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.”
Friday, March 16, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Monday, February 26, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Thanks. Whew.
So how much luck, good fortune, blessedness (whatever you like to think of it as) can I expect. None. That’s how much I expect. Because I think by expecting none hopefully I won’t seem arrogant to whoever decides this stuff, and then I will get me some more.
Anyway, I found out this week that the occasional but very sharp pain in my hip joint that I’ve had on and off for years is actually something. It is early degeneration of my hip joint. AKA osteoarthritis. And while researching it on the internet that evening, and learning that I’m kind of destined for it to progress, and feeling kind of weepy about it, Michael came in and bolstered me up very sweetly. And it made me kind of brace up and realize that at least I wasn’t sitting there searching for information on something life-threatening on the internet. Just lifestyle threatening. And I’ll take that any day.
Then here was this. Sami and I went to Target on Saturday. Yes. Target on a Saturday right before Christmas. Argh. We had to park in the far reaches of the lot. And even out there, it was packed. We did our shopping, pushed the cart to the car. I unloaded my stuff, then unloaded Sami and put her in her car seat, pushed the cart off to the side by another one then hopped in to head for our next stop about 2 miles away. We pull in to my favorite neighborhood specialty meat shop to shop for some fish for dinner. And as I pulled in and went to gather up my purse… OH GOD I didn’t have it! You all know that sick, sick feeling. As I sped back to Target (Sami going, “Mommy fass! Mommy fass!”), and I mean sped, I couldn’t help but run through in my mind the fact that I have probably 40+ different cards (not credit, but just—you know—membership cards, savings cards, and a handful of credit cards too) in there and I would have no idea how to go about beginning to contact the issuers. And of course, I had just gone to the bank and bestowed some actual cash upon myself. A rare circumstance. I’m usually very cashless. But decided sometimes that can be a hassle, so had been very extravagant and took out a hundred bucks in cash.
I knew with the crowds and crowds of people the odds of my cart still being there, let alone with my purse still in it, were slim. The one flicker of hope I held onto was that I had seen Glum Cart Retriever Boy coming out to that area of the lot as we left. I pulled back in, hopped out to see if I could find it on foot to no avail. Hopped back in the car, and headed to the front of the lot, guessing I’d go in and see if by any long shot someone might have turned it in.
And in a gleaming ray of light, there was Glum Cart Retriever Boy pushing a cart filled with some other junk AND MY PURSE. I sputtered and stuttered and pointed at the purse and said, “Mine. Purse mine.” He delivered it unto me.
Oh sweet Jesus, I was grateful.
I’m not doing that anymore.
Also, I think spending the time to photocopy every card in my purse front and back might be a worthwhile expenditure of time. Doncha think?
Anyway, I found out this week that the occasional but very sharp pain in my hip joint that I’ve had on and off for years is actually something. It is early degeneration of my hip joint. AKA osteoarthritis. And while researching it on the internet that evening, and learning that I’m kind of destined for it to progress, and feeling kind of weepy about it, Michael came in and bolstered me up very sweetly. And it made me kind of brace up and realize that at least I wasn’t sitting there searching for information on something life-threatening on the internet. Just lifestyle threatening. And I’ll take that any day.
Then here was this. Sami and I went to Target on Saturday. Yes. Target on a Saturday right before Christmas. Argh. We had to park in the far reaches of the lot. And even out there, it was packed. We did our shopping, pushed the cart to the car. I unloaded my stuff, then unloaded Sami and put her in her car seat, pushed the cart off to the side by another one then hopped in to head for our next stop about 2 miles away. We pull in to my favorite neighborhood specialty meat shop to shop for some fish for dinner. And as I pulled in and went to gather up my purse… OH GOD I didn’t have it! You all know that sick, sick feeling. As I sped back to Target (Sami going, “Mommy fass! Mommy fass!”), and I mean sped, I couldn’t help but run through in my mind the fact that I have probably 40+ different cards (not credit, but just—you know—membership cards, savings cards, and a handful of credit cards too) in there and I would have no idea how to go about beginning to contact the issuers. And of course, I had just gone to the bank and bestowed some actual cash upon myself. A rare circumstance. I’m usually very cashless. But decided sometimes that can be a hassle, so had been very extravagant and took out a hundred bucks in cash.
