll. I should be happy I have a child who only wants new shoes for Christmas because I have a feeling that she's gonna figure out this Christmas thing before next year. And then I'll be sorry.
That's right . . . we're a shallow bunch in the PH world. We don't think about Jesus on Christmas and we don't believe in Santa Claus. But, just because we don't believe in mythology doesn't mean that Christmas isn't magical for us. We have many family holiday traditions that are much more meaningful to us than Jesus and Santa Claus. Anyway, all of that is for another post.
I have been asking my daughter for the last few weeks what she wants for Christmas. I don't really feel like adding more toy flotsam and jetsam to my house. We already have tons of toys the kids ignore. I'm trying to make her Christmas gifts really special - things she really wants that I wouldn't buy her ordinarily.
What's her answer when I ask her what she wants for Christmas?
New pink shoes.
New pink shoes. Nevermind the fact that the child has seven pairs of shoes right now. Nevermind the fact that four of these pairs of shoes are either entirely pink or have some pink somewhere on them. New pink shoes.
Ugh. And when I try suggesting items she might like . . . new books, puzzles, clothes, babydolls, or craft items, she says, "No! I want new pink shoes." Then I try upping the anty. How about a kitchen? Or a dollhouse? Or a new trike? "No! I want new pink shoes."
I really don't know what I expected. After all, her favorite toys are a deck of playing cards, a tape measure, a pen and paper, and her babydoll. I should be happy I have a child who only wants new shoes for Christmas because I have a feeling that she's gonna figure out this Christmas thing before next year. And then I'll be sorry.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
So . . . That's Her Excuse
My daughter loves Notes from the Trailerhood Katie. I mean, everyone loves Katie, but my daughter really, really loves her. Katie's like Santa Claus in our house - the threat and the bribe to get my daughter to do things she doesn't want to do. Such as: "If you don't take a nap, we can't go over to Katie's house." It really, really works, every time.
As you may know, Katie and Dazoo (who is also in my daughter's top 10 people list) are renovating a house. Because I am indebted to Katie for her caretaking of me during the sprained ankle incident, I have gladly offered to help in any way I can. Well, also . . . they promised me I could take part in knocking down a wall and that's really, really exciting to me. I love destroying shit.
I digress.
Anyway, yesterday Katie and I had made tentative plans for me to help her and Dazoo at the house. I told my daughter about these plans (forgetting a three-year old probably didn't know the meaning of tentative) before her nap. Then she heard me call Katie after nap and leave a message. Only then did it dawn on her that we may not be seeing Katie that day.
As we were in the car running errands, my daughter and I talked about this:
Daughter: I want to go to Katie's HOUSE!
Me: I know, babe, but Katie's not there right now. I left her a message and we have to wait until she calls back.
Daughter: But I want to see KATIE! I want to see Katie, RIGHT NOW! (repeat 5 times)
Me: Listen, babe. I left a message for Katie. I can't make her call me back and I can't make her be at her house. She's a grown-up. She makes her own decisions.
Daughter: NO! She's NOT a grown-up!! She's SHORT!
I love Katie dearly, but . . . alas, this is true. She is short. I mean, if my almost three-foot tall three year old calls you short, I think you have to accept it as the ultimate truth.
As you may know, Katie and Dazoo (who is also in my daughter's top 10 people list) are renovating a house. Because I am indebted to Katie for her caretaking of me during the sprained ankle incident, I have gladly offered to help in any way I can. Well, also . . . they promised me I could take part in knocking down a wall and that's really, really exciting to me. I love destroying shit.
I digress.
Anyway, yesterday Katie and I had made tentative plans for me to help her and Dazoo at the house. I told my daughter about these plans (forgetting a three-year old probably didn't know the meaning of tentative) before her nap. Then she heard me call Katie after nap and leave a message. Only then did it dawn on her that we may not be seeing Katie that day.
As we were in the car running errands, my daughter and I talked about this:
Daughter: I want to go to Katie's HOUSE!
Me: I know, babe, but Katie's not there right now. I left her a message and we have to wait until she calls back.
Daughter: But I want to see KATIE! I want to see Katie, RIGHT NOW! (repeat 5 times)
Me: Listen, babe. I left a message for Katie. I can't make her call me back and I can't make her be at her house. She's a grown-up. She makes her own decisions.
Daughter: NO! She's NOT a grown-up!! She's SHORT!
I love Katie dearly, but . . . alas, this is true. She is short. I mean, if my almost three-foot tall three year old calls you short, I think you have to accept it as the ultimate truth.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Mommy Fail, Tattletale
Okay, so . . . I have not been reaching my goal of being the perfect mother lately. I've been hanging by a thread in the perfect mommy competition. Which is fine by me, really, because I don't really want to be the perfect mommy. However, I think I need to step up my game a little bit because my daughter called me out this morning.
It all started last night. The daycare had a "Parents Night Out" thing where you could bring your kids from 6:30 to 10:30 and they would entertain them, give them a snack, and watch a movie. This was the first time I have taken my daughter because this is really the first time I have felt that she is old enough to handle an occasional later bedtime. And when they said it was from 6:30 to 10:30, I thought, cool - I can pick her up at 10:30 like all the other normal parents. In fact, I heard one parent say to his kid as we were leaving, "I'll see you are 10:15 or so!" I felt completely justified going out and staying out until 10:15 or so, assuming I would not be the last parent there.
Well, I was wrong. Not only was I the last parent there and they were standing in the front hall holding my very tired daughter, I showed up smelling like cigarettes and beer. (Now in case any of you perfect parents are reading this, I suggest first, go to someone else's blog and second, yes, I was at a bar and had a drink or two and people around me were smoking. Get over it. Damn perfect parent police.) Anyway, I am sure the teachers had a little laugh at the bad mommy and I felt really bad that she was the last one there, but . . . everyone needs a night out. And it's not like I showed up at one in the morning drunk off my ass with someone else's clothes on. Jeez.
Anyway, this morning I was still feeling a little guilty and spending some real quality time with the kid. As is her usual line of questioning in the morning, she asked, "Are we going to school today?" Nope, it's Saturday. "Are we going to dance class today?" Yep, we are going to dan . . . SHIT.
Bad mommy forgot to wash her dance clothes. I looked at the clock. One hour before we had to leave for class. I rushed to her room and began throwing clothes out of her hamper. Now, ordinarily, I would have evaluated the clothing in question and determined whether we could squeak by with wearing a dirty leotard and tights. (Come on now . . . everyone has done it.) As I got down to the dance clothes in the hamper, it all came back to me.
