Soupy

Oh marketing people at Campbell's, you are savvy, savvy folks what with your Dora and your Shrek and your starry, starry soups.

Now there are worse things for a 3 year old to nag for in the store than soup. With carrots! And I get that. Earlier this week she went grocery shopping with her dad, and because he's a notoriously easy mark she got him to buy her about 3 different varieties. But then she conned me into the very same thing on Saturday's shopping trip. I didn't know I'd been had until we came home and put them into the pantry and I see all the cans in there that I had not bothered to notice previously.

So we're, you know, totally stocked up on kiddy soup. Whatever.

I tasted it. It isn't horrible. But like so many other kid-type foods, it is really quite bland and of questionable nutrition. And Sami's developed a fairly diverse palate -- some of the stuff she'll eat is surprising to me. Like she would eat me out of half my weekly income in freshly grated parmesan (the 'real' kind; don't even think about that green can in my presence) if I let her. And parmesan (the 'real' kind) is not a mildly flavored cheese. Plus she'll eat blue cheese crumbles. Straight. I know a lot of adults who can't handle those strong flavors. Anyway, I digress.

So yesterday I spent a good deal of the afternoon putting together a homemade vegetable soup. And when I make soup, I make a vat full. I like lots to put in the freezer in individual portions for simple, fast, healthy lunches. Into this particular vat went first my luscious turkey stock carefully preserved from the abundance that was Thanksgiving to serve as my soup base. Then I added: green beans, white and yellow corn, cabbage, lima beans, edamame, carrots, celery, cauliflower, broccoli, tomatoes (frozen, but from our own garden), onion, yellow and green bell peppers. That might be it. Anyway, it turned out divine. Just what I was hungry for. And surprisingly satisfying for a vegetable-only soup. I could just feel the good health in store for us all in the coming weeks.

But today I was going to heat some for Sami and I to have for lunch with our turkey and lettuce wraps, and she Wouldn't Hear of It. Must. Have. Shrek. Soup. I wasn't in the mood for a battle, so instead I tricked her handily. I made the stupid Shrek soup, but I ladled several spoonfuls of delicious tricky vegetables out of my soup into hers. Ha, little one. Ha.

Dear Sami,

You are now 3 years and 3 months old. And you are probably the funniest person I know. Both on purpose and not on purpose. You are sometimes so endearingly quirky that I can't help myself from indulging your nonsensical demands.

For instance today. I was working at my desk and you were watching Playhouse Disney and doing whatever else it is you do to so nicely amuse yourself. I announced that I was going to go find us a snack. When I got to the pantry, I found an item purchased by your Aunt Bec when she was here recently that didn't get thrown out when she left like I did the 2 cartons of ice cream none of us need. It was some chocolate dipped pretzels. I'm not a huge fan, but you are. So I chose those. I put about 4 in a cup for myself, and because you seem to enjoy the eating of the pretzels straight from the bag, and since we were at the bottom of the bag, I thoughtfully trimmed off the top scrunchy part of the bag to facilitate your handy grabbing of the bottom contents of the chocolicious pretzels.

I returned to the Man Room area triumphantly to present you with your snack. And you freaked out because (gasp) I had cut the bag. Yes. You informed me tearfully that you only loved the big bag. You did not like the cut bag at all. Whatsoever.

My mind told me you were tired and that I should just let you work through this little upset. Or not give you any pretzels to teach you that, um, what? That if you melt down over silly things you get no pretzels I guess? But my heart could see that you were in one of your heartfelt moments. I can read heartfelt emotional crying on your face and tell very easily the difference from the 'I'm being kind of sassy and naughty and seeing what I can get away with here' crying. And this was the former.

So I by God went upstairs and mumbled disbelief to myself as I TAPED THE TOP HALF OF THE BAG BACK ONTO THE PART CONTAINING THE END OF THE PRETZELS. I did.

And you were happy.

Catching up

I can't let myself get so intimidated by having not posted Sami stuff in a timely fashion in like, forever. It builds up and makes me keep not posting. So here I go. I missed the first few days of November, but from here on out I'm going to try to post something daily in honor of NaBloPoMo.

Sami is 3 years and 2 months old now. She has moments of the most extreme cuteness, cleverness, and humor. And she just recently started having moments of the most extreme fit-pitching imaginable. I'm hoping that just comes with the 3 year old territory, because the depth of her emotions frightens me sometimes.