I knew with the crowds and crowds of people the odds of my cart still being there, let alone with my purse still in it, were slim. The one flicker of hope I held onto was that I had seen Glum Cart Retriever Boy coming out to that area of the lot as we left. I pulled back in, hopped out to see if I could find it on foot to no avail. Hopped back in the car, and headed to the front of the lot, guessing I’d go in and see if by any long shot someone might have turned it in.
And in a gleaming ray of light, there was Glum Cart Retriever Boy pushing a cart filled with some other junk AND MY PURSE. I sputtered and stuttered and pointed at the purse and said, “Mine. Purse mine.” He delivered it unto me.
Oh sweet Jesus, I was grateful.
I’m not doing that anymore.
Also, I think spending the time to photocopy every card in my purse front and back might be a worthwhile expenditure of time. Doncha think?
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Here and Now
Awk I’ve been delinquent about getting in here. But since I can’t possibly catch up on everything now, I’m allowing myself just to pick up in the present so I’m not overwhelmed. So there.
Sami's a parrot now. She will try to say anything I ask her to. And she is hilarious doing it. My favorite is when she thinks she has a word down perfectly, and so repeats it very clearly over and over. Like “oppus.” As in, “Mommy work inna oppus?” You know. It’s a room in our house. And she loves to page (and I mean it – she browses through the plethora I receive page by delicate page—thanks MyCokeRewards.com) through mazzagines.
And suddenly, instead of asking “Whassis?” She now waves her hand in an impatient fashion, and demands to know, “Whassis’bout?” About EVERYthing. A stain on my shirt? Whassis’bout. A sack full of groceries? Whassis’bout. A new card I opened during her nap and added to the Christmas card holder? Swear. Two seconds into the room, and she notices it, and needs to know whassis’bout.
She’s a fashionista. She can spend hours trying on her shoes. Her favorites are the sandals from last summer that she outgrew but that I haven’t yet boxed up for Goodwill and instead threw them all into an otherwise empty drawer in her room. Her toes stick out the end about an inch. Divine. And oh. Belts. And for the past two days, she drug out her little one piece swimsuit, and has me help her put it on over her clothes. She was happy wearing it for hours yesterday. So convenient at diaper changing time, too.
She loves to shop. And if I happen to try something on with her in there, she’s so complimentary. “Ohhhh. So cute, Mom.” And of course, she encourages me, “Get tit, Mom? Get tit?”
Today she had a freak little stumble that made her kind of fall into a rocking chair in my oppus. With the dog on top of her. And the chair cross rail had broken off some time ago, leaving a bit of a sharp wooden point, and of course, her head hit that.
Michael was on the phone, and I could hear the long, long intake of breath that indicates a ‘real’ injury, and after the long, long intake we know to anticipate a really hearty scream. I ran with her into the bedroom to try to keep the noise from Michael’s phone call. And I did what I’ve done dozens of times, and that is to hold her to me and rock back and forth, trying to soothe her. Only this time, feeling the wetness that I assumed were her tears, when she finally calmed down and I pulled my hand away, it had blood all over it. I was pretty calm I guess, but went back into Michael, and together we found that she had only a tiny nick on her scalp. But my word! By the time I got a wet cloth and cleaned up her hair, my hands, and her scalp, it looked like I had mopped up a small murder scene. So that’s my lesson in case she gets a worse cut on the head in the future. They bleed a LOT. I want to remember that so I don’t freak out and assume lots of blood indicates lots of injury.
Sami's a parrot now. She will try to say anything I ask her to. And she is hilarious doing it. My favorite is when she thinks she has a word down perfectly, and so repeats it very clearly over and over. Like “oppus.” As in, “Mommy work inna oppus?” You know. It’s a room in our house. And she loves to page (and I mean it – she browses through the plethora I receive page by delicate page—thanks MyCokeRewards.com) through mazzagines.
And suddenly, instead of asking “Whassis?” She now waves her hand in an impatient fashion, and demands to know, “Whassis’bout?” About EVERYthing. A stain on my shirt? Whassis’bout. A sack full of groceries? Whassis’bout. A new card I opened during her nap and added to the Christmas card holder? Swear. Two seconds into the room, and she notices it, and needs to know whassis’bout.