Milk. Milk down the front of her leotard and tights. Not only was there a faint stain, it didn't smell that good either. No problem - I can wash and dry a load of laundry in an hour. I ran downstairs and started the laundry.
As I came back into the living room, I heard her open up her fake princess cell phone. She said, "I'm calling my teachers, Mama." OK, whatever . . . . Then I hear, "Hello? Yeah, hi . . . my mommy forgot to wash my dance clothes . . . um-hum . . . they really dirty . . . um-hum . . . we be little late. Bye-bye."
Tattletale.
I said to her, "Did you just call your dance teachers and rat me out?"
"Yep."
"Gee, thanks."
"That's OK Mama, you try harder next time."
It all started last night. The daycare had a "Parents Night Out" thing where you could bring your kids from 6:30 to 10:30 and they would entertain them, give them a snack, and watch a movie. This was the first time I have taken my daughter because this is really the first time I have felt that she is old enough to handle an occasional later bedtime. And when they said it was from 6:30 to 10:30, I thought, cool - I can pick her up at 10:30 like all the other normal parents. In fact, I heard one parent say to his kid as we were leaving, "I'll see you are 10:15 or so!" I felt completely justified going out and staying out until 10:15 or so, assuming I would not be the last parent there.
Well, I was wrong. Not only was I the last parent there and they were standing in the front hall holding my very tired daughter, I showed up smelling like cigarettes and beer. (Now in case any of you perfect parents are reading this, I suggest first, go to someone else's blog and second, yes, I was at a bar and had a drink or two and people around me were smoking. Get over it. Damn perfect parent police.) Anyway, I am sure the teachers had a little laugh at the bad mommy and I felt really bad that she was the last one there, but . . . everyone needs a night out. And it's not like I showed up at one in the morning drunk off my ass with someone else's clothes on. Jeez.
Anyway, this morning I was still feeling a little guilty and spending some real quality time with the kid. As is her usual line of questioning in the morning, she asked, "Are we going to school today?" Nope, it's Saturday. "Are we going to dance class today?" Yep, we are going to dan . . . SHIT.
Bad mommy forgot to wash her dance clothes. I looked at the clock. One hour before we had to leave for class. I rushed to her room and began throwing clothes out of her hamper. Now, ordinarily, I would have evaluated the clothing in question and determined whether we could squeak by with wearing a dirty leotard and tights. (Come on now . . . everyone has done it.) As I got down to the dance clothes in the hamper, it all came back to me.
Milk. Milk down the front of her leotard and tights. Not only was there a faint stain, it didn't smell that good either. No problem - I can wash and dry a load of laundry in an hour. I ran downstairs and started the laundry.
As I came back into the living room, I heard her open up her fake princess cell phone. She said, "I'm calling my teachers, Mama." OK, whatever . . . . Then I hear, "Hello? Yeah, hi . . . my mommy forgot to wash my dance clothes . . . um-hum . . . they really dirty . . . um-hum . . . we be little late. Bye-bye."
Tattletale.
I said to her, "Did you just call your dance teachers and rat me out?"
"Yep."
"Gee, thanks."
"That's OK Mama, you try harder next time."
Monday, October 13, 2008
I'm So Proud
My three-year old daughter's first independently written word:
Unfortunately . . . I think it is "DOODIE."
Unfortunately . . . I think it is "DOODIE."
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
10 Things You Might Want to Know About My Vacation
I'm beginning to think I am a masochist. I just spent the last five days on yet another family "vacation." Yes, I mean "vacation" because it doesn't seem like a real vacation (sans quotes) if I come back more tired and pissed off than I was before I left. This the third such family "vacation" in a month. Man, it is a good thing I get along with my parents because they have been at each of these events as well.
But now I am ready for some alone time. I am not going anywhere for a very long time. I don't care that the holidays are coming up. I don't care that gas prices have come down. I don't care that airfare has come down. I don't want to leave home again. I don't even want to go to East Peoria. Anyway, here's the short summary of some of the events that occurred on my vacation. Expansion posts are forthcoming, but for now, this is just a teaser.
(1) Airport Security. In retrospect, I should have prepared my daughter ahead of time for airport security. This is because, when I asked her to remove her shoes at airport security, she asked, "Why?" In the rush and heat of the moment, I replied, "Because you might have something in them." To which she replied, at full volume, "I DO have something in my shoes, MAMA!" Let me tell you, the TSA has no sense of humor that I am aware of and now thinks my three year old daughter is the next Richard Reid.
(2) Rain. If you are enjoying the rain today, blame me. I brought it back from Seattle with me. It rained for five straight days on our "vacation." That being said, I still prefer the weather out there to the weather in the Midwest.
(3) 90 Year Old Mojo. Apparently, there was a room full of people at my grandfather's birthday party just waiting for the right word to describe my grandfather. Apparently, I provided it to them in my toast. After I spoke, I had to listen to a room full of other 80 and 90 year olds talk about my grandfather's Mojo. *Shudder*
(4) I Have a Step-Family, Who Knew? My grandfather and his wife got married eight years ago. His second marriage, her fourth. I sort of forgot that she has five kids, all of whom are married and have children. Technically, they are my step-family. In reality, they hate my family. No wonder I haven't thought about them for the last eight years.
(5) Happy Birthday x3. I understand singing Happy Birthday in English. I understand singing Happy Birthday in Swedish. What I do not understand is singing Happy Birthday in Dutch for the one Dutchman in the room. And it wasn't even his birthday. Dutch is not an intuitive language. Even though we had the words in front of us, it turned into a sad jumble of mumbling crap. FAIL.
(6) Airplane Etiquette. We did not have many friends on the airplane after my daughter yelled, "STOP THE BUS, I'M GOING TO THROW UP." In her defense, it is a phrase from a Fancy Nancy book and she wasn't referring to the airplane ride or her weak stomach. However, no one sitting around us knew that. The good news is they gave us lots of room during the trip.
(7) A Glimpse of My Future. I got a glimpse of my future and it wasn't pretty. My Aunt M. organized this entire party thing. And she was bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy. I was (not-so-kindly) reminded that I can be just like her when I plan an event. Like the recent family disaster in Galena. Crap. I've gotta learn to take a step back and stop telling people what to do. Yeah, right. I'll just stop telling them what to do in that shrew-like voice.