I've taken her to dance class 3 times now. The first 2 times were all I could muster to get through. I could see she was scared, uncomfortable, and upset by being there. But her dad and I had decided it was time for her to take instruction from someone that isn't Mom or Dad. And to just begin getting used to doing something outside her comfort zone. Plus, she loves to dance and sing at home, so it seemed like a good place to start. So we stuck it out. And just went back for week 3 this past weekend. Finally. A smile. Some laughs. And even 2 episodes of acting silly. Yay! She enjoyed it. When we first got there on Saturday and I helped her to go potty, as we were getting ready to go back out and put on her tap shoes, I saw the lip begin to tremble and my heart just ached for her when she told me, "Mommy? It is too scawy." I tried to reassure her that she knew exactly what to expect and that she'd have fun. And she did! We're going to keep at it until at least the fear factor is out of it for her. Then, if she's having fun, we'll continue. If I truly believe she is not enjoying it, we'll then try something else.

Arms

So, the other night Sami was in our bed and in the middle of the night she had a whimperfest where it is one of those where she's semi-coherent but not enough so for you to actually reason with her? And it went on for like 10 minutes which in the middle of the night is 3 hours.

The next morning after we'd been up for a bit I asked her about her hard time in the night (that's what we've taught her to say to help her express when she's having problems controlling her emotions); asked her what was going on and such.

Me: Honey, you had a very hard time in the night.

Her: Yeah.

Me: Do you remember what was bothering you so much?

Her: I didn't know where to put my arm.

Me: (Huh?) Oh! What do you mean?

Her: I didn't know where to put my arm.

I dropped it for then. And then about 20 minutes later I thought I'd try again to see if I could glean a little more detail.

Me: So honey, when you had that hard time in the night what was it again that got you upset?

Her: (consistently) I didn't know where to put my arm.

At this point I figure she's just having a difficult time articulating the problem. So a couple hours later I asked again and got exactly the same answer. Which was totally amusing me. So I shared the story with her father.

Him: (nonchalantly) "Oh. I had a time I remember--it was for like a whole day--when I was about 8 or 9 or so I guess, where I didn't know what to do with my arms. So I kind of know what she means."

Me: (with giant wide open eyes sensing a bit of insight into the inner-workings of his mind) Hm.

Him: (apparently feeling encouraged by my stoic interest in the story because I'm not smirking...yet) Yeah. It was like, 'My arms! What do I do with them!?' It felt like they were just kind of dangling there and in the way and I didn't know what to do with them.

Me: BRAW-HA-HA... what?!?! What are you talking about?

Him: (sensing I've ambushed him by playing along straight-faced only to get to the really funny part) Well....

Me: Okay. Wait. You didn't know what to do with your arms? What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Him: I just didn't.

Me: But just for that day?

Him: I guess.

That's just the sort of thing that amuses me no end. I laughed about it then. I laughed about it about 4 more times that day when it would come into my head as I went about my housework. I laughed about it when I related it to my sister on the phone. I have continued to laugh about it even as I type it here.

Last week as I'm driving to an after work party at my boss's boss's boss's house in a loaner car because mine is in the shop:

Me: (calling home from my cell) Hi. I was just driving to the party in this loaner car, and it is making me crazy.

Him: Why?

Me: Because I'm so used to my manual transmission car, and in this automatic I don't have to shift and I find I don't know what to do with my arm. BRAW-HA-HA.

Him: I'm glad I provide so much amusement to you.

Me: Me too. Thanks. I'll be home early. Love you.

Him: Good bye.

Conversation in the car...

A conversation in the car after we had to pull over on Colorado Blvd. for an ambulance to go by, sirens and lights blaring:

Sami: That's a fire truck, Mom.
Me: Actually, no honey. It is like a fire truck, but it is called an ambulance.
Sami: No. That's a fire truck.
Me: They're very similar. But a fire truck goes to fires, and an ambulance helps people who are hurt. That was an ambulance.
Sami: It is a fire truck.
Me: They look alike, don't they? And they both have sirens and lights. But an ambulance is a little smaller than a fire truck and does something different. So that one was an ambulance.
Sami: But it is a fire truck.
Me: No, really. It was an ambulance.
Sami: Oh call it whatever you want.

