Remembering Now

Dear Hannah,

I've often wondered what things you'll remember from your wee childhood. You won't remember the first smile you cracked when you were 5 weeks old, the way you snorted while nursing, your very first strawberry or your first pair of shoes. You probably won't remember Japan - at least as your own memory - or the wonderful people who knew you from the day you were born. I don't know if you'll remember me reading chapters from "The Little Prince" to you each night before bed or singing "Baby Beluga" while you splashed with your chubby legs at bath time. But I have a feeling that some of your earliest memories will be from this crazy, adventuresome time. So let me refresh you on your fourth year.

This was a year of distinguishing fantasy from reality . . . of "Ladycorns" and Nightmares, monsters and imaginary friends. You tell us there is a white squirrel named "Squirrel Bob" who lives on the ceiling fan in your bedroom, and each night you have to kick him out of your room so he won't make noise and keep you awake. While certain stuffed animals frighten you at night (namely pigs, cats, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar), you still sleep with a menagerie of unicorns, rabbits and dinosaurs on your bed. You are adept at prolonging bed time each night, and a part of me believes it is because night time is the only time you actually sit still long enough to let your imagination really run wild! Because of this fixation on monsters, your favorite bedtime stories are those by Mercer Mayer - "There's a Nightmare in My Closet," "There's an Alligator Under My Bed," "There's Something in My Attic," and "There are Monsters Everywhere."

You have a love for all things shiny and fragile. While you are unusually gentle for a four-year-old, you do have your clumsy moments. One of my favorites happened recently, when I found you wandering the house when you should have been taking a nap. You were looking for me, because you had disassembled my marble egg-shaped kaleidoscope given to me by an old boyfriend. I can only imagine you holding that tiny treasure up to the the light and turning it while gazing at the crystals and mirrors within, and wanting to know exactly what was inside that was making those intricate patterns. So you broke it open, stuck your finger in the lens hole, and found yourself with a marble egg stuck on your index finger. I would have scolded you if I hadn't been laughing so hard.

You also have a love for music and theater. Are we at all surprised? We can find you singing most times of the day - sometimes actual songs, and sometimes just a melodious stream of consciousness or blow-by-blow of whatever game you are playing or world you are building. I call them "Hannah's Rock Operas," and they are a thing to behold. We often ask you to perform for our guests, and you oblige us with an original, never-heard-before medley. We are of course proud of our little performer, but there is one thing I would impress upon you, my love. Please never believe that life is a performance. By all means, play pretend, try on on different hats, and sing and dance to your heart's content, but I implore you to never feel that acting in a way that is not you will make you more friends, or make people love you. Your thoughts and feelings are the most beautiful, genuine expression of yourself.

This is a magical time in your life, little one. You inhabit a world of romance, butterflies, fairies, acorns, sandcastles, bubble gum, marbles and the color purple. If I were to choose your very first memory for you, it would be the magic. The adventure. The exuberant love for everything moving, breathing, shining, singing. You, my daughter, are a sparkling light of possibility. Every morning when I hear you open your bedroom door and stomp down the stairs, I wonder how you will have changed. Before you come into our room, I close my eyes and remember the girl you were the day before - the length of your hair, the size of your feet, the funny way you pronounced certain words - and then I send light and love to the girl you were and open my eyes to the beautiful girl you are now. Your pajamas are a little shorter, your toddler tummy a little smaller, and you have inevitably learned 20 new things overnight, including the proper way to say "burp" and "unicorn," much to my chagrin. You are growing into a stunning human being, Hannah. I couldn't be happier that your are ours.

Love,
Mommy

Music Credits: "Love, Love, Love" by Avalanche City

Well, Poop.

By the end of this post you'll either think I'm incredibly creative and witty, or completely off my rocker. I've thought about it, and I'm OK with either. After all, they're not so far apart. Potty training has been a topsy-turvy journey for me Hannah. If you've read my blog in the past you might recall this colorful post, wherein I was a slave to Hannah's bladder for a week. She "got it" eventually, and was a regular at all the local restrooms for a while, because she knew she would get chocolate or marshmallows every time she peed. She even got so good at it that she could stop mid stream, get her M&M, and then pee again 5 minutes later for another. Mommy caught on though, and stopped rewarding Hannah for peeing. I had my sight set on bigger, more solid things. Like poop. Yes, try as we might to make her sit there for just a liiiiiiittle bit longer, Hannah would not, could not, poop on the toilet. She huffed, and she puffed, and she pushed with all her might. But it was always the same story. "No poo poo. I can't." She even developed a gag reflex to the sight/smell of her own poop. I know, gross. If you saw the picture at the beginning of this post and you're still reading, I suspect your stomach isn't that weak, though. So on would go the Pull-up and out would come the poop. Like clockwork. She also started becoming more stubborn about peeing, too. If she wasn't to be rewarded with refined sugar, what was the point? So I let it go . . . let her regress back to soggy diapers and a trash can that always smelled like Johnny on the Spot. I figured some day she'd get it . . . at least by the time she graduated high school.