(8) Make-Up Lesson. I learned never to let my youngest cousin, who is 21 years old and majoring in theatrical make-up artistry, do my make-up for a party. At the end, she said, "OK, you are done. I could have done a lot better if I had my heavier concealer." Gee, thanks.
(9) Eligible Bachelor. Who knew I would meet an eligible bachelor at my grandfather's 90th birthday party? Very eligible, in fact - tall, handsome, well-dressed, well-educated, funny, under 50, and Swedish (like really Swedish - born in Sweden, lived there until 13 years ago and everything! I thought my parents were going to tie our hands together at the dinner table.) Too bad he lives thousands of miles away. Sigh . . . such is my life.
(10) My Brother and Sister-in-Law Suck. Again. Not only did they not come to the birthday party, they didn't send a card, flowers, or even a toast to be read, like my other cousins who couldn't be there did. Asshats.
But now I am ready for some alone time. I am not going anywhere for a very long time. I don't care that the holidays are coming up. I don't care that gas prices have come down. I don't care that airfare has come down. I don't want to leave home again. I don't even want to go to East Peoria. Anyway, here's the short summary of some of the events that occurred on my vacation. Expansion posts are forthcoming, but for now, this is just a teaser.
(1) Airport Security. In retrospect, I should have prepared my daughter ahead of time for airport security. This is because, when I asked her to remove her shoes at airport security, she asked, "Why?" In the rush and heat of the moment, I replied, "Because you might have something in them." To which she replied, at full volume, "I DO have something in my shoes, MAMA!" Let me tell you, the TSA has no sense of humor that I am aware of and now thinks my three year old daughter is the next Richard Reid.
(2) Rain. If you are enjoying the rain today, blame me. I brought it back from Seattle with me. It rained for five straight days on our "vacation." That being said, I still prefer the weather out there to the weather in the Midwest.
(3) 90 Year Old Mojo. Apparently, there was a room full of people at my grandfather's birthday party just waiting for the right word to describe my grandfather. Apparently, I provided it to them in my toast. After I spoke, I had to listen to a room full of other 80 and 90 year olds talk about my grandfather's Mojo. *Shudder*
(4) I Have a Step-Family, Who Knew? My grandfather and his wife got married eight years ago. His second marriage, her fourth. I sort of forgot that she has five kids, all of whom are married and have children. Technically, they are my step-family. In reality, they hate my family. No wonder I haven't thought about them for the last eight years.
(5) Happy Birthday x3. I understand singing Happy Birthday in English. I understand singing Happy Birthday in Swedish. What I do not understand is singing Happy Birthday in Dutch for the one Dutchman in the room. And it wasn't even his birthday. Dutch is not an intuitive language. Even though we had the words in front of us, it turned into a sad jumble of mumbling crap. FAIL.
(6) Airplane Etiquette. We did not have many friends on the airplane after my daughter yelled, "STOP THE BUS, I'M GOING TO THROW UP." In her defense, it is a phrase from a Fancy Nancy book and she wasn't referring to the airplane ride or her weak stomach. However, no one sitting around us knew that. The good news is they gave us lots of room during the trip.
(7) A Glimpse of My Future. I got a glimpse of my future and it wasn't pretty. My Aunt M. organized this entire party thing. And she was bossy, bossy, bossy, bossy. I was (not-so-kindly) reminded that I can be just like her when I plan an event. Like the recent family disaster in Galena. Crap. I've gotta learn to take a step back and stop telling people what to do. Yeah, right. I'll just stop telling them what to do in that shrew-like voice.
(8) Make-Up Lesson. I learned never to let my youngest cousin, who is 21 years old and majoring in theatrical make-up artistry, do my make-up for a party. At the end, she said, "OK, you are done. I could have done a lot better if I had my heavier concealer." Gee, thanks.
(9) Eligible Bachelor. Who knew I would meet an eligible bachelor at my grandfather's 90th birthday party? Very eligible, in fact - tall, handsome, well-dressed, well-educated, funny, under 50, and Swedish (like really Swedish - born in Sweden, lived there until 13 years ago and everything! I thought my parents were going to tie our hands together at the dinner table.) Too bad he lives thousands of miles away. Sigh . . . such is my life.
(10) My Brother and Sister-in-Law Suck. Again. Not only did they not come to the birthday party, they didn't send a card, flowers, or even a toast to be read, like my other cousins who couldn't be there did. Asshats.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Dance of the Helicopter Mommies
Last Saturday, my daughter attended her first "class" in her short three year old life. Up until this point, we have not had the opportunity to attend "classes," mostly because classes for preschoolers are usually scheduled during the work day, clearly geared toward stay at home mothers. However, one dance studio in town has a three year old dance class on Saturdays and I signed my daughter up.The hour long class is 20 minutes of ballet, 20 minutes of tumbling, and 20 minutes of tap. I knew she would love the tumbling and I thought she could use the ballet and tap because she is not the most coordinated child in the world. Plus, she is a true girly-girl and loves anything girly. And, man . . . is this G-I-R-L-Y. The entire place is painted pink. My daughter was one of the few girls not wearing a pink leotard and tights (her leotard is lavender). The tap shoes are shiny black with big black ribbon bow ties. It is so cute . . . it brought back all of the girly tendencies from my childhood.
Anyway, this being my first experience of a child class as a parent, I was curious to see how the other parents behaved. I was excited for my daughter and found myself a little anxious as well. What if she didn’t listen to the teachers? What if she wouldn’t participate? What if she got scared? Was I pushing too hard by taking her to a class at three years old? Would the other girls be mean? Would the teachers be mean?
I brought the camera, knowing I should document this like a good parent would. As we sat in the waiting room with the other mini-ballerinas and their parents, my daughter got very quiet. She sat on my lap and just looked at the other kids. But when the teachers came to get her class, she went willingly with them and sat nicely with all the other girls.
Parents are supposed to stay in the waiting room, which is separate from the dance room. I was disappointed because I wanted to watch her a little bit to see how she would do in the beginning. I soon learned why the school wants parents to be separated from their children.
Helicopter Mommies.
But first, about me and my kid. I stood in the doorway at the beginning of class and snapped a few pictures. I admit, a got a little tear in my eye watching her do this on her own. She was so sweet and cute and a pretty good listener. The ballet part was first, which involved learning first position and some steps from that position. What struck me was how weird it is to see your children exhibit behavior that you recognize as your own. Flash! There I was - watching myself 34 years ago.