Yesterday Morning

Me (having just gone #2 in the basement bathroom then discovering I had no toilet paper (Michael wasn't up yet): Sami! Com' 'ere! I need your help.
Her: I can't. I'm busy.
Me: Busy doing what?
Her: I'm on the monkey bars. (This is what she calls swinging and balancing around on the treadmill.)
Me: Well, com' 'ere. I went potty and I don't have any toilet paper. I need your help.
Her: But I'm so busy.
Me: Seriously. I really need your help.
Her (as she comes into the bathroom smiling devilishly): Sowwy. I'm too busy.
Me (suppressing a laugh): If you ever want to see a home-cooked meal again during your formative years, you will get 'not busy.'
Her: (Just grins. She knows she has me.)
Me: Really now, Sami. Just go upstairs and bring me this much (holding out my hands) toilet paper.
She leaves and is gone for over 5 minutes. I can hear she's not on the main floor but has gone on upstairs.
Me: Sami! Where are you?
Her: No. No. No! Jazzy!
Me: Sami. Get down here and help me, will ya?
Her (showing up with a whole new roll of toilet paper and now sporting a headband): Here you go.
Me: Where'd you get this?
Her: My bathroom. (I didn't even know there was a package of tp in there.)
Me: Thanks! How did you know that was there? You're awesome. Thanks for helping Mommy. And how lovely that you stopped and took the time to select and put on that headband too.
Her: (Twist-mouth smile.)

Awww

And look at this photo I found while poking around on my hard drive...

Eeek! Doesn't my dear husband look so very sexy here?

Why does he have his shirt off while holding Sami when she was about 3 hours old? Not so sexy. She had just puked all over him for her very first spit-up. :-)

Reasons aside? I adore this photo.

Actually?

On Saturday, Sami and I went to Big Lots for, um, let’s see – what would it have been? Oh yeah. Birdseed. We hung up birdfeeders in our back ‘messy’ yard where I don’t really care if the resulting weeds sprout from beneath the barren grass-free dirt beneath our big pine tree anyway. So yes. Birdseed. Cheaper at Big Lots, donchaknow? Except, I always end up buying 50 dollars worth of other stuff there too. Like, Saturday, we found two books for Sami for a couple bucks apiece. One was a wipe-off marker book, and the other a lift-the-flap book. She was pretty distracted when I put them in the cart since I let her play with something else while we shopped. Then, I was also stealthy at check-out and she didn’t acknowledge at least, that she had seen them.

Which is all well and good since I like to have something—ANYthing—new to break out during Mondays and Tuesdays when I work from home with her there.

Today (Monday), I remembered I had those as my trump cards hiding in the toy bin, stashed away for when she ran out of entertainment today. I couldn’t wait to see how long I could go before I had to break them out.

Then? Early afternoon, and Sami strolls into my office from playing in the spare bedroom with her stuffed bunny and giant stuffed panda. (I don’t know what she was playing because every time I tried to spy on what I suspected was cuteness, she pointed her finger and ordered me out. She was talking to them, though, and I never could catch what the whole scenario was. Dammit.) She goes, “I have 2 new books.” Holding up two fingers at the same time. I was so taken aback that a) she had noticed them b) that she was suddenly remembering them c) just in general. I said, “What?” Blink. Blink. I was stalling to try to figure out if she actually KNEW it, or had just blundered into a lucky guess. Because, come on – she’s two.

She goes, “I’d like to read my two new books.” Well alrighty then. I went and got them for her. How the hell did she know they were in there? What other things does she ‘get’ that I think is over her head?!

She ‘read’ them for a while herself, then invited me to join her, and I couldn’t resist.

And in the lift-a-flap book, it was the alphabet with pictures behind each letter, ya know? Under the ‘P’ flap, they had a pail. Only, we’ve always called her sand vessels ‘buckets.’ So I’m ‘reading’ it and I say, “’P’ is for…pail.” She repeats it as ‘pay-oh.’ Then, she pauses and goes, “Actwee? It’s a bucket, mom.” Gently. So as not to embarrass me that I got it wrong.

But that little well-placed, “Actually?” Her delivery slays me.

This not-talking-baby-talk-to-her is really paying off. Some of the ever so proper things she says, but still in the sweet pronunciation of her 2 year old self, is just priceless.

Father's Day

So Michael had to work on this his Father’s Day. But we tried to make the best of it. We got him two boring shirts that he seemed to act pretty excited about. But really, they were just for work to wear under his uniform. And we got him an excessive amount of wine glasses. But we love our wine glasses so we got him these stemless ones, and these classic ones to replace some we had broken (and no, we weren’t likkered up when we broke them—just innocently washing/drying them usually) and these because we didn’t have any like them. And well we needed them. And then we got him one of these rings with my name and Sami’s name inscribed inside. And I got myself one with his name and Sami’s name inscribed inside. About that ring, he says, “Does this mean I’m doubly married? Wearing a ring on each hand?” I said, “No. It says, ‘I’m married. And I like it.’”