I don't know what made us get back on the potty training wagon. I think it was a combination of the cost of diapers and seeing how much waste they created, Hannah's impending 3rd birthday, and a heavy sense of Mother's Guilt that my child was some how becoming accustomed to sitting in her own excrement. So we tried again. This time, no Pull-ups, no sticker chart, minimal rewards UNLESS . . . unLESS she went poop in the potty. I promised her the WORLD if she would only poop in the potty. The world, in Hannah's eyes, consists of shopping, ice cream, and going down a slide. So of course those are the three things I promised her.

But the pressure was too high. For three days the two of us camped out on the battleground bathroom floor, she on her pink cushy potty and me on the not so cushy linoleum floor. The conversation went a little something like this:

"Hannah, if you poop in the potty, we'll go shopping and have ice cream and go down the slide. Do you want to do those things?"

"Yeah! Let's go!"

"Ok, but first you need to poop in the potty."

"No thank you."

"But don't you want to go shopping and have ice cream and go down the slide?"

"Yeah! Let's go!!"


It was easy for me to lose my patience in what felt like this desperate situation . . . to the point of becoming cross with her when she either didn't deliver, or when she delivered in a paper diaper during nap time instead of in the toilet. Pressuring her with bribes she clearly wanted but didn't know how to earn put an enormous strain on our relationship, and on what little energy and sanity we mothers have left for potty training. More often than not these manipulative conversations would culminate in tears and giant sobs of "I caa-aaa-aaa---aan't" which would then reduce me to tears and holding my half naked toddler in my lap, rocking her and apologizing for being so manipulative and mean.

I took her to my sister's house, pink potty in tow, for a little change of scenery. Amy and I sat on her (very spacious) bathroom floor while Hannah ran around with no pants on, luxuriating in the air on her naked tush and the freedom to sit on the potty when it pleased her. I even brought along "Little Bunny Poo Poo," a puppet who talked to Hannah while she sat on the potty, and made farting noises to make her giggle. Now when Hannah plays with the puppet she does nothing but make farting  noises. Nice one, Suz. We were in there for two hours, but no poop. I knitted a hat during this time:

. . . and now whenever Hans wears it I'm sure to remember that day, in the bathroom with my sister, waiting for the poop to come while Little Bunny Poo Poo mocked my haphazard ambition.

On Sunday we rested, and feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, I gathered my creative faculties on Monday and  made play doh poop. It was a delicate mixture of neon orange, hot pink and kelly green, but I think I got the hue and swirling just right. When I sent the photo of my creation in text messages to all my friends, a few replied that it was almost too perfect and could do with a few specks of indigestibles, but I thought that would be going a little to far, wouldn't you?

When she was otherwise occupied, I dropped the play doh in Hannah's (sanitized!) potty and set her favorite little doll on top and just waited for her to discover what "dolly" had done. I only wish I'd video taped the reaction.

"MAMA! WOOK! DOLLY POO POO!!!!!!"

"She did?!?!?! WOOOOOOW! Way to go, Dolly! You did it!"

" . . . . how 'bout . . .  Hannah poo poo?"

And after 20 minutes of singing, reading books, and having a long conversation about all the people and things that poop ("And elephant poo poo? And tiger poo poo? And lady bug poo poo? And Uncle Kevin poo poo?") she FINALLY POOPED IN THE POTTY HALLELUIA!!!! It was one of the 50 most beautiful things I've ever seen in my life. Ever. My play doh replica paled in comparison. I'll admit I felt just as accomplished as Hannah did. Probably a little bit more. Yes, I thought, We did it! No one was more ready for shopping, ice cream, and about 50 rides down the biggest, reddest slide in town than Hannah and me. We. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Watercolors

Here are some paintings by Hannah. The first one is a family of anacondas. I know this because while Hannah was painting it she was singing "Purple Anaconda, Mama Anaconda, Dada Anaconda, Uncle Pete Anaconda . . . " She also mentioned a "Nanaconda" and a "Hannahconda." If you squint real hard you can see them.

 

This next one I like to call "Conversing Paint Brushes."  She painted it with a baby paint brush and a Mama paint brush, and her technique involved dipping Baby Paint Brush in the paint, putting it on the paper, and then chasing it with Mama Paint Brush. Then the paint brushes spoke in high pitched voices: "Hi Mama. I'm running. See? Weeeeee! You wanna run? No? Ok. How 'bout potty? You wanna potty? No. Yes. No. Yes. NO! Ok, how 'bout chocolate. I'm running Mama. See?"

Artistic soul that she is, Hannah likes to paint at least 2 or 3 times a week. What do I do when there is no more room on the refrigerator? I do what any good mother would do. I cut her paintings into (heart-shaped) pieces. . . 

 

And re-purpose them for Valentines. :) Hannah did the gluing, of course. I'll tell you what the baby glue said to the Mama glue another time. Happy Valentine's!

 

Les kisses to you

Dear Hannah,

It's been some time since I've written to you. Maybe I've been lazy, or maybe your expressive nature has made my letters obsolete. Maybe I just haven't known what to say, or how to say it. The dust is finally settling from our massive uprooting to a country that at first was foreign to you but home to us. You've adjusted beautifully and I am so, so proud of the little lady you are becoming.

You are almost 2 and a half years old now, and while I will be making a new photo/video montage of your latest and greatest, I'd also like to capture you here, in my mind, so you can not only remember how you looked and sounded, but how the rest of us adored your every breath and movement.