She’s a fashionista. She can spend hours trying on her shoes. Her favorites are the sandals from last summer that she outgrew but that I haven’t yet boxed up for Goodwill and instead threw them all into an otherwise empty drawer in her room. Her toes stick out the end about an inch. Divine. And oh. Belts. And for the past two days, she drug out her little one piece swimsuit, and has me help her put it on over her clothes. She was happy wearing it for hours yesterday. So convenient at diaper changing time, too.
She loves to shop. And if I happen to try something on with her in there, she’s so complimentary. “Ohhhh. So cute, Mom.” And of course, she encourages me, “Get tit, Mom? Get tit?”
Today she had a freak little stumble that made her kind of fall into a rocking chair in my oppus. With the dog on top of her. And the chair cross rail had broken off some time ago, leaving a bit of a sharp wooden point, and of course, her head hit that.
Michael was on the phone, and I could hear the long, long intake of breath that indicates a ‘real’ injury, and after the long, long intake we know to anticipate a really hearty scream. I ran with her into the bedroom to try to keep the noise from Michael’s phone call. And I did what I’ve done dozens of times, and that is to hold her to me and rock back and forth, trying to soothe her. Only this time, feeling the wetness that I assumed were her tears, when she finally calmed down and I pulled my hand away, it had blood all over it. I was pretty calm I guess, but went back into Michael, and together we found that she had only a tiny nick on her scalp. But my word! By the time I got a wet cloth and cleaned up her hair, my hands, and her scalp, it looked like I had mopped up a small murder scene. So that’s my lesson in case she gets a worse cut on the head in the future. They bleed a LOT. I want to remember that so I don’t freak out and assume lots of blood indicates lots of injury.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Transitions.
I get so wrapped up in things. But yet then not. Like, I get all those email notifications from BabyCenter about the development of your child. And while some of them kind of amazed me in the past, because they would send me an email that had me feeling like they had peeked in my windows that week and were writing about exactly what was going on with Sami. Then I started noticing all their advice and reassurances were actually kind of getting on my nerves with their smarminess, and I got tired of being told not to worry about something that I wasn’t going to worry about anyway. You know?
So when Sami was around 18 months, and I got one of their damned emails that just all of a sudden and without warning made me feel like I should have had Sami weaned off her bottle, I’ll just admit I questioned myself. Instinct seemed to have gotten me along so well through those first 18 months. And then all of a sudden they go popping this on me. And I was like, “Well, shouldn’t someone have mentioned it a little before this so I could work in this direction, for god’s sake?” But anyway, so I suddenly felt like I just had to get Sami off the bottle. That and a young woman’s comments while we were out shopping one day. (But that’s a story for another time. It still stings. And the snappy comeback that would have been PERfect hit me only moments after walking away. Alas, timing was everything.)
But then I told myself, hey, Sami has always been a stellar sleeper, and is so sunny, and she’s right where she’s supposed to be when we visit the doctor, and oh so many good things. What the hell do I care if she still wants a bottle of warm milk right before her nap and bedtime. Why would I upset something that is working so well for us? Well, I wouldn’t. That’s why.
And that’s when I really started earnestly dismissing canned advice. I realized that even though I remained childless and child-avoiding right up until the age of 42 when I had Sami – this stuff pretty much comes to me in of itself.
I knew—just knew—that the time wasn’t right for us. Just as much as I was confident I would know when the time was right for us.
Heh. Heh. Only I didn’t. Know, I mean.
Ack! Sami weaned herself off the bottle not quite 2 weeks ago. We didn’t talk about it. I didn’t see it coming. No big fuss. Just all of a sudden, she didn’t want it at bedtime anymore.
Coupled with about a week of difficulty going to bed. Isn’t that odd? At a time when she was acting frightened—or something—of going to bed and in my mind should have wanted the additional comfort piece of having a bottle, she dismissed it. I’m still scratching my head over it. Bad dreams? Her dad was on vacation from work, and we all got to enjoy extra time together and so we were all doing fun things most every evening and she didn’t want to go to bed and miss out on fun? I don’t know.
But then after about 3 nights of me offering her a bottle and her saying, nonchalantly, “No,” I stopped offering. And it hasn’t come up again. I waited about a week, shuffling them around in the cupboard to get at the sippy cups. But still nothing. So 2 days ago, I got them all out, and all the nipples and tops and whatnot, and because I’m not THAT brave, I put them all into a bag and chucked them into the storage room in the basement under the stairs. (Or maybe I did it because growing up on a farm you were constantly but only occasionally going to need a baby bottle to feed an orphaned lamb or calf, and so you always kept a few around. Odds of running across stray lambs or calves in the city? Uh. Yeah. Oh well.)