We had his gifts all wrapped and waiting out for him with a card from each of us on the kitchen island. And when we were setting them up, Sami said, “Daddy will say, ‘What’s all this?!’” when he comes down. And so when he came down and said, “What’s all this?!” she couldn’t have been prouder. Then she handed him the first one and said, “That’s your shirts, Daddy.” Next he reached for a box with the wine glasses in it. “What’s this?” says he. “Your cups, Daddy!” And before he could even ask, she handed him the envelope with the ring, and said, “And here’s your ring, Daddy.”

Above right is how he looked about all that disclosure.

We had gotten up early and took Sami and Jazzy to the park to run and play.

Then we came home and I made a quiche (prepped the night before) which we enjoyed on the deck. Our pretty, pretty deck-yard that we love.

After Sami woke up from her nap, I go in to get her and she says, "Mommy? Raindrops are falling down."

Me: Yes Honey. It is raining. Isn't it nice and cool? I'll open the curtains so we can see.
Me: Humm. Your windows are closed again. No wonder it is so stuffy in your room.
Me: Why did your father close those windows again?
Her, in a groggy trance-like voice because she just woke up: Because he's a goober.

Indeed.

Perspective

My work is done on this second work-from-home day this week. And it is lovely and cool and raining outside my 4 open windows (after being a stifling 96 yesterday which equates to about 106 in this office). And Sami is starting on hour 3 of her nap. And all I have to do this evening is laundry. And I don't even mind that. And I'm feeling about a bazillion times calmer than yesterday.

I had a lot of work work to get done yesterday. Stuff people were waiting for. And Sami was in a Mood. At one point she asked for some cookies. I brought her chocolate Teddy Grahams -- the only cookie in the house. She told me those weren't what she wanted and described the ones she wanted. I explained to her that those other ones were all gone last week. She FLUNG the bowl of cookies I'd brought her. I very calmly told her how angry and sad that made me, and picked them up and put them out of her reach. She then came in and wanted to sit on my lap while I was working. I told her I didn't want to sit with her right then since she had made me so sad about the cookies. She flew into a rage. Her little face got bright red, and she grabbed the under side of my upper arm and just dug in her nails. It hurt so bad and I could barely break her grip. I stayed calm but that just seemed to make her madder, and before I knew it, she grabbed me and bit me in the lower back on the side. Hard. It hurt so, so bad. I put her on the floor. Told her she was absolutely NEVER to bite or pinch. And told her I had to spank her for it. I popped her on the diaper so softly it did nothing; except humiliate her. Well, and even humiliate is too strong a word. It just put an exclamation point on what I was trying to tell her. Then I picked her up and put her in her crib in her room and shut the door. Mostly I did that because I needed to have a break from her--needed a little space between us. It was a day filled with things like that. Her flinging things in anger and just being a brat.

Now, last week Michael and I had a talk about discipline matters. And how we kind of think we're letting her call a few too many shots around here as a result, I believe, of our exhaustion at times. Like, it is easier to just give in and let her have her way with small things like watching f-ing Barney, or having pretzels an hour before dinner, or little things like that. So we decided to be a bit more strict and steel ourselves for her little meltdowns instead of allowing her meltdowns--or the promise of an ensuing meltdown--to aggravate us into letting her have her way. So I think she's sensed this clamping down a bit plot. And she's rebelling against it.

She seems to be testing to see just what will and will not fly at this point. But geesh. She just uses up all my patience and tolerance and then I find myself snapping at Michael over nothing.

Anyway, when all was said and done and she was calmed down and I talked to her about the very visible bite on my side, she started crying all over again but this time I could see she was embarrassed and feeling badly about it. I hugged her and held her and told her we all lose control of our emotions and have hard times, and that it was okay. She melted into me in that heavy way and stayed that way for an extra long 'hold.' And trust me, it's true. We do all have hard times with controlling our emotions.

Anyway, no time for a lengthy entry. But maybe it takes days like yesterday to make me so appreciate days like today. Maybe I need the perspective.

All manner of things

The past 3 weeks have been chock full of …what. Life I guess. Good stuff. Just chock full. Well, mostly good stuff. Except for the fact that I literally have not caught up on my laundry for going on a month now. But that’s because I can’t be bothered with laundry when there are more fun things to do. Important fun things.

First Sami’s Aunt Bec came from Iowa for a visit. I took the whole week off from work, and we just hung out together. Shopped a lot. Ate whatever we wanted whenever we wanted. And had a ball. Sami took no time at all acclimating herself to being comfortable around Aunt Bec. In fact, she decided she wanted to sleep with her the very first night Bec was here. Sami got so caught up in the Fun that is Bec that she just didn’t want the attention to end at bedtime.