During the ballet portion, she was semi-compliant, but mostly just looked around and watched the other girls. She looked at them like, "Seriously? You want me to do what?" She didn’t resist when the teachers moved her feet to the right position, but she wasn’t willingly doing the steps either. She glanced at me a few times and gave me a half-smile, as if to say, "What have you done to me, woman?" It was like mini-me from gymnastics at the YWCA in 1975.
After a few moments, I sat down in the waiting room. I checked on her two other times - once during tumbling and once during tap. She really came alive during tumbling and loved it, as well as tap. She was even able to march in step with the music with her tap shoes on. I was so proud (although I will hide the tap shoes at home - that's the last thing we need.)
OK - now back to the Helicopter Mommies.
As I was standing in the doorway snapping my pictures, I became aware of a presence behind me. Close up behind me stood three or four other mothers trying to press their way into the room. I took my pictures and stepped back, figuring they wanted pictures of this occasion as well. As I left, the other mothers took their positions. Their permanent positions in the doorway. One mother sat on the floor in the doorway and watched her child the entire class. Another mother kneeled next to the doorway and also watched. The third leaned against the doorway and watched as well.
What shocked me was the look on their faces. They didn’t look proud or nostalgic or happy or anything like I thought I had looked. They looked analytical and stressed. They looked like they were taking mental notes on every move their daughters made. They looked like they would make their daughters practice at home if they screwed up at class. They looked like this was the freaking Olympics of dance. And they all manned their positions for the entire hour-long class. (Except one kept talking on her cell phone . . . what the hell is that about?)
I feel sorry for those little girls whose mothers are so concerned with their performance in a three year old’s dance class. Sure, I want my kids to be good at things and want to excel at whatever they are doing. But at three years old? This is supposed to be fun, right?
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
There's a Whole Lotta Sass Going On
Sass is a big issue in my house. I have a three year old who excels at being sassy and gets relatively frequent time-outs for her sassy behavior. I tend to define sassy behavior as inappropriate sounds or comments coming out of one's mouth, such as spitting, sticking the tongue out, back-talk, and the like.
Frustrated with her behavior, I searched online for some suggestions for dealing with the sassy stuff that didn't involve taping her mouth shut. I didn't get much of anything helpful from parenting websites (most of which tend to lean toward the "attachment" form of parenting, something I don't espouse.) But I did find a really interesting article for Sass on Wikipedia. Apparently, sassy behavior is much more broad than I previously thought.
Here are some examples of sassy behavior that would not make my list of sass:
Speaking in false tongues (or is that just creepy?)
Expelling flatulence in the presence of others (gross? Yes. Funny? Almost always. Sassy . . . no.)
Nose, ear, or belly button picking in public (again . . . gross.)
Cutting or biting finger or toe nails in public (gross . . . especially the toes. Who cuts their toenails in public?)
Scratching private parts (perhaps sass means gross in another language?)
Putting elbows on the table
Putting feet up or sitting back on a chair to "relax" (relaxing is sassy?)
Groaning when someone tries to speak (damn - I must be a real sassy bitch. I suppose eye-rolling is also sassy.)
Putting feet on a chair when someone is sitting in the chair
Sniffing your own armpits or crotch
Sniffing someone else's armpits or crotch (I guess the dog's name should be changed to Sassy)
Wiggling your bottom towards someone (I can't remember the last time someone wiggled their bottom at me. Next time I will be sure to call them on such bad behavior. After I stop laughing.)
Revealing your bare backside to someone (Yeah . . . you know who you are.)
Pointing towards a person (especially with one's middle finger) (Damn - guilty again)
Failure to use napkins
Licking the plate
Taking excessive food from a buffet, especially at a reception
Eating in the street
Waking up others when not otherwise instructed
Aggressive driving/road rage
Tailgating
Excessive honking
Gesturing at fellow drivers
Driving slowly while using a mobile phone
Littering
Smoking in public
Public urination
Eavesdropping
Exhibitionism
Vandalism
Staring at another person's bare private parts, especially when they are in the washroom
At least the article mentions that some of these things are illegal, as well as sassy. But, if these behaviors are classified as sassy, then it is not only my daughter who will spending a lot of time in time out.
Frustrated with her behavior, I searched online for some suggestions for dealing with the sassy stuff that didn't involve taping her mouth shut. I didn't get much of anything helpful from parenting websites (most of which tend to lean toward the "attachment" form of parenting, something I don't espouse.) But I did find a really interesting article for Sass on Wikipedia. Apparently, sassy behavior is much more broad than I previously thought.
Here are some examples of sassy behavior that would not make my list of sass:
Speaking in false tongues (or is that just creepy?)
Expelling flatulence in the presence of others (gross? Yes. Funny? Almost always. Sassy . . . no.)
Nose, ear, or belly button picking in public (again . . . gross.)
Cutting or biting finger or toe nails in public (gross . . . especially the toes. Who cuts their toenails in public?)
Scratching private parts (perhaps sass means gross in another language?)
Putting elbows on the table
Putting feet up or sitting back on a chair to "relax" (relaxing is sassy?)
Groaning when someone tries to speak (damn - I must be a real sassy bitch. I suppose eye-rolling is also sassy.)
Putting feet on a chair when someone is sitting in the chair
Sniffing your own armpits or crotch
Sniffing someone else's armpits or crotch (I guess the dog's name should be changed to Sassy)
Wiggling your bottom towards someone (I can't remember the last time someone wiggled their bottom at me. Next time I will be sure to call them on such bad behavior. After I stop laughing.)
Revealing your bare backside to someone (Yeah . . . you know who you are.)
Pointing towards a person (especially with one's middle finger) (Damn - guilty again)
Failure to use napkins
Licking the plate
Taking excessive food from a buffet, especially at a reception
Eating in the street
Waking up others when not otherwise instructed
Aggressive driving/road rage
Tailgating
Excessive honking
Gesturing at fellow drivers
Driving slowly while using a mobile phone
Littering
Smoking in public
Public urination
Eavesdropping
Exhibitionism
Vandalism
Staring at another person's bare private parts, especially when they are in the washroom
At least the article mentions that some of these things are illegal, as well as sassy. But, if these behaviors are classified as sassy, then it is not only my daughter who will spending a lot of time in time out.
Monday, August 11, 2008
You Say That?
I make a concerted effort not to swear around my children. Well, actually I have made a concerted effort not to swear around my children since they were old enough to repeat what I say. It’s been difficult, however, to curtail when there is a fair amount of swearing done in my office and sometimes swear words are just the perfect expression you need in a situation.