And then when I was coming back up the stairs, and on the wall I saw the black and white photo of her when she was just days old. And I got all sappy and teary on myself, and realized again that she’s not a baby any more. Like seriously.
Like, we’re approaching 2 you know. In a few days. I remember when she was just that teeny infant-y stage that isn’t so, you know, rewarding, or entertaining. They’re so, um, needy. And I remember thinking about what she would be like when we got to 2, and thinking about how fun that would be. And well, guess what. It is. It is just the best thing ever.
Her constant, “Whassis?” I literally got to watch her “get it.” Get that everything – and that means every thing - has a name. Coupled with listening to her try to say each of those names too. Oh, is there anything so sweet as this time?
Other moms tell me, “Oh you wait. It just keeps getting better and better.” But I’m skeptical, because how can it get cuter and better than this? (Okay, I’m not really skeptical so much as I’m afraid to think that way because I like NOW so much, how can it possibly get even better but I really do believe them, and I can’t wait.)
Just think of all the things I get to watch her “get.” Oh delight.
But then, in the tiny little fissures where some dark ink seeps through if I’m not careful to hold it at bay, then I also have to think about how someday someone might laugh unkindly at her. Or break her heart. Or lie to her to hurt her. Or that she’ll lose a pet or a person she loves. And I can’t stand it.
But all those things happened to me. And they do to everyone. And I made it through all that to find love and happiness and joy in my life.
So I feel this very overwhelming responsibility to arm her to cope with everything life will deal up to her. Now how in the hell am I going to do that?
Maybe BabyCenter will send me some advice.
So when Sami was around 18 months, and I got one of their damned emails that just all of a sudden and without warning made me feel like I should have had Sami weaned off her bottle, I’ll just admit I questioned myself. Instinct seemed to have gotten me along so well through those first 18 months. And then all of a sudden they go popping this on me. And I was like, “Well, shouldn’t someone have mentioned it a little before this so I could work in this direction, for god’s sake?” But anyway, so I suddenly felt like I just had to get Sami off the bottle. That and a young woman’s comments while we were out shopping one day. (But that’s a story for another time. It still stings. And the snappy comeback that would have been PERfect hit me only moments after walking away. Alas, timing was everything.)
But then I told myself, hey, Sami has always been a stellar sleeper, and is so sunny, and she’s right where she’s supposed to be when we visit the doctor, and oh so many good things. What the hell do I care if she still wants a bottle of warm milk right before her nap and bedtime. Why would I upset something that is working so well for us? Well, I wouldn’t. That’s why.
And that’s when I really started earnestly dismissing canned advice. I realized that even though I remained childless and child-avoiding right up until the age of 42 when I had Sami – this stuff pretty much comes to me in of itself.
I knew—just knew—that the time wasn’t right for us. Just as much as I was confident I would know when the time was right for us.
Heh. Heh. Only I didn’t. Know, I mean.
Ack! Sami weaned herself off the bottle not quite 2 weeks ago. We didn’t talk about it. I didn’t see it coming. No big fuss. Just all of a sudden, she didn’t want it at bedtime anymore.
Coupled with about a week of difficulty going to bed. Isn’t that odd? At a time when she was acting frightened—or something—of going to bed and in my mind should have wanted the additional comfort piece of having a bottle, she dismissed it. I’m still scratching my head over it. Bad dreams? Her dad was on vacation from work, and we all got to enjoy extra time together and so we were all doing fun things most every evening and she didn’t want to go to bed and miss out on fun? I don’t know.
But then after about 3 nights of me offering her a bottle and her saying, nonchalantly, “No,” I stopped offering. And it hasn’t come up again. I waited about a week, shuffling them around in the cupboard to get at the sippy cups. But still nothing. So 2 days ago, I got them all out, and all the nipples and tops and whatnot, and because I’m not THAT brave, I put them all into a bag and chucked them into the storage room in the basement under the stairs. (Or maybe I did it because growing up on a farm you were constantly but only occasionally going to need a baby bottle to feed an orphaned lamb or calf, and so you always kept a few around. Odds of running across stray lambs or calves in the city? Uh. Yeah. Oh well.)