The second night as we all wound down for the night in our finished basement where my sister’s bedroom was, I noticed Sami was particularly busy. Remembering things she needed upstairs, etc. And then I noticed her sitting by herself quietly on the stairs, off by herself.

I went over and (this makes me feel like such a mom) suddenly got this sense… I just ‘got it.’ I said, “Sami, can I talk to you?” And I sat down by her. And I gently asked her if she wanted to sleep with Mommy and Daddy tonight instead of sleeping with Aunt Bec again. I think she got it into her head that once she made that choice the first night, that she was kind of obligated to stick with it. And I could tell she didn’t want to. It was kind of heart-breaking, because she didn’t want to say anything. When I asked her about it and told her she could sleep wherever she wanted, you could just see the load lighten. She brightened and was relieved. I’m glad I figured it out.

She did decide a few nights later to sleep with Aunt Bec again one night, though.

Anyway, then after my sister left, Michael had a week and a half vacation. I worked part of it, but that meant he was home each evening and we actually had family time for more than 3 evenings a week. It was heavenly. Sami again stalled at bedtime (she’s a master at it, too). This time I think because she so enjoyed being around both Mommy AND Daddy so much that she was afraid she’d miss out on something by retiring.

But that’s what caused me to get so far behind on housework. I too couldn’t tear myself away from the family unit to go do boring laundry. And so I didn’t. And neither did anyone else, oddly. So there you have it – lots and lots of laundry. Insurmountable laundry. Coupled with the fact that during this time our weather turned unmistakably summerish, and I had to switch out my closet and Sami’s from winter to summer. The winter stuff still isn’t all packed/stored away in the off-season closet in the basement.

But, when I took a couple of days off with Michael, we achieved glorious results outdoors. Michael moved the rock displaced by the building of my raised vegetable beds last summer and replaced the bark out front so that both sides of the front have rock now, instead of the ugly unkeepable bark crap. And we built an addition to our deck to house our grill. It came out so very lovely we still go out there nightly to gaze adoringly upon our work.

And we planted and planted and planted. Perennial flowers aplenty in our deck yard. 64 (!) baby tomato plants. Annuals in baskets and pots. Oh my, ours is a lovely little slice of heaven. We got our fountain set up in the deck yard, and it is bursting with our perennials planted the past 2 years, plus filled in with new ones. Oh we love it so.

Sami’s certainly—how do I say—pushing to see what the boundaries are lately. Read: bossy and whiny and sassy. Fun too, and funny. Don’t get me wrong. But whew – this molding of her little psyche is exhausting work. By nature I am not a tolerant, patient, understanding woman. But of course, one needs to be in this parental role. Very exhausting. On some things, she’s maturing and can be reasoned with and I see light at the end of the tunnel. On other things, she’s as 2-year-oldy as she can be.

But the good news is, she falls down much less than last year. Why is that good, you ask? Well not only for her good health and not-so-scraped knees, but also because when they’re nearing 2 and falling down constantly, dresses are highly irritating to them. Because when they go to stand up and stand on the hem it makes them scream. Fast forward one year? Oh, my sister and I had such fun buying pretty little sundresses for her. And she loves them this year. Oh joy! And she loves her necklaces, and her bracelets, and her anklets, and shoes, and all manner of things fashion. What fun. What very good fun.

She's got conscience

The other night I was working in our finished basement to clean up and organize our spare bedroom in anticipation of my sister’s visit. (! :-D) Sami was helping me. And by this I mean as soon as I’d get a storage bin filled with shoes and properly labeled, she’d immediately set to taking them all out and trying them on—parading out in front of Daddy who was watching tv in the Man Room next door but occasionally popping his head in to check on us. Cleaning with her takes double duty. But it is still more fun than doing it alone.

Anyway, during one of his checks he and I were chatting when I suddenly noticed Sami had unplugged a little nightlight lamp and was preparing to plug it back in. I reacted way too strongly and shouted too loudly at her. I envisioned her having her fingers on the metal part of the plug and getting shocked to the bejesus. But at least it got her attention I guess. I sort of startled her, but then I sat down in front of her at her level and took her hands in mine and explained how doing that could really, really hurt her. And I harkened back to the day when I told her over and over not to touch the hot iron while I was ironing clothes but she did it anyway on purpose. She retains that reference very well because I use it to describe what can happen when she does things she’s not supposed to and she well remembers that it scared and hurt her.

In the middle of my calm explanation part, I saw her chin start to tremble and her little mouth curled down and the bottom lip came out and her emotions overwhelmed her and she began crying. It was the first time I’d seen that. Where the thoughts in her own head, in her little conscience, made her feel so bad that she cried. It was heartwrenching for me but at least I knew I had gotten through to her. Albeit a bit more so than I intended.