I often slip when I am tired or distracted. My daughter excels at catching my slips and whenever she does, I explain, "I know . . . Mama said a not nice word. Sometimes mamas need to say those words. But those words are not for you to say, okay?" She agrees and, so far, I haven’t heard her say any of my not nice words. Now, when she catches me, she says, "You say that?" meaning, "You can say that and I can’t, Mama?" Pretty soon, however, she is going to forget that I have told her not to say certain words and say something really inappropriate in front of someone. So, I have been trying extra hard not to swear.
Well, last night didn’t help things much. At 2:30 this morning, she started screaming, "MAMA! MAMA!!" The scream was so sudden and high pitched that I thought she had lost a limb or was bleeding from the head or something. When I arrived in her room, she was in her bed, apparently fine and all in one piece . . . still screaming. I said, not so nicely, "WHAT?!? What is your problem?" (I’m not the most nurturing person at 2:30 in the morning.)
"I got boogers."
"Jesus Christ! Can’t you wipe them on your sheets like every other normal child?"
She responded with, "No . . . you say that?"
I groaned and went and got her a box of Kleenex. I tucked her in and kissed her good night again. Then I went to my room and went back to sleep. I was exhausted. I hadn’t gone to sleep until past midnight and I thought I would be able to get at least another four hours of sleep.
Wrong.
At 6 am, I become barely conscious of a thumping noise and a weight on the end of the bed. Glancing at the clock, I assumed it is the dog wagging her tail while sleeping on my bed. I whispered, "Knock it off, dog," and closed my eyes. After a short silence, the thumping started again. I mean-whispered, "STOP it, dog." Another silence and then . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. In my regular mean-mommy voice, I said "STOP. IT. RIGHT. NOW."
A longer silence followed, which allowed me to close my eyes and almost get back to sleep. But then it started again . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Before I turned over and sat up in bed, I said:
"GOD DAMN IT, dog, KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!!"
Then I turned over and sat up. There, sitting on the end of my bed was my daughter. Predictably, she said, "You say that?" Groan. My head hit the pillow again and I asked her, "What are you doing?"
"Patting my baby and reading my book."
I looked up at her again and saw she had her baby doll face down on the bed and covered with a blanket. She was patting that baby’s back within an inch of its life. On her lap, she was holding a book open with her other hand. I noticed she did not have a picture book, rather she was holding a medium sized adult paperback. "What are you reading?" I asked her.
"This book," she said, holding it up.
She was "reading" A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf.
It’s really hard to be mad at her for that.
I often slip when I am tired or distracted. My daughter excels at catching my slips and whenever she does, I explain, "I know . . . Mama said a not nice word. Sometimes mamas need to say those words. But those words are not for you to say, okay?" She agrees and, so far, I haven’t heard her say any of my not nice words. Now, when she catches me, she says, "You say that?" meaning, "You can say that and I can’t, Mama?" Pretty soon, however, she is going to forget that I have told her not to say certain words and say something really inappropriate in front of someone. So, I have been trying extra hard not to swear.
Well, last night didn’t help things much. At 2:30 this morning, she started screaming, "MAMA! MAMA!!" The scream was so sudden and high pitched that I thought she had lost a limb or was bleeding from the head or something. When I arrived in her room, she was in her bed, apparently fine and all in one piece . . . still screaming. I said, not so nicely, "WHAT?!? What is your problem?" (I’m not the most nurturing person at 2:30 in the morning.)
"I got boogers."
"Jesus Christ! Can’t you wipe them on your sheets like every other normal child?"
She responded with, "No . . . you say that?"
I groaned and went and got her a box of Kleenex. I tucked her in and kissed her good night again. Then I went to my room and went back to sleep. I was exhausted. I hadn’t gone to sleep until past midnight and I thought I would be able to get at least another four hours of sleep.
Wrong.
At 6 am, I become barely conscious of a thumping noise and a weight on the end of the bed. Glancing at the clock, I assumed it is the dog wagging her tail while sleeping on my bed. I whispered, "Knock it off, dog," and closed my eyes. After a short silence, the thumping started again. I mean-whispered, "STOP it, dog." Another silence and then . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. In my regular mean-mommy voice, I said "STOP. IT. RIGHT. NOW."
A longer silence followed, which allowed me to close my eyes and almost get back to sleep. But then it started again . . . thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. Before I turned over and sat up in bed, I said:
"GOD DAMN IT, dog, KNOCK THAT SHIT OFF!!"
Then I turned over and sat up. There, sitting on the end of my bed was my daughter. Predictably, she said, "You say that?" Groan. My head hit the pillow again and I asked her, "What are you doing?"
"Patting my baby and reading my book."
I looked up at her again and saw she had her baby doll face down on the bed and covered with a blanket. She was patting that baby’s back within an inch of its life. On her lap, she was holding a book open with her other hand. I noticed she did not have a picture book, rather she was holding a medium sized adult paperback. "What are you reading?" I asked her.
"This book," she said, holding it up.
She was "reading" A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf.
It’s really hard to be mad at her for that.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
A Certain Kind of Envy
It seems that many profound conversations with one's children happen in the car, while the parent is driving and the child is in the back seat. Who knows, maybe children pick this time to bring up the big issues because they know their parents are captive. Maybe they know this is a good time because the parent is preoccupied. For whatever reason, this is the conversation we had last night coming home from work:
Daughter: How come boys stand up?
Me: Stand up where?
Daughter: Stand up to go potty. How come boys stand up?
I paused for a moment, wondering how far this conversation was going to go. We were approaching the drive through pharmacy window and I really didn't want to have the conversation while the pharmacists listened.
Daughter: How come, Mama?
Me: Because boys have penises.
Daughter: Penis? Girls not have penis?
Me: No, only boys.
She was silent for a few minutes, obviously thinking this over. Then she said this:
Daughter: When I get big, I gonna have a penis.
Me: Really?
Daughter: Yep . . . when I get big.
I resisted the urge to ask her where she was going to get this new penis (after she got big, of course.) Then I started wondering where they get the penises for women who have sex change operations to become men. The penis doesn't exactly seem to be an organ that could be donated on your donor card, does it? I'm kinda scared to google it because (1) who knows what kind of "list" I would be on if I googled something like that and (2) if I did google it, there might be pictures and that would make me throw up.
Daughter: How come boys stand up?
Me: Stand up where?
Daughter: Stand up to go potty. How come boys stand up?