And then when I was coming back up the stairs, and on the wall I saw the black and white photo of her when she was just days old. And I got all sappy and teary on myself, and realized again that she’s not a baby any more. Like seriously.
Like, we’re approaching 2 you know. In a few days. I remember when she was just that teeny infant-y stage that isn’t so, you know, rewarding, or entertaining. They’re so, um, needy. And I remember thinking about what she would be like when we got to 2, and thinking about how fun that would be. And well, guess what. It is. It is just the best thing ever.
Her constant, “Whassis?” I literally got to watch her “get it.” Get that everything – and that means every thing - has a name. Coupled with listening to her try to say each of those names too. Oh, is there anything so sweet as this time?
Other moms tell me, “Oh you wait. It just keeps getting better and better.” But I’m skeptical, because how can it get cuter and better than this? (Okay, I’m not really skeptical so much as I’m afraid to think that way because I like NOW so much, how can it possibly get even better but I really do believe them, and I can’t wait.)
Just think of all the things I get to watch her “get.” Oh delight.
But then, in the tiny little fissures where some dark ink seeps through if I’m not careful to hold it at bay, then I also have to think about how someday someone might laugh unkindly at her. Or break her heart. Or lie to her to hurt her. Or that she’ll lose a pet or a person she loves. And I can’t stand it.
But all those things happened to me. And they do to everyone. And I made it through all that to find love and happiness and joy in my life.
So I feel this very overwhelming responsibility to arm her to cope with everything life will deal up to her. Now how in the hell am I going to do that?
Maybe BabyCenter will send me some advice.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Oh. That Kind of Hot.
Well, yesterday Sami touched the iron. Oh boy. I had told her and told her every time I got the iron out that it is VERY hot and NEVER to be touched, and on and on. Well, when she saw I was distracted by being on the phone, she snuck over there and deliberately touched it with her finger. I only saw her pull back from it. And you know how it takes an instant when you're burnt before it hurts really badly? She just looked really surprised, and then the "ouch" hit, and she wailed.
Now, I had my iron on the absolute hottest it goes, because I was ironing damp cotton and linen stuff. But unbelievably, her finger did not blister, just turned red. And we ran downstairs and ran cold water over it, and then I got some ice in a cloth, and she would just sit there bawling and daintily holding her little finger tip onto that ice. It really was so cute.
And I know after about 5 or 10 minutes, it didn't hurt anymore that badly -- but she kept replaying the whole scene in her head, and cried over and over about it. Then when Daddy got home, and we were still sitting there--me holding her in my lap with the ice--and then when we told Daddy what happened, oh God, we had to bawl all over again.
Michael and I agreed that really, as sad as you feel for her, there's no way to make them learn why you keep telling them not to touch hot things until they burn themselves once. And at least it was just a fingertip, and no blister. Much better than the oven or stove or something. So now she knows. Before I think she thought when I told her something's never to be touched because it is VERY hot, she just thinks in her head, "Oh. Hot like a french fry that will cool down" ya know? So now she knows. And I guarantee you she steered clear of the iron when we came back up later.
Now, I had my iron on the absolute hottest it goes, because I was ironing damp cotton and linen stuff. But unbelievably, her finger did not blister, just turned red. And we ran downstairs and ran cold water over it, and then I got some ice in a cloth, and she would just sit there bawling and daintily holding her little finger tip onto that ice. It really was so cute.
And I know after about 5 or 10 minutes, it didn't hurt anymore that badly -- but she kept replaying the whole scene in her head, and cried over and over about it. Then when Daddy got home, and we were still sitting there--me holding her in my lap with the ice--and then when we told Daddy what happened, oh God, we had to bawl all over again.
Michael and I agreed that really, as sad as you feel for her, there's no way to make them learn why you keep telling them not to touch hot things until they burn themselves once. And at least it was just a fingertip, and no blister. Much better than the oven or stove or something. So now she knows. Before I think she thought when I told her something's never to be touched because it is VERY hot, she just thinks in her head, "Oh. Hot like a french fry that will cool down" ya know? So now she knows. And I guarantee you she steered clear of the iron when we came back up later.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Summer Sami
Well, we’ve been so busy that finding the time to write has seemed impossible. But day in, day out – perhaps hourly, I observe things that I feel a need to write about. Alas, by the time I carve out the time (or ignore Mt. Laundry), so much of it doesn’t come to mind. I resolve to try to get back to writing daily, so the task doesn’t seem so monumental—looming—when I don’t get to it for a while. That just causes me to put off getting started even longer.