I'm duty bound, as your doting mother, to share a few of what I affectionately refer to as "Hannacdotes."  Every morning you tackle the daunting chore of getting me out of bed, and you do it with style and panache. If the bedroom door is closed, you lay on your belly and sing songs to me through the crack under the door. "Bear Necessities," "Twinkle, Twinkle," and "Bippity Boppity Boo" are among your favorite repertoire. There I'll be, laying in bed, searching for just ONE thing motivating enough to get me up, and then I hear a sweet little voice drifting from the floor:

"Ee da da, BEAR Negessities,
da pimple Bear Negessities
aget abou' da wawies ah da tife
AMEN!
I mean da, Bear Negessities
da why a Bear can resteties
wi' just a Bear Negessities a life!
AMEN!"

On days when Daddy pitilessly benevolently leaves the bedroom door open for you to enter as you please, you patter to my side and whisper sweet nothings directly into my eardrum. "Hi Mama. Mama sweeping? Come on, Mama. Ged up! Come on!" You pick my glasses off the nightstand and put them on my face ("Eee go Mama!"), hand me a glass of water and I take a drink ("Is it gooooood?"), then pull a tissue out of the box so I can blow my nose ("Le wachoo Mama? Goooood job!") Then you pull the covers from my warm, sleepy body, take my hand, and tug with all your 30 pounds to get my . . . much more than 30 pounds . . . walking to the coffee maker. It's a wonder you don't just give up and leave me for dead. I am, however, flattered you think my presence worth the effort.

When you aren't busy eating us out of house and home (three breakfasts you eat before shouting "what about elevensies?!"), you can be found diligently taking care of your babies (of which there are five, you busy little Mama you), climbing into laundry hampers, changing your clothes 50 times, applying orange marker like lipstick, following everyone into the bathroom ("You did it, you did it, you pee-peed in the potty! Yaaaaaay Nana!"), or on lucky days when he's home, being chased by Daddy. Last week he was chasing you around the upstairs hallway/bathroom circuit, and steadily gaining, though you were swift in nothing but a diaper. Then suddenly you stopped, turned around, and with your biggest, boomiest voice yelled "STOP! Care bears . . . STARE!" Such was my pride in that moment, that had my chest puffed up any further it would have exploded, sending me flying away like a farting balloon. My little girl just quoted Care Bears! I get a little choked up just thinking about it. Just a little.

So much playing is bound to inspire mischief in my creative little sprite. Aside from the various uses you've found for markers and crayons (lipstick, body paint, wall decorators, fabric softener), you also ransack drawers, summit furniture, and jump jump jump to your heart's content until something goes CRASH and the only thing left to do is to run in the opposite direction and not look back. Those times when I catch you (and most often I do), and begin to scold, you, my little actress, will stall like a stickshift car:

"I, I, I . . . hug?"
"I, I, I . . . snack?"
"I, I, I . . . love you?"

And when Mommy doesn't budge, though it's difficult not to laugh out loud when you're trying so hard, you conjure up the most beautiful, contrite little face and say with perfect sincerity, "I, I, I . . . I sorry."

We recently moved you from your tiny pack 'n' play crib to a big girl bed, complete with purple Tinkerbell bed tent. You've not only adjusted to your new bed/nest/fort for bunnies and bears, but you've become a master of luring unsuspecting parents into your lair and capturing them in your embrace. Sometimes they don't return until dawn, so seduced are they by your warmth and sweetness. "Mama nap? Come on Mama, right here," you tap the pillow next to your head, "Mama lay down. Please? Oh, Mama. Night night." No, not tonight, sweet baby. Your siren's call is tempting, but my ribs can't take the kicking.

 you are getting sleeeeeeepy . . . 

I apologize for this waterfall of sentimentality, but I need to say one more thing before closing, my darling. I've met a lot of wonderful people in my life, Hannah, but no one has the same capacity to love and empathize as you carry in your little toddler body. If ever you accidentally:

Poke someone in the eye
Kick someone in the groin
Step on someone's face
Knee someone in the ribs
Pull something's tail

Spill someone's drink

. . . or see someone, something, hurt in any way, whether or not you are the cause of that pain, you become almost sick with grief, wrap your arms around that person/animal and say "Oh no? Le ouchy? You ok? Oh no! I sorry. Le kiss? Mmmmuah. Dere. All bedder?" Seeing how empathetic you are and knowing how very much you strive to emulate your parents, it feels good to know we're doing something worth emulating. Yesterday you were playing outside, collecting walnuts to roll down the driveway and every so often pausing to gaze heavenward and marvel at the trees. Then you were gathering muddy rocks from Nana's garden, and when you dropped a big one I thought it had landed on your foot. I gasped and asked if you were ok, and you looked at my worried face, mirrored my expression, then picked up the rock and held it next to your cheek and crooned "You ok rock? Ohhhhh. I sorry. Here, le kiss. Mmmmmmuah." Because deep down inside you is the desire to always do good, to always do right. And though you don't mean to, you will mess up sometimes and I have every confidence you'll know how to make things right. And some day, in the quiet shade of the trees you love, that rock will forgive you.

How can it not?