Today, she was playing in her room next door to my home office and having an absolute ball with an indoor tent I'd set up for her after stumbling across it while cleaning out some storage areas. Then she came in to me at my desk and asked for juice, which is not unusual. I said, “Okay honey, in a sec I’ll go get you some more.” Then out of the blue it happened again. Something in her thoughts caused the same facial expressions—the curled lip and trembly chin—and she just dumped herself forward onto me to be held and started crying and touching her mouth and saying while crying, “I need more juice. I need more juice.” This is not her usual modus operandi when asking for juice at all. So I said,”Sweetheart? Did you put something in your mouth that you wish you hadn’t?” See because the only other time I’ve seen her touch her mouth like that and ask for juice is when she’s eaten something a little ‘picy as she calls it. “Ye-esss.” More tears.

I felt kind of panicky inside while I ran through in my mind the items she might have gotten into in her room. But they’re few. And I didn’t believe she’d be that compelled to taste Eucerin or Aquaphor which are about the only remotely bad things in her room. I picked her up and went in there and kept trying to get her to tell me what she’d put in her mouth. But once I’d made that big a deal of it she was done answering me in any coherent fashion. I asked about buttons, hair deals (barrettes), etc. And checked to see the Eucerin or Aquaphor were indeed untouched on the changing table. Hmmm. I told Daddy the story on the phone and he guessed bug. At any rate, I went and got her the juice and it was naptime anyway, so we changed her diap and I watched her carefully and smelled her breath. But I don’t think it was anything serious. Just something yucky maybe.

And I made a point of telling her how proud I was that she told me about it even though it was something bad. Which, okay, technically she didn’t really tell me about it. But she kind of conveyed it, and I wanted her to know that if she does do something bad in the future but then needs help, that she can come to me and I’ll help her best I can and act as calm as I can.

Anyway, seeing her crumble like that just about broke my heart. My little sweet thing is beginning to have feelings of conscience, and of right and wrong that come from inside. It makes me want to be able to have her never feel bad. To never have to deal with the consequences of a bad decision. I know how things like that eat at me even after I try to forgive myself for them. But I know she has to learn that for herself. Awk. I can’t stand when her feelings hurt. How the hell am I going to cope with her growing up with so much darkness in the world? I know, I know. It is better not to attempt to protect them from it—she’ll be stronger if I teach her how to cope with it as it comes. But geez.

She can clean that countertop with one hand tied--or held--behind her back, alrighty. >>>>>>>>>


Some funny things.

Sami, like I’m guessing most 2 years olds can be, feels a need to repeat her statements or requests over and OVER and over again. So I’ve been trying to teach her that she only needs to say things once, and that I hear her. And that saying it a gazillion times does not make me hear it any better. So she’s taken to—if I tell her, “Sami, I hear you. You see a picture of Mommy’s camera in the book (um, it is the manual to the camera, so you’re going to see lots of them, okay?). You don’t need to say it over and over. Just once.”—now she keeps repeating what she’s saying, but in a very loud whisper voice. Which crumbles me every time.

I bought her a little pinwheel at the dollar store. And no matter how much I repeat it correctly, she calls it her whinspeel. And I can’t stand it.

Beautiful is beaufiful. Which, when she dishes out a compliment to me on, say, my outfit for work? And tells me it is beaufiful with much wagging of her head? Heart melts.

I cooked up a diabolical plot last night. I was in the kitchen cleaning up, and she wanted to play with the kitchen dish brush to clean (kween) the countertops. But this—from experience--results in too much water on my hardwood floors so I wouldn’t let her do it. Resulting in much sadness and grievance on her part. So when we went upstairs for bathtime, I hatched a plan. Every other night or so we let her take a shower instead, which she adores. And our shower is in, ahem, a rather needy state of cleanliness presently. So… I gave her a little tub of her bubble bath soap, and a dish brush. And showed her where to kween. She actually made up a happy little ditty about “Scub, Scub, Scub” to accompany her industrious scrubbing. Happy two year and a clean shower. Lovely.

The 'floor flowers' in my master closet carpet

Flowers on my Floor

Two weekends ago, I decided I had deprived Sami long enough from the opportunity to paint. Yep. Almost 32 months old and I’ve never let her paint. I’m not a clean freak about her and when she makes messes that make her father cringe, I always gleefully declare things like, “Who cares? It’ll wash off in the tub!” But for some reason, I just hadn’t gotten around to letting her paint.