I was never around children much before I had Sami. And due to not being around kids, they actually kind of made me nervous. I could watch my older sister interact with them with great success. But mimicking her style just didn’t fit with me. And so I felt self-conscious and, well, weird trying to hang out with children. So just didn’t do it much. With that said, I put forth that I have virtually no point of reference when I say that Sami seems so smart to me. But Sami does seem so smart to me!
I don’t mean that she’s wildly advanced beyond her peers in areas like talking, music, or anything measurable like that. More that I’m just blown away on nearly a daily basis by watching her discover something or by her “telling” me something that I’ve no idea where she picked it up. You know, lots of kids do that, I think—but if they’re staying with other people or at daycare or school, I think their parents chalk it up to, “Well, she must’ve learned that at daycare,” etc. But Sami’s in our very controlled (well, I use that term loosely to describe our household, but you know what I mean) environment. She’s always with me or her dad. So when we check in with each other and there’s no basis for her knowing it…
Anyway, what fun this is. This raising of a child at this stage—watching her watch the world from her perspective is absolutely priceless—clearly the dearest thing to me in my whole life.
We showed her one of those big, ugly, clingy beetles? She didn’t even hesitate to just pick it up. And even when it clung to her, she was still just interested in it. She knows an amazing number of words now. But many of them take interpretation, and she realizes it, and so watching her try to relay to me what she’s trying to say, using other gestures, is so fun. And funny.
“Be” denotes many different things for Sami. It can be Sunny Bunny, an airplane, a photo of herself, a video of herself, other children or babies, a bird. And now there’s a new one… she kept saying it, but while making this pinching gesture with her hands, putting her index fingers and thumbs together over and over because I wasn’t getting it. And finally, I did. About a week ago, I shelled a peanut in front of her, and shared a peanut with her. She was trying to copy the movement I made while shelling the peanut. It was awfully cute.
We haven’t had yogurt in the house for a few weeks (just lack of decent shopping to blame there), but the other day at Target, Michael said she wanted out to push the cart, and she went straight for the yogurt and chose her usual brand and some flavors. And then she started asking for it by name at home, “Goo guh? Goo guh? Goo guh?” Her perception is that if I’m not getting it the first few times, she will repeat it over and over and over. But what’s cute is she doesn’t get frantic or frustrated. She’s terribly patient about it.
And sometimes, there’s just no figuring out what she’s saying. And I’ll just say to her apologetically, “Honey, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what you’re saying.” And she’s off to something else. She doesn’t pitch a fit, which I think is pretty amazing. I would if people didn’t “get” me.
Anyway, we just had a vacation with my family in Iowa. And Sami totally bonded with her Aunt Bec (“Bock!”). Within the second day, while shopping, Sami would refuse to let me touch or push the cart—it had to be Bock. I couldn’t feed her, dress her, brush her hair. Nothin’. It all had to be done by Bock. Well, don’t think for one minute that I was threatened by that. It was SO nice; I took advantage of the time to sneak out to the patio and read my book. Or just to relax. To have someone who I honestly believe loves Sami as much as her dad and I do, and because practically any knowledge I’ve picked up about childraising came from her – to have my sister taking care of my daughter was wonderful all the way around. Not just because I got to take some breaks. But more importantly to see Sami interacting with someone new, and enjoying her Aunt Bec so very much. And ummm, I think Aunt Bec enjoyed it just as much.
Anyway, I could write pages about our vacation, and maybe I will if I find more time. But for now, I’ll stop here.
I was never around children much before I had Sami. And due to not being around kids, they actually kind of made me nervous. I could watch my older sister interact with them with great success. But mimicking her style just didn’t fit with me. And so I felt self-conscious and, well, weird trying to hang out with children. So just didn’t do it much. With that said, I put forth that I have virtually no point of reference when I say that Sami seems so smart to me. But Sami does seem so smart to me!