I paused for a moment, wondering how far this conversation was going to go. We were approaching the drive through pharmacy window and I really didn't want to have the conversation while the pharmacists listened.
Daughter: How come, Mama?
Me: Because boys have penises.
Daughter: Penis? Girls not have penis?
Me: No, only boys.
She was silent for a few minutes, obviously thinking this over. Then she said this:
Daughter: When I get big, I gonna have a penis.
Me: Really?
Daughter: Yep . . . when I get big.
I resisted the urge to ask her where she was going to get this new penis (after she got big, of course.) Then I started wondering where they get the penises for women who have sex change operations to become men. The penis doesn't exactly seem to be an organ that could be donated on your donor card, does it? I'm kinda scared to google it because (1) who knows what kind of "list" I would be on if I googled something like that and (2) if I did google it, there might be pictures and that would make me throw up.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Reward or Punish - Punish or Reward?
In my opinion, this is one of the most difficult basic questions of parenting: when dealing with prospective behavior of your child, which is more effective: promising to reward for good behavior or threatening to punish for bad behavior?
I’ve got the system down for dealing with immediate past behavior: smacking your brother on the head - punish. Helping your brother reach a toy - reward. Spitting and then screaming "I DON’T WANT TO" at your mother when she asks you to go potty - punish. Going potty when asked - reward. Repeatedly kicking the car when your mother won’t sing the ABCs for a 40th time on the way home from work - punish. Entertaining your brother in the car during a long trip - reward.
In my house, we don’t really use the word punishment. I prefer the word "consequences." My daughter (and to some extent, my son) understands the concept of consequences for actions. If you throw a toy, you immediately lose that toy (it goes on top of the refrigerator until the next day - we have a lot of begging at the fridge in my house because the dog’s treats are also up there.) If you hit, kick, spit, bite, or push another living thing in the house, you go to time out (sit on the step, we call it.) If you scream, you go outside and stand by yourself on the back deck until you are done screaming. (As an aside, this has been one of the most effective punishments in my house for my daughter, a/k/a The Screamer. She doesn’t realize I can still see her from inside the house and almost immediately stops screaming when she thinks no one can see or hear her. I highly recommend it for age-appropriate punishment.)
I often talk about making choices with my kids - if you choose a certain behavior, you must deal with the consequences of your choice. I believe this is a good lesson for life in general. If you choose not to do well in school, there are consequences. If you choose to leave your job and not get another one, there are consequences. If you choose to spend your money on frivolous things, there are consequences. If you choose bad men, there are consequences. Anyway, I digress . . . .
The reward v. punishment for prospective behavior issue has come up recently because my daughter has made the choice to be a complete sassy-brat during naptime at day care. She has always been hard to get to sleep at day care, probably because of the other people in the room. At home, she has no problems going to sleep - not once has she gotten out of her bed before being told to get up. But school is different. Her teachers tell me she is often the last child asleep, but she always eventually goes to sleep.
A couple of weeks ago, however, she refused to take a nap and turned into Princess Bratty-Pants during naptime. I actually don’t mind if she doesn’t nap during the day, she just goes to bed earlier in the evening. And I would be fine if she simply rested quietly on her cot at school and allowed the other children to nap. But, not my Princess Bratty-Pants. If she’s not sleeping, she makes it near impossible for other children to sleep. She does gymnastics on her cot. She knocks things off nearby shelves. She sings Baby Bumblebee and ABCs and Five Little Ducks at the top of her lungs. She talks non-stop. She screams at her teachers "I DON"T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU!"
Lovely.
All this behavior from a girl who is mostly well-behaved at all other times. Her teachers were not amused the first day she did this and stopped me in the hallway before I got to her room. I also was not amused and, before giving her a hug when I picked her, took her into the hallway to have a serious discussion about her behavior. Her hello smile quickly faded when she knew I knew what she had done.
"What happened during naptime today?" Smile fades and lower lip comes out.
"Did you take a nap?" tiny little "no."
"Did you use your mean words with Ms. Brenda?" tinier little "yes" and attempts to hug me.
"That makes me very sad. It makes Ms. Brenda very sad." attempts to change the subject to the new song she learned.
"No. What you did during naptime is not OK." Now, she’s planting little kisses on my hands and forearms.
"Now, there are consequences for your behavior. You will lose dessert tonight after dinner. And you must say you are sorry to Ms. Brenda."
After she went to bed, I pondered what direction to take to stop this behavior in the future. As I saw it, I had two options. The first was to tell her she would be rewarded when she did sleep. The second was to tell her she would be punished when she didn’t sleep. In general, I believe that rewarding good behavior is ultimately more effective. So, we worked out a treat system - if she takes a nap, she gets a small treat on the way home (I happened to have mini-tootsie rolls available). And that worked . . . for about two and a half weeks.
And then there was yesterday.
At naptime, her behavior was much worse and the teachers were not happy at all. This time, however, my daughter showed absolutely no remorse for her actions. When I said that I was very sad she had not taken a nap and used her mean words with Ms. Brenda, she replied, "I DON’T WANT TO TAKE A NAP!!!!!" and burst into tears and screaming and threw herself on the floor. (Exhibit A in support of the case for napping.) All attempts to discuss the issue were pointless, as she had clearly fallen off the ledge of the no-nap tantrum zone. She wailed her way out of the day care, into the car, and all the way home.
Once she was calmed down at home, we had the punishment talk. As a consequence for her actions, she lost her after-dinner dessert, her playtime before bed, and the storytime before bed. This realization caused her to wail again, but when she had calmed down I explained that the consequences of not taking a nap meant she was extra tired at night and had to go to sleep right after dinner. She was not happy, but after about 30 seconds of whining in her bed, she fell asleep at 6 pm.
We will see what happened today at day care. Hopefully, she took a nap and we can go back to rewarding. It has occurred to me while writing this post that the question can be answered without using "or," that the two options are not mutually exclusive. It may be that rewarding and punishing is the appropriate response to this situation. Well, that just shows me that the next time I have a problem, I should just write out the issue and it will resolve itself. Of course, resolving my daughter’s behavior may be much more difficult.
I’ve got the system down for dealing with immediate past behavior: smacking your brother on the head - punish. Helping your brother reach a toy - reward. Spitting and then screaming "I DON’T WANT TO" at your mother when she asks you to go potty - punish. Going potty when asked - reward. Repeatedly kicking the car when your mother won’t sing the ABCs for a 40th time on the way home from work - punish. Entertaining your brother in the car during a long trip - reward.