Then I had included a teeny little egg-shaped and egg-sized palette of watercolors with a teeny brush in her Easter basket. And she was so fascinated by the process that on Saturday I relented and taped a large sheet of brown paper over the entire coffee table top and broke out a strip of washable gel paints with a brush and let her go at it.

Her renderings were actually quite pretty. She didn’t mix the colors into a mishmash, but painted separately with them. Into pretty circles and swirls. And while I watched her and photographed her, I knew I’d be keeping that first piece of artwork as a keepsake.

But then I got preoccupied in the kitchen a few feet away, and when she asked for a wet cloth to clean her fingers I gave it to her. And then about 2 minutes later, when she proudly beamed, “Mom! I keened up!” I looked over – heartbroken – she had taken the cloth and scrubbed her artwork. The paint had still been wet, so it ruined it.

I carefully explained how ‘paintings’ work – how you keep the result to admire and that one doesn’t have to clean up that part of the paintings. I’m always surprised at how often I forget what she doesn’t yet know.

Then I encouraged her to paint me another one on the other end of the paper, and that this one we’d save and hang up on the wall for Daddy to see when he came home from work. And I made a big deal of how much he’d like that.

So she did paint another one, and we did tear it off and hang it on the wall where Daddy couldn’t miss it. The next morning, after we all woke up and went downstairs, Michael made a wonderful big to-do all about her paintings. He pointed out how beautiful her circles were and how some looked like flowers. And he told her how her grandmother had been an artist and would have loved seeing her talents. She was so proud she made her I’m-not-smiling-but-I-can’t-help-it-because-I-feel-so-proud twistmouth smile.

The next day. Again, I am preoccupied doing kitcheny work and realize I’ve lost track of her for about 15 minutes. This isn’t usually a concern. She’s very self-occupied, and usually very conscientious about what she can and cannot get into. She’s generally just not naughty.

So when she came ambling back downstairs, and I could smell something familiar but as yet unplaced in my smell recognition, I said, “What were you doing?” I’m still sniff-sniffing, thinking, “Is that lotion I smell? Or shampoo? What is that?”

And she goes, without a morsel of remorse so I know she didn’t do anything she thought was bad, “I doing paintings.”

Me: Oh? Where did you do that?

Her: I doing paintings. Fwowers. Fwowers onna fwoor.

Me: Hmm. Okay. You painted flowers on the floor?

Her: (happy and proud) Yes!

Me: (calmly thinking she must’ve smeared some toothpaste or shampoo on my bathroom tile) Okay-well. Sounds to me like it is something I should check out.

I head upstairs. I see nothing in the bathroom, but the smell is getting stronger…. On into our big walk-in closet. Oh my. Off white carpet. Purple. Brown. Dark red. Dark blue. Very Jackson Pollock. Medium? Fingernail polish. Lots of it. (Let’s not even discuss why a self-respecting 44 year old woman owns purple, blue, and brown nail polish, shall we?)

She’s so proud and so naïve of the fact that it is something even remotely bad so I am gentle with her. I say, “Oh my Sami. This isn’t good. We only paint on paper when Mommy gives you permission. This is on Mommy’s carpet and has made a horrible mess.”

When it starts to sink in to her, you can just see her wilt and it breaks my heart to watch.

She offers, “Mommy keen it up?” I shake my head and tell her this isn’t like that. That it may never clean up.

It was killing me, but I knew I had a duty to make her understand. I never lost my temper, but I explained in detail how this was not like her other paints. And I told her it made me very sad that she had done this thing. I also told her I would have to tell Daddy.

He called a little later, and I did tell him. And he was upset about it without having even seen it. Uncharacteristically and without really thinking he goes, “Did you spank her?” Um. No. I don’t spank. At least I haven’t so far into her upbringing. I think there may be a time for it, but I haven’t found that time yet. Hitting just has never seemed to be an answer. Especially not for a child like Sami that exhibits such a strong self-conscience. Anyway, I remind him, the carpet was already trashed by The Damn Dog during pre-housebroken times.

After I hang up with him, I find Sami and tell her that I told Daddy. I tell her Daddy was very sad. She gravely says, “Like Mommy?” Yes, honey. We’re both very sad about this.

Later while she was napping, I tried any number of household products and unbelievably found one that seemed to work. I didn’t have much of it left, but what I had seemed to prove that with a lot of spraying, scrubbing, blotting, and elbow-grease, we could eventually reduce it to no worse a smudge than other lovely areas of our carpet.

So when Sami woke up, I told her, “Guess what? Momma found something that will clean the carpet.” I know she knew what I meant and I could see her begin to feel better about the matter.