All my love and then some,

Mama

Just a few happenings

Excuse my potty mouth

I'm writing about this because I can't seem to speak 5 words in a row these days without one of them being pee pee, poo poo or potty. I decided last week that the day after Eric's funeral would be the day I'd start potty training Hannah. Why, you might ask? Why indeed. There's a lot of pressure on moms to start potty training as soon as possible. Here are some of the things people have told me:

1. You want to start potty training before your child becomes too willful and stubborn to listen.

2. Your child needs to be potty trained by the time she goes to preschool (usually around 3-3 1/2 years old).

3. It's unhealthy and unnatural for your child to "get used to" running around in her own pee and poop.

4. You'll save in diaper costs the sooner she's potty trained.

5. You are supposed to begin training at 2 years old.

6. You won't have spend so much time changing diapers any more.

7. If she's letting you know when she's wet or poopy, it means she's uncomfortable and ready to start potty training.

8. You'll help the environment by getting her out of diapers earlier.

Believe me, nothing gets a mom moving faster than making her believe she might not just damage her child but MOTHER EARTH if she doesn't make haste with potty training. I can't say that any of these reasons are a good "fit" for me. Honestly? I was curious. And bored. And sad. I needed something to do, a mission to take my mind off of myself. I also needed some good writing material. So I decided now was as good a time as ever.

Seriously, Suz?

So maybe my motives aren't pure, but here I am doing it anyway. Yes, potty training takes planning, patience, and creativity. It also takes cunning, vigilance and a touch of insanity. Do you know how grueling it is to make a 2 year old sit down in one place long enough to figure out her bodily functions? I read a book that suggests keeping "a couple" books next to the potty to keep your toddler occupied. We have a CRATE FULL. And I've already rotated new books in, not for Hannah's sake but for mine. I'd say a quarter of my day is spent huddled over Hannah on the bathroom floor singing potty songs*, serving beverages to her royal highness on her little pink throne, and reading every. book. in. the. house. I swear, if I have to read "The Belly Button Book" one more time, I think my head will implode and become a belly button itself.

In preparation for the inevitably disastrous beautifully momentous process of potty training I read the book "How to Potty Train Your Child in Just One Day," and I have to say it is a load of CRAP (sorry). The plan Teri Crane lays out sounds fun and easy: Have a day-long potty training party. In the morning give your kid a doll with diapers and have your kid potty train the doll. In the afternoon load your kid up with juice and potty train your kid. Easy peasy! Ha. Not only does the plan require you to have the energy and demeanor of a crack addict, but the language skills required of the child are that of a 4 year old:

"Each time you and you and your child discover that Dolly's underpants are wet or soiled, after you've asked the questions suggested in the accidents section, suggest, 'Let's help Dolly build her potty training memory muscles!' When you make that suggestion, tap your temples. Tapping your temples as you say the words creates a visual image to reinforce the verbal message. Explain to your child that after each accident, Dolly sits on the potty to build her potty-training memory muscles so she can remember that she doesn't have accidents in her underpants. She goes on the potty."

Like the nice urine yellow color I chose for highlighting? That's because I want to pee on this page. If I tried using words like "potty training memory muscles" with my two year old while "tapping my temples" to create a visual image, she would probably a) run out of the room, b) throw her doll down the toilet for making her life so complicated, or c) start singing "Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes."

You know what I say? Ef Teri Crane's method. I'm going on the fly. I've got this potty training thing in the bag, complete with shiny new potty, colorful "big girl" underwear for Hannah, a potty chart most kids would donate their left kidney for, and a very large jar of M&M's. With bribes like this we can't possibly fail, right?

Wrong.

Day 1: The Big Girl Panty Approach: Wake up and put Hannah in new underwear. Let her have an accident so she can feel herself peeing, then take her to the potty and explain where the pee goes.

Results: She peed on the back deck twice (while playing with a bucket of water, so she didn't really "get it") and in the sun room once. Amy tried carrying her to the bathroom mid-pee, thus leaving a glistening trail of urine all the way to the bathroom, and not a drop left for the pot. We switched back to the diaper by 6:00 pm.

Day 2: The Naked Approach: I decided to let Hannah run around naked while I stalked her throughout the house with her potty. That way when she peed I could just "catch" it, and that would be our segue into potty training! Tricksy, huh?

Results: Hannah spent her morning activities sitting on the potty. She played with her bucket of water out on the deck . . . sitting on the potty. She colored her coloring books in the living room . . . sitting on the potty. She sat on the potty . . . sitting on the potty. I was beginning to believe she would never pee ever in her life again. Ever. I was also worried that I might not get a shower that day, and wondered if duct-taping the potty to her butt would be considered child abuse. My dad came upstairs with a basket of laundry that needed sorting, and needing a break from potty-stalking my kid, I dug in without another thought. Within two seconds Hannah was in the bathroom peeing in the very spot her potty USED to sit before I had the brilliant idea to follow her around the house with it. I wouldn't have found the puddle so offensive if a pile of her beautiful board books were not sitting in the middle of it. It looked like she'd just straddled them and let go. That's when I cried. I tried throwing away some of the soggy books, but my mom fished them out of the garbage and laid them on the deck to dry. Round 2 goes to Hannah. After her nap I let her play in the kiddy pool with NO swimmy diaper so she could feel when she was peeing. And you know what toddlers do when you don't put them in swimmy diapers? They poop. Twice. And when that happens, you get to spend the rest of the afternoon explaining to their cousins why flies like eating poop.