In my house, we don’t really use the word punishment. I prefer the word "consequences." My daughter (and to some extent, my son) understands the concept of consequences for actions. If you throw a toy, you immediately lose that toy (it goes on top of the refrigerator until the next day - we have a lot of begging at the fridge in my house because the dog’s treats are also up there.) If you hit, kick, spit, bite, or push another living thing in the house, you go to time out (sit on the step, we call it.) If you scream, you go outside and stand by yourself on the back deck until you are done screaming. (As an aside, this has been one of the most effective punishments in my house for my daughter, a/k/a The Screamer. She doesn’t realize I can still see her from inside the house and almost immediately stops screaming when she thinks no one can see or hear her. I highly recommend it for age-appropriate punishment.)
I often talk about making choices with my kids - if you choose a certain behavior, you must deal with the consequences of your choice. I believe this is a good lesson for life in general. If you choose not to do well in school, there are consequences. If you choose to leave your job and not get another one, there are consequences. If you choose to spend your money on frivolous things, there are consequences. If you choose bad men, there are consequences. Anyway, I digress . . . .
The reward v. punishment for prospective behavior issue has come up recently because my daughter has made the choice to be a complete sassy-brat during naptime at day care. She has always been hard to get to sleep at day care, probably because of the other people in the room. At home, she has no problems going to sleep - not once has she gotten out of her bed before being told to get up. But school is different. Her teachers tell me she is often the last child asleep, but she always eventually goes to sleep.
A couple of weeks ago, however, she refused to take a nap and turned into Princess Bratty-Pants during naptime. I actually don’t mind if she doesn’t nap during the day, she just goes to bed earlier in the evening. And I would be fine if she simply rested quietly on her cot at school and allowed the other children to nap. But, not my Princess Bratty-Pants. If she’s not sleeping, she makes it near impossible for other children to sleep. She does gymnastics on her cot. She knocks things off nearby shelves. She sings Baby Bumblebee and ABCs and Five Little Ducks at the top of her lungs. She talks non-stop. She screams at her teachers "I DON"T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU!"
Lovely.
All this behavior from a girl who is mostly well-behaved at all other times. Her teachers were not amused the first day she did this and stopped me in the hallway before I got to her room. I also was not amused and, before giving her a hug when I picked her, took her into the hallway to have a serious discussion about her behavior. Her hello smile quickly faded when she knew I knew what she had done.
"What happened during naptime today?" Smile fades and lower lip comes out.
"Did you take a nap?" tiny little "no."
"Did you use your mean words with Ms. Brenda?" tinier little "yes" and attempts to hug me.
"That makes me very sad. It makes Ms. Brenda very sad." attempts to change the subject to the new song she learned.
"No. What you did during naptime is not OK." Now, she’s planting little kisses on my hands and forearms.
"Now, there are consequences for your behavior. You will lose dessert tonight after dinner. And you must say you are sorry to Ms. Brenda."
After she went to bed, I pondered what direction to take to stop this behavior in the future. As I saw it, I had two options. The first was to tell her she would be rewarded when she did sleep. The second was to tell her she would be punished when she didn’t sleep. In general, I believe that rewarding good behavior is ultimately more effective. So, we worked out a treat system - if she takes a nap, she gets a small treat on the way home (I happened to have mini-tootsie rolls available). And that worked . . . for about two and a half weeks.
And then there was yesterday.
At naptime, her behavior was much worse and the teachers were not happy at all. This time, however, my daughter showed absolutely no remorse for her actions. When I said that I was very sad she had not taken a nap and used her mean words with Ms. Brenda, she replied, "I DON’T WANT TO TAKE A NAP!!!!!" and burst into tears and screaming and threw herself on the floor. (Exhibit A in support of the case for napping.) All attempts to discuss the issue were pointless, as she had clearly fallen off the ledge of the no-nap tantrum zone. She wailed her way out of the day care, into the car, and all the way home.
Once she was calmed down at home, we had the punishment talk. As a consequence for her actions, she lost her after-dinner dessert, her playtime before bed, and the storytime before bed. This realization caused her to wail again, but when she had calmed down I explained that the consequences of not taking a nap meant she was extra tired at night and had to go to sleep right after dinner. She was not happy, but after about 30 seconds of whining in her bed, she fell asleep at 6 pm.
We will see what happened today at day care. Hopefully, she took a nap and we can go back to rewarding. It has occurred to me while writing this post that the question can be answered without using "or," that the two options are not mutually exclusive. It may be that rewarding and punishing is the appropriate response to this situation. Well, that just shows me that the next time I have a problem, I should just write out the issue and it will resolve itself. Of course, resolving my daughter’s behavior may be much more difficult.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Pedicure a la Two Year Old
She's not that bad, considering her age and attention span. Sadly, they don't look much better when I paint them myself.
I also did her toes and we argued about whether either one of us would have her fingernails painted. She wanted her fingernails painted but I said no for two reasons. First, I can't stand little girls with fingernail polish chipping off their fingers. It makes them look older than they are. Second, she chews on her fingernails and I am using it as a reason to get her to stop (We can't paint your fingernails until you stop putting your fingers in your mouth!)
Then she wanted to paint my finger nails. No, for two reasons. First, it never lasts - even when a pro does it. Second, it is not professional for me to have pink fingernails. I just don't project the image of asskicker with pink fingernails.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
She's Saving Up for that Hummer
Me: What you are going to buy with the money in your piggy bank?
Daughter: More money!
Daughter: More money!
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Who Is This Child?
On our way to the zoo in my parents' hometown this weekend, my daughter suddenly announced, "When I get big, I'm gonna get a Hummer."
My mother and I looked at each other and I said, "A Hummer?" My daughter is not quite three years old and sometimes she is hard to understand. Usually, if I say multiple words that are wrong, she gets upset until I say the word she was trying to say. I thought I had certainly misunderstood her. But I hadn't.
"Yeah . . . a Hummer."
"Like a really big car . . . that kind of Hummer?"
"Yep . . . when I get big." Duh, mama.
For the record, I don't drive a Hummer. I drive a nice little four door sedan. No one I know drives a Hummer. I doubt she has ever been in a Hummer. But she was absolutely certain she was going to get a Hummer when she gets big. Alrighty then . . . .
The next day, she informed me she wanted a "cleaner" toy for her next potty-chart-reward-toy. A vacuum-cleaner toy. Keep in mind - the child has never seen me use a vacuum cleaner. She knows we have one because it fell out of the front hall closet once when I was searching for a missing mitten. I have no idea how she knows how to use one, but when she saw a cute little pink one at the children's consignment store, she was all over it, vacuuming away. So, I bought her a used pink toy vacuum cleaner. And she's used it more than I have ever used my real one.