I don’t mean that she’s wildly advanced beyond her peers in areas like talking, music, or anything measurable like that. More that I’m just blown away on nearly a daily basis by watching her discover something or by her “telling” me something that I’ve no idea where she picked it up. You know, lots of kids do that, I think—but if they’re staying with other people or at daycare or school, I think their parents chalk it up to, “Well, she must’ve learned that at daycare,” etc. But Sami’s in our very controlled (well, I use that term loosely to describe our household, but you know what I mean) environment. She’s always with me or her dad. So when we check in with each other and there’s no basis for her knowing it…
Anyway, what fun this is. This raising of a child at this stage—watching her watch the world from her perspective is absolutely priceless—clearly the dearest thing to me in my whole life.
We showed her one of those big, ugly, clingy beetles? She didn’t even hesitate to just pick it up. And even when it clung to her, she was still just interested in it. She knows an amazing number of words now. But many of them take interpretation, and she realizes it, and so watching her try to relay to me what she’s trying to say, using other gestures, is so fun. And funny.
“Be” denotes many different things for Sami. It can be Sunny Bunny, an airplane, a photo of herself, a video of herself, other children or babies, a bird. And now there’s a new one… she kept saying it, but while making this pinching gesture with her hands, putting her index fingers and thumbs together over and over because I wasn’t getting it. And finally, I did. About a week ago, I shelled a peanut in front of her, and shared a peanut with her. She was trying to copy the movement I made while shelling the peanut. It was awfully cute.
We haven’t had yogurt in the house for a few weeks (just lack of decent shopping to blame there), but the other day at Target, Michael said she wanted out to push the cart, and she went straight for the yogurt and chose her usual brand and some flavors. And then she started asking for it by name at home, “Goo guh? Goo guh? Goo guh?” Her perception is that if I’m not getting it the first few times, she will repeat it over and over and over. But what’s cute is she doesn’t get frantic or frustrated. She’s terribly patient about it.
And sometimes, there’s just no figuring out what she’s saying. And I’ll just say to her apologetically, “Honey, I’m sorry. I just don’t know what you’re saying.” And she’s off to something else. She doesn’t pitch a fit, which I think is pretty amazing. I would if people didn’t “get” me.
Anyway, we just had a vacation with my family in Iowa. And Sami totally bonded with her Aunt Bec (“Bock!”). Within the second day, while shopping, Sami would refuse to let me touch or push the cart—it had to be Bock. I couldn’t feed her, dress her, brush her hair. Nothin’. It all had to be done by Bock. Well, don’t think for one minute that I was threatened by that. It was SO nice; I took advantage of the time to sneak out to the patio and read my book. Or just to relax. To have someone who I honestly believe loves Sami as much as her dad and I do, and because practically any knowledge I’ve picked up about childraising came from her – to have my sister taking care of my daughter was wonderful all the way around. Not just because I got to take some breaks. But more importantly to see Sami interacting with someone new, and enjoying her Aunt Bec so very much. And ummm, I think Aunt Bec enjoyed it just as much.
Anyway, I could write pages about our vacation, and maybe I will if I find more time. But for now, I’ll stop here.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Speaking
I can’t justify the time to write – so much is “undone” in my house, but there are a few amusements I must get down onto (cyber)paper…
Sami’s vocabulary surprises me constantly now. But some of it is just plain damn funny at this point, and not reacting inappropriately is a daily challenge. Case in point... well, several, in fact:
I know the instant we react to the more questionable pronunciations that she comes up with, we reinforce that there is something amiss, and we’ll be very sorry. So we don’t react to these markedly funny ones. We mustn’t. And it has been quite effective. But here’s the issue, when we get around my family, how do I get them not to react to them? We’re vacationing amongst my family within a few days, and I know they’ll find it all hilarious and don’t practice even a portion of my well-placed self-discipline. Woe will most certainly be me.
Sami’s really changing and growing now. You can almost see the synapses firing and connecting in her little brain minute by minute. The observations she makes and the things she’s able to figure out truly stun me. One day she’s pushing all the limits and trying my good nature almost beyond that good nature. And then the next she’s all sunshine and cuteness. Go figure.
And then, most wonderfully, she has grown out of her little independent stages exhibited occasionally where she’ll have no part of you cuddling her, and has occasional bouts of cuddliness. Oh my. To have her crawl up in my lap (patting my leg with an urgent, “piss, piss?”) and snuggle up against me and actually – yes – SIT there for tens of minutes by me, asking to have her arm or leg or belly tickled. Oh, it is heaven. I sneak sniffs of her hair, too.
So this is what it is like to be a parent. Wow.
Sami’s vocabulary surprises me constantly now. But some of it is just plain damn funny at this point, and not reacting inappropriately is a daily challenge. Case in point... well, several, in fact:
- Our “shirt” is her “shook”
- Our “cars” is her “gorsh.”
- Our “French fry” is her “fah-fie,” but you must say it very rapidly
- “Please” remains “piss”
- “Thank you,” generally appropriately applied, but pronounced “tinkoo”
- And most notably of late, and I’m sorry here if you lean towards prudishness but I didn’t plan this stuff, but “foot” is “fook” and that’s my polite way of spelling it
- Coupled with “cock” for “truck” and you have numerous moments throughout your day that require laugh-stifling
I know the instant we react to the more questionable pronunciations that she comes up with, we reinforce that there is something amiss, and we’ll be very sorry. So we don’t react to these markedly funny ones. We mustn’t. And it has been quite effective. But here’s the issue, when we get around my family, how do I get them not to react to them? We’re vacationing amongst my family within a few days, and I know they’ll find it all hilarious and don’t practice even a portion of my well-placed self-discipline. Woe will most certainly be me.
Sami’s really changing and growing now. You can almost see the synapses firing and connecting in her little brain minute by minute. The observations she makes and the things she’s able to figure out truly stun me. One day she’s pushing all the limits and trying my good nature almost beyond that good nature. And then the next she’s all sunshine and cuteness. Go figure.
And then, most wonderfully, she has grown out of her little independent stages exhibited occasionally where she’ll have no part of you cuddling her, and has occasional bouts of cuddliness. Oh my. To have her crawl up in my lap (patting my leg with an urgent, “piss, piss?”) and snuggle up against me and actually – yes – SIT there for tens of minutes by me, asking to have her arm or leg or belly tickled. Oh, it is heaven. I sneak sniffs of her hair, too.
So this is what it is like to be a parent. Wow.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Things I’ve Learned; and Things I Can Hardly Stand
I’ve learned that I really, truly love being Sami’s mom. If you don’t know my entire past history (and really, there’s only a handful of people that do), then you may not appreciate the profoundness of this self-discovery. Basically, it freaks me out.
I’ve learned that the word “love” seems wildly inadequate for describing how I feel about this child of mine—this developing personality and soul of hers. I mean, I have pretty fierce passions and love for other people in my life – I am not and was not a stranger to strong feelings of love and caring. But I can’t even yet fully comprehend the impact she has had on my heart. Who knew?
I look at her, I watch her, I gaze at her. It is like if I could do nothing for the rest of my life but just spend time watching her go about her little business, I’d be perfectly happy. All the better if I get to do it along with someone else that adores her too (her daddy; Aunt Bec) so we can cast sidelong and amazed and amused glances at each other during the watching.
Oh God. This singing of hers. I used to call her chatter singing, but now that she’s actually making attempts at singing, it is all in perspective. This is the most priceless thing I’ve ever been witness to.
I’ve been singing Rock-a-Bye Baby to her, and then at the end of every verse, I supplement her name and others, so it goes, “…and down will come Sami, Jazzy and all.” Okay? So the first verse always has to be Jazzy (our dog, whose name Jasmine became Jazzy as soon as Sami had a hand at it). Then the second verse must be Katie. (The cat.) Then the third and fourth verses are usually Daddy and Mommy.
It must be the simplicity of the song, and the insertion of our families’ names in there that have captivated her so. She asks me to sing it all the time. She calls it Bay Boe. The Bay Boe song. “Bay Boe? Peace? Peace? Peace?” Until I sing it. I write that politely, but in reality, her request is more like, “Bay Boe? Piss? Piss? Piss?” I adore her.
And once it gets into her head from me singing a few verses. She’ll go off and start playing somewhere within earshot, and she’ll sing it as well. Oh my. She has a hearty volume, and isn’t shy about the fact that most of the words fail her. So long as she inserts “bay boe” and an occasional family name, she’s willing to sing her little heart out. So full of the right rhythms and tonality, but made up of sweet nonsense syllables and tuneless rising and falling scales of notes. I am not kidding when I say I sometimes truly feel as though those moments of listening in to her singing like that just make my heart feel as though it will burst.
It is so bittersweet