Day 3: The Pull-Ups Approach: Lots of sitting on the potty and batting of eyes. Waiting. Waiting.

Results: Nothing but a lot of dirty pull-ups. Round 3 goes to Hannah.

Day 4: The Pull-Ups/Naked Hybrid With a Little Extra Running Approach: By this point, seasoned potty trainer that I am, I can note a little twinkle in her eye when it's "time." We take off the Pull-Up and run to the bathroom together. The next 20 minutes are full of songs, books, games, and random wild goose chases around the house when she and her naked little butt manage to escape the bathroom. Around the house we go, trot trot trot, and every time she stops running (I'm assuming to try to pee), I pick her up and run her back to the bathroom.

Results: After 3 or 4 rounds of this, when I was beginning to think that duct tape might not be strong enough and a staple gun was in order, we started play "Inai inai Ba!" (Japanese Peek-a-Boo) while she was sitting down. Hand towel goes on my head "Where Mama? Inai Inai . . . Ba! Ih iiiiis!" Hand towel comes off. HYSTERICAL laughing, and in her distraction she FINALLY PEED THANK YOU GOD. Much celebrating. Much showering toddler with chocolate and stickers and presents.

And homemade frozen fruit pops . . . 

. . . an hour later we tried the same method, only she outsmarted me and peed on Mom and Dad's bedroom floor, then pooped in the pull-up I promptly slapped on her. Round 4 goes to . . .

*I'm thinking of copyrighting these:

Potty Training Rhapsody (to the tune of "Bohemian Rhapsody" by Queen)
Mama, just peed again
Put the pee pee in the pot
And it really hit the spot.
Mama, life has just begun,
And now I'm gonna pee on eeeevery floor!
Mama! Ooooooo.....

You Can Do It (to the tune of "We Can Do It" from Cinderella - you know, the one the mice sing)
You can do it, you can do it
You can pee pee in the potty
You can make a pretty tinkle
There's nothing to it really.
You'll keep your diapers dry,
Put a sticker on the chart,
Then dancy down the hall
You will be happier than all,
It' a lovely pee you'll put into the potty.
Hurry hurry hurry hurry got no time to dilly dally
Got to pee pee in the potty
and dump in in the toilet . . . .

Teeth and Poop

Have I got your attention?

Hannah has her first dentist appointment today. 16 little choppers and 4 on the way. We've come such a long way in the tooth department. Sigh.

Also, she's speaking in sentences now. Here are some of her favorites:

     Where [cow, pig, horsy, choo choo, nunny, Etan, Dack, Kokot, Thonas]?

     Ih is! (There it is!)

     Ee go (Here you go)

     Wuh GO! (Let's GO!)

     Tee tee. Wehcun! (Thank you. Welcome!)

She started calling me "Mom" the other day. Not Mama, not Mommy, just "Mom." She says it with kind of a condescending tone, if you can imagine such from a two-year-old. Like "Mom! Get me a drink!" or "Mom! Pay attention!" I don't like it. I'm not Mom. Not yet. I guess it's better than what she calls her daddy.

"HAAAAAANS!"

I think it's time I really get serious about the potty training. I got myself a little intimidated reading "Potty Train Your Child in One Day," psyching myself out and buying all the "necessary" supplies (to include a doll that pees and a book of 700 Thomas the Train Engine stickers for her progress chart), then insisting she learn how to pull down her pants, sit on the toilet, wipe, pull up her pants and wash her hands BEFORE I even let her try using the toilet. If I stick to this method, I think high school graduation as a deadline might be cutting it a bit close. I just need to devote a few uninterrupted days to camping out in the bathroom with a stack of books and a jar of M&M's, and doing a few extra loads of ammonia-scented laundry. She's well aware of her bodily functions, announcing in the middle of dinner when she's peeing. She gets this worried little look on her face, like her cat just died, and says "Uh oh. Oh no. Pee pee! Where die-der? [Where diaper?]" When I'm changing a poopy diaper, she talks about it the whole time "Heh heh. Ida poo poo. Heh heh, poo poo," like she's saying "Heh heh, I accidentally crapped my pants. How embarrassing."

She says "poo poo" with an umlaut, so it's actually more like "pü pü."

These are things I thought you should know. I'll let you know how the scream fest dentist appointment goes.

The greatest, most terrifying 1:25 minutes of my day

My dear little Poopy Pants,

Peanut Butter,

Hannah Banana,

Stink Butt,

Uber Goober,

I love you.

     All of you.

     Your choo choos and bock bocks

     Bed head and yogurt-crusted brow

     Love songs and lullabies

     Shrieks and giggles

The way you twirl you hair when you drink milk

     Smile when you're in trouble

     Run away when I say "come here."

     Hug my face and say "awww"

     Kiss everyone in the room good night

          Even the people you don't know

I'm going to miss when you stop dragging your dollies by the arm

     Their plastic heads black from the pavement

     Stop calling the cat "titty"

     Bananas "nana"

     Oranges "ornch"
     The way your diaper crinkles when you run

     When your ability to jump with both feet in the air

          No longer thrills the way it did

          When all of your toes

          Still fit in my mouth.