She went with me to get more of the cleanser yesterday, and we tested it when we got home to see if it was still as effective a full week later--with the nail polish fully dried and cured--and amazingly it still works. I can only tolerate doing small patches at a time because of the fumes. But we’ll get it gone.

Evenings

So. People at work that are kind of trying to come across as well-meaning, after a somewhat chatty conversation will go, “So, how are things on the personal front,” for instance. And while they are hoping it comes across as, "I'm really interested in your happiness." I believe I know better, and that mostly they are hoping I will somehow vent about how miserable I am.

These are mostly people in somewhat miserable situations in their own homelives, best I can tell. And I think because they watched a rather sordid time in my life play out a few years ago as I got my divorce, and then watched as it all came back together for me with a new husband and an unexpected but adored child that maybe there is fodder there for them in their quest for mutual homelife unhappiness. And I mostly demure. And go, “Oh. Just fine.” Because I don't think it will satisfy them very much if I tell them how it really is.

But what it really is like is this. I get off work, or even sneak out early. And I call Michael and Sami and let them know I’m on my way home. And when I drive my car over the hill to see the house, they’re waiting out front waving frantically to greet me. And then I pull into the garage, and Sami runs out there screaming with delight and asks to ride in my car (a 2-seater BMW Roadster that is illegal for her to ride in) up the alley to check the mail. We do so.

Then I let her drive home on my lap, steering wildly side to side. We get out and go in the house. Michael has a cocktail waiting for me. We chat about our day. Then I go upstairs and put on my comfy clothes for the evening.

Tonight I steamed, then grilled artichokes. Sami tried them for the first time and loved them. Michael and I exchange glances that speak of the perils of having a daughter that is an adventurous eater, which means we give up a good portion of the foods we love most.

Then I head out to the patio to grill the steaks, and Michael puts on the 70s music station and they play so many of our fay-bits that we can’t stand it. At one point, he says, “I’ve half a mind to take you out on the patio and dance with you.” I say, “Do it.”

We do. Sami comes out and waves her arms and smiles and yells, “No dancing! No dancing!” Michael twirls me around. I say to Sami, “No dancing? NO DANCING? Listen little girl – you’re not the boss of us. We wanna dance… we’ll dance. Deal with it.” And we dance even more.

She steps down to the grass level which inspires us to part arms and do demented Irish-type jigs to the loud music. Sami is mesmerized with a smile on her face. She runs back up to the deck and says, “I dance wit you! I dancing too!!” And she runs in frantic circles around us. Then I show her how to stand on Daddy’s feet and dance and sway with him.

And we drink our wine, and eat our steaks, and watch Sami imitate our dancing. And we laugh.

And that’s what I mean when I say to people, “Oh, we’re just fine.”

Can two things be the center of your universe? Then these are mine.

First Cold

So Sami’s sick with a cold for the first time ever. Not bad, since she’s 2 and a half now. And kind of weird that she’s never really had a cold before. Oh, she had a drippy nose once for like half a day. But this is the first real multi-day episode.

Started with a wee cough in the night one night. I guess here’s the part where I have to admit she sleeps with us. Sometimes. Oh okay. Maybe a couple of nights a week. Thing is, I think I like it more than she does. But I know it isn’t a good habit to get into. But even after sleeping with us in our bed, she seems perfectly willing to go back to her own bed and sleeps fine too. So whatever. Shoot me. There is just something very comforting and it makes me feel—I don’t know—contented to wake up in the middle of the night and know everyone in my household that I love and care about is within arm’s reach of me. I pat Michael on the head. You know, or poke him in the eye in the dark. But at least I know he’s there. And then I can hold Sami's hot little foot in my hand. And I can feel Katie the cat with my feet. And not that I like her or anything, but I can also hear TDD (That Damn Dog) rustling in her crate in the corner of our bedroom.

So anyway, that little cough. I knew right then it was coming. And we’ve had cough-y throat, drippy nose, watery sad little red-rimmed eyes for nearly 3 days now.

And when she has a coughing jag and comes out of it rubbing her eyes, and drained of most of the pleasant colors one would expect in a human face, the room is always too bright. See, I understand. I have an aversion to bright lights too. Sensitive eyes we girls have. All about our sunglasses even if we’re only walking to the end of the driveway. But today I couldn’t make my office any darker since I purchased cheap blinds at Target that still allow a lot of light through them. So even with them all closed, it was still ‘too bight.’

I told her I was sorry but that I couldn’t make it any darker. And she thought for a minute, and asked me to go get her sunglasses from the car. I don’t know. I thought it was pretty smart of her to think of sunglasses solving the problem when she was so far outside the usual application thereof.