So, this week, I am asking, "Who is this child?" Some non-environmentally friendly, super-sized SUV-driving suburban soccer-mom/Stepford wife in the making?
Jeez . . . next she's going to tell me she's voting for John McCain.
My mother and I looked at each other and I said, "A Hummer?" My daughter is not quite three years old and sometimes she is hard to understand. Usually, if I say multiple words that are wrong, she gets upset until I say the word she was trying to say. I thought I had certainly misunderstood her. But I hadn't.
"Yeah . . . a Hummer."
"Like a really big car . . . that kind of Hummer?"
"Yep . . . when I get big." Duh, mama.
For the record, I don't drive a Hummer. I drive a nice little four door sedan. No one I know drives a Hummer. I doubt she has ever been in a Hummer. But she was absolutely certain she was going to get a Hummer when she gets big. Alrighty then . . . .
The next day, she informed me she wanted a "cleaner" toy for her next potty-chart-reward-toy. A vacuum-cleaner toy. Keep in mind - the child has never seen me use a vacuum cleaner. She knows we have one because it fell out of the front hall closet once when I was searching for a missing mitten. I have no idea how she knows how to use one, but when she saw a cute little pink one at the children's consignment store, she was all over it, vacuuming away. So, I bought her a used pink toy vacuum cleaner. And she's used it more than I have ever used my real one.
So, this week, I am asking, "Who is this child?" Some non-environmentally friendly, super-sized SUV-driving suburban soccer-mom/Stepford wife in the making?
Jeez . . . next she's going to tell me she's voting for John McCain.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
My Daughter Has Been Possessed by Miss Manners
Not even three days after I thought I was going to have to send my two toddlers to military school, my daughter decided to change the name of the game. Now she's trying to kill me with kindness. In the two hours we were together this morning, she managed to be the nicest toddler this side of the Mississippi.
6:49 am (coming upstairs from her room) - "Good morning, Mama!" This struck me as odd, as her usual first statement of the day is either "I just wet" meaning she has peed in her bed or "Find my ________ (toy) right now!"
6:55 am (after I have told her to go potty and get her clothes) - "Okay, Mama!" And she actually did it! Without stalling with playing she must do before completing any other task or screaming "NO!!" at the top of her lungs.
7:10 - 7:30 am - Actually using Please and Thank You at breakfast. The norm is saying, "Milk, milk, milk, milk, milk, milk" with increasing volume while I am clearly doing something else for someone else.
7:40 am - Putting her shoes on without being asked. She did this without arguing with me about which shoes she was going to wear and without five minutes of insisting she couldn't put her shoes on by herself when she has been putting her shoes on by herself for the last six months. And they're Crocs, for christsake. A monkey could put those on by himself.
7:55 am - Trying to appease my son while he is throwing a temper tantrum. Usually, when he is throwing a fit, she stands next to him and screams, "That hurt my ears!! Too loud! Mama, he hurt my ears!"
8:17 am - Offering to carry both her bag and his bag out to the car. I expect her to carry her own bag to school and mostly, she dramatically flops her arms down when I give it to her and says, "Too heavy! Can't carry it!" Yeah, right . . . because one pair of underwear, a pair of shorts, and a lip smacker are too heavy for your petite 35-pound frame.
8:26 am - while driving to school in the car and the boy is throwing a different fit, she says, "I sorry for [the boy] Mama." That one really got me - now I am sure the child was abducted by aliens and replaced with some sort of robot-toddler who only uses her nice words, is fully potty trained (even through the night), and never deliberately pisses off her brother.
OR . . . .
She has discovered the age-old trick of older sisters . . . if the brother is acting like a complete shit, turn on the charm and become the perfect child. The rewards will be endless!!
OR . . . .
They are in this together . . . the old bait-and-switch. In a few days, the boy will be the perfect child and the girl will become possessed by the devil! That's the perfect way to keep Mama on her toes (and walking the fine line between psychosis and neurosis).
Tricky, very tricky! But, what you don't know my pretties, is that your Mama has been around the block a few times. You will never win . . . resistance is futile!
6:49 am (coming upstairs from her room) - "Good morning, Mama!" This struck me as odd, as her usual first statement of the day is either "I just wet" meaning she has peed in her bed or "Find my ________ (toy) right now!"
6:55 am (after I have told her to go potty and get her clothes) - "Okay, Mama!" And she actually did it! Without stalling with playing she must do before completing any other task or screaming "NO!!" at the top of her lungs.
7:10 - 7:30 am - Actually using Please and Thank You at breakfast. The norm is saying, "Milk, milk, milk, milk, milk, milk" with increasing volume while I am clearly doing something else for someone else.
7:40 am - Putting her shoes on without being asked. She did this without arguing with me about which shoes she was going to wear and without five minutes of insisting she couldn't put her shoes on by herself when she has been putting her shoes on by herself for the last six months. And they're Crocs, for christsake. A monkey could put those on by himself.
7:55 am - Trying to appease my son while he is throwing a temper tantrum. Usually, when he is throwing a fit, she stands next to him and screams, "That hurt my ears!! Too loud! Mama, he hurt my ears!"
8:17 am - Offering to carry both her bag and his bag out to the car. I expect her to carry her own bag to school and mostly, she dramatically flops her arms down when I give it to her and says, "Too heavy! Can't carry it!" Yeah, right . . . because one pair of underwear, a pair of shorts, and a lip smacker are too heavy for your petite 35-pound frame.
8:26 am - while driving to school in the car and the boy is throwing a different fit, she says, "I sorry for [the boy] Mama." That one really got me - now I am sure the child was abducted by aliens and replaced with some sort of robot-toddler who only uses her nice words, is fully potty trained (even through the night), and never deliberately pisses off her brother.
OR . . . .
She has discovered the age-old trick of older sisters . . . if the brother is acting like a complete shit, turn on the charm and become the perfect child. The rewards will be endless!!
OR . . . .
They are in this together . . . the old bait-and-switch. In a few days, the boy will be the perfect child and the girl will become possessed by the devil! That's the perfect way to keep Mama on her toes (and walking the fine line between psychosis and neurosis).
Tricky, very tricky! But, what you don't know my pretties, is that your Mama has been around the block a few times. You will never win . . . resistance is futile!
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