Love,
Mama

Lessons in Girlhood

Growing and helping other things grow is dizzying work. When the world is spinning and you don't know which way is up, don't be afraid ask for help.

. . . and don't stop trying to get it right.

Kids

Two

The video's a bit long, but I figure 10 minutes is no time at all to anyone who wanted to watch it in the first place. Also, I'm forgoing the accompanying sappy love blog, because who needs words when you have a thousand pictures!

Happy belated birthday, little girl.

Love,

Mama

music credits:
The Temper Trap - "Sweet Disposition"
Animal Collective - "My Girls"

A Day at the Farm with Dada

*Sniff Sniff." Our little boy is growing up!


. . . and I think he needs new overalls.

Learning to spit

It's not a skill I thought I'd have to teach her. I thought it came naturally to little mischief-makers. Perhaps she's just too polite for her own good.

When your kid turns two, you're supposed to switch her toothpaste to the fluoridated kind, which also means she shouldn't be swallowing her toothpaste any more. We practiced spitting in the shower, gaping our spitters under the shower head until sufficiently filled, then seeing how far we could spray mouthfuls of tepid water across the shower. 10 points for hitting the door (the shower's only 3x3 feet to begin with - baby steps, right?)

She got pretty good and after shower, in my over-confidence, I slathered that flouridated Disney princess toothpaste onto her Hello Kitty toothbrush, knowing that after her 50-point score in the shower my wee genius would catch on. She stood on her stool by the sink and allowed me to brush her teeth, humming all the while. Then we leaned over the sink to spit. "Ready? Peh!" I said, trying to find the right sound to demonstrate what I wanted her to do.

"Peh!" she yells, thinking this is a fun little game. Nothing comes out. Apparently Disney princess toothpaste became her favorite food overnight. We go back and forth this way for 5 minutes.

"Pah!"

"Ptoo!"

"Ptooey!"

"Bleh!"

"Pfffffftoopt!"

A foamy loogey drips down her chin. Success! I clapped and shouted "yaaaaay! You did it!" as she grinned at me like a rabid gremlin. It's important to celebrate new victories with a toddler, however small those might be. Hannah, always watching and waiting for approval and praise, clapped with me triumphantly. As the excitement ebbed, her face changed to a twinkly look of concentration. A little tongue pokes out, feels around, tastes the foam, aaaaand . . .

Sluuuuuurp!

"Ahhhh! Oishii!"

I half expected her to kiss her fingertips and yell "Magnifique! Deliciuex! Encore!" Maybe we'll try brushing our teeth in the shower next time. That or buy some nastier toothpaste.

What moms do

Our neighbors have three large dogs, one of which behaves as though he likes to eat small children for breakfast. Bear Bear is his name. Coincidentally, we have three small children living under one roof, across the street from these dogs. A few weeks ago my nephews were playing outside in the driveway, and Bear Bear, unleashed and unattended, came over and growled with teeth bared and hackles raised at my nephew Ethan. Luckily Ethan was armed with a mighty fine stick, and was smart enough to be firm with Bear Bear and yell at him to "get back." This not being our first incident with Bear Bear coming into the yard unleashed, and having warned our neighbors several times that they need to keep him on a leash, we called the cops, and Bear Bear was taken away by the pound until our neighbor agreed to build a proper pen in which to keep their Kujo-lookalike dog. After building a pen and placing NO TRESPASSING and BEWARE OF DOG signs on every square foot of land they had, Bear Bear the dog returned to the neighborhood, and the only thing now separating his teeth from the small, tasty hands and faces of the neighborhood children is a chain-linked fence and a few warning signs the children can't read.

I had spent a lot of today in the sun (woo hoo! sun!), and consequently had a massive headache from dehydration. Before dinner we had an hour+ long seder ceremony for Passover (thanks, Mom. I know you put a lot of work into that) that didn't bode well for my throbbing head. Not only are you supposed to drink 4 glasses (in my case, sips) of wine during a seder meal, you also dip almost everything you eat in salt water. The kids had a hard time sitting still for all the Old Testament readings and eating of bitter herbs. Our Passover grew more and more chaotic as the kids lost patience and began to wander in and out of the room, hungry (bitter herbs can only fill you up so much), restless and wanting to play in the last few minutes of sunlight this beautiful day had to offer.

So after a long, LONG meal of horseshitradish and charosett, it's FINALLY quiet and I'm laying on the couch, and wait . . it's finally quiet? WTF? Who am I kidding? Where are the kids? Where's Hannah?

Truth be told, Hannah had recently discovered the invigorating feeling of opening the front door and walking out whenever she feels like it, and unbeknownst to any of the adults inside or the children outside, she felt like it. My little banana walked, barefoot and unnoticed, ACROSS the street to our neighbor's house. It took a couple minutes for me to even consider that she might be outside, because hello! She's just a baby! There's no way she'd go out there by herself. It's too scary, isn't it? . . . . ISN'T IT?!

My stomach lurched. I got up and opened the front door. "Han-nah!" I shouted. Her favorite word in the whole, wide world. The only word that could possibly bring her back to me. Silence. Then, a faint echo - much, much too far away for comfort.

"Han-nah!"

In two seconds I was across the street. Bare feet. Headache gone. Scared radish-less. And there she was, dancing on her toes between NO TRESPASSING and BEWARE OF DOG. Between parked cars and Bear Bear's pen. Between Alive and Eaten.

"Doog! Wan Wan!" she said, pointing and stomping with glee.

I had no words. Nothing I could say to impress upon her how very dangerous that "doog" was, or how she was never, ever to do that again. My tongue was suddenly too big for my mouth, and the only sound I could make was this awkward mix of a choke and a laugh. I imagine it sounded something like "Heehykugarp!" I snatched her into my arms and ran across the street, pressing her sweaty little head into my chest, trying to push her back inside my body where at least she'd be safe - no Bear Bears or open doors to tempt her to destruction.

When we reached the front door of my parents' house, I finally pulled away to look at her. She was still smiling. Still gleeful. Still innocent and unaware.

"Hannah, No, No NO."

Her smile froze. She stared at my face, her eyes shiny golden-brown nuts of question and confusion.

"No, No, NO. You can't go over there. That dog is mean. It can bite you. That's ouchy. No, Hannah."

Her face crumbled with betrayal and despair, golden nutty eyes floating in pools of tears. I wanted to hold her. To cry with her and tell her it was ok, it really wasn't that big of a deal. But that's not what a good mom does, and if ever there were a time to be a good mom, this was it.

"You're going to sit in time out now. Think about it for a little while. You need to tell Mama when you want to go outside, ok? No going to see the dogs, ok?"

I sat my sad little girl down on a stool in the living room, and as I did she held her arms out to me in supplication, earnest eyes asking, begging. I turned slowly and walked out of the room, and just outside the doorway I began to cry. It was one of those mouth-gaping, chest heaving, silent cries - the kind you hope no one ever has to witness. That moment of "why?" and "how could I let this happen?" and "what if . . . " is, I think, the most earthshaking feeling a mother can have. In that moment, the need to keep yourself together, to be strong for your child, has an intimate but fierce battle with alternating terror and relief that can't help but express itself in a human who has pushed another little human into existence.

"Hannah?"
"Hannah?"
"I love you. Come here."

2 minutes of grief - with a 2-year-old that's all you get before it's time to go back in the room and repair what might have been bruised along the way. Because that's what moms do. They try their best to protect their little ones, and when they fail they work through the grief, patching up the broken pieces as they do. In the end they hope they've handled the situation wisely, with a small measure of patience and grace. In the end they hope they've found balance between innocence-preservation and self-preservation. In the end they hope they've done more good than harm. It's a fine line, but in the end, I think we do.

I have an idea . . .

For every REAL blog I write, I'll also write two or three "promise blogs" to keep everyone hanging. That way I'm only really doing a third of the work! Yes! I love doing third-assed jobs!

No, seriously. Hannah's birthday party was so . . . pink. I really don't have a better word to describe it. Wall to wall, bubbly, girly, pepto bismol pink. She loved every minute of it. Tea and biscotti, costume parade, dance party, painting tea cups, Totoro cake . . . I mean, what's not to love about any of that? I woke up the next morning with a frosting hangover, and when I went upstairs to the living room to inventory the damage, I thought to myself wow, now that's a lot of plastic toys she totally didn't need. Except the potty. She really needed the pink plastic potty. And the Lego wagon. What little girl doesn't need a pink plastic Lego wagon? And how did she ever get around before without her pink plastic tricycle? Helloooooo pink plastic baby doll stroller! No, she doesn't need any of those things. But life sure is easier funner pinker now that she does.

SO . . . I have lots of pictures. And videos. And ideas for her 2-year-old video montage and sappy love blog. Yes. I. do.

In other news, she sat on her potty before our shower this morning. There she was, proud, animated, buck naked little Hannah, sitting on a potty, not peeing but making the sound "pssssssssss" like she really was, the little turkey. She's also learning some amazingly profound new songs, including but not limited to: "Tinkle Tinkle Little Tot," "The Tushy Pushy" and "Itsy Bitsy Poo Poo." Video coming soon. Just kidding.

Ninjas!

Hiya!

Waaaaaaaaah!

Hooah!

Hai!

Wassaaaaaaap!

Happy birthday to my 2-year old!

Even though she's been two (to me) for the past 6 months or so.

I'm working on the birthday video. It'll probably be late. Still haven't found just the right song (it's harder than you'd think). Until then, I'll be celebrating by going out with my sister to finally celebrate HER birthday (which was about 2 weeks ago), while Hannah spends the next week opening presents.

When Hannah Plays: A Royal Subject's Log

7:34AM A soft, sweet voice, hoarse from deep sleep, begins to sing. Nothing in particular at first - just moos, baas and la la las. The tiny vocal chords stretch and sigh, testing the room's acoustical integrity in their warm up. Slowly, like a heron unfurling its wings, her song takes shape. Takes flight. It crescendos to a steady hum as she chooses her song of the day. Sometimes it is twinkling stars and wondrous light. Sometimes it is pooh bears and piglets. Sometimes it is her favorite forest troll who enjoys "genki" walks through the forest. A farm of singing animals. A very determined spider. An exceptionally large drum. Sometimes it is something I've never heard before - a song of the heart whose meaning and tune she alone knows. In the wee hours of the morning, our windowless room dark as the blackest night, she shares her song with whoever will listen. And if no one listens, she sings louder.

8:00AM Her song complete (for now), she stands in her bed and reaches for the light between us, diaper crinkling, fingers fumbling. *click* A glowing face appears across the nightstand, smiling in a brilliant nebula of nut brown hair.

"Hi!" she sings.
"Hi baby. How are you?"
"Cooool."
"Good! Did you have nice sleeps?"
"Yep."
"Good. Are you hungry?"
"Loooooonch?"

8:10AM Eating with her majesty is like eating with a smallish vaccuum. I honestly don't know where she puts it all. I can serve her an adult-sized bowl of oatmeal, bananas and honey, and she is finished before I can sit down to my own humble breakfast of coffee and toast. She needs but look at a person in her calm matter-of-fact way for them to offer all they have on their plate, just to keep her satisfied. A connoisseur of fine dining, she helps herself to my toast, graciously leaving me the soggy bits with dregs of oatmeal and bananas. She says, with that gleam in her eye, that she is saving me from myself.

9:00AM Her whims and wishes rule our lives with spunky tenacity. It matters not what she asks for - a book on the highest shelf, a bite of her uncle's cereal, a chance to strum a guitar with wreckless abandon or gracefully walk her fingers down the piano's keyboard, to wear every beaded necklace in the costume chest (the jingles and rattles echoing throughout her kingdom), an entire apple to herself, to be ceremoniously cloaked in every blanket she owns, to be carried up the stairs (though her legs work just fine, I assure you), or to sleep with every doll and stuffed animal in the toy box . . . we listen, and obey . . . because we only desire what she desires. At least this is what we tell her.

10:00AM Because of her young age, our queen is a little less than popular with the other, more seasoned queens of the land. At Toddler (Tea) Time she ignores their upturned noses and petty snatching of balls and tricycles, preferring a peaceful play time where all can be safe under her watch. She then craftily builds her own fortress of tunnels and parachutes and collects every ball on the court in her domicile to prove that, however small, she is still the most powerful queen in the land.

12:00PM After a hearty lunch, the queen sleeps, and so must I.

3:30PM I am taken aback at her mastery of the dual-weapon wield. With a wooden sword in one hand and a jedi light saber in the other, evil ghosts, monsters, and bothersome cousins don't stand a chance against her prowess on the battlefield. She is quite decorated with wounds from previous battles. Fierce and brave, she tumbled from the highest peak of mount Unmade Bed down to the darkest depths of the Lego Abyss, her chin and a wooden dresser the only things to stop her. She is a merciful queen, applauding loyalty and bravery where it is due, but she rules her subjects with an iron fist. "ZACH!!!" she bellows with fervor and power when her beloved 8-year-old cousin strays too far from her side. He dashes back, breathlessly genuflecting before her,

"Yes, my queen?"

Nothing, just a drill, she says. Don't worry, you've passed. As you were.

4:00PM Having no children of her own, our queen holds a special place in her heart for those plastic people tender in age. At any given time during the day she is faithfully caring for not one, not two, not three, but 5 baby dolls who demand her love. "Awwwwww. Bee-beeeee" she says, squeezing its head has hard as she can (for head-squeezing is of utmost importance in childcare; just ask her). She wraps blankets around their faces (protection from the harsh winter cold) and carries them on her small, cocked-out hip, bouncing them and stopping every few steps to readjust and move her little one to the other hip. I can't imagine the toll this must take on her majesty. Night and day they cry for her, demanding to be fed plastic bottles, have their heads squeezed and faces wrapped in blankets. I don't know how she does it and manages her kingdom all at once.

5:00PM The queen has begun riding lessons, at $1.00 each. At this rate she will soon compete (and win, of course) in the events of equestrian, horse racing, jousting, and of course, not losing her cookies under the influence of centrifugal force. Wishing not to reveal her secret weapon in these events, her only comment to the presses, thus far, has been "Weeeeeeeee!"

6:00PM Preferring a late afternoon snack to an ordinary sit-down supper, her majesty has taken to climbing between dining room chairs and screaming like a banshee until our barbaric custom is finished.

7:00PM Her majesty's most shining hour. Between renditions of the game "Marco, Polo" (usually "Dada, Hannah" or "Mama, Hannah" or "Hannah, Hannah") and running around the house with her shirt held over her head (should anyone want to partake of a sticky-but-satisfying belly), the queen can be found climbing the highest, most technically challenging peaks of the kingdom. The Couch. The Table. The Toilet. The Computer Desk. The Computer. The Rocking Chair. The Book Shelf. It is usually on The Book Shelf where she chooses this night's bedtime stories. After 30 minutes of milk, stories, aerobics, and brushing of teeth, we say adieu and good night to our fair little queen, until morning when her nightengale song wakes us again.

8:00PM The kingdom is silent. It sighs, stretches, and cracks its vertebrae back into place. We all know our place, and it's a perfect place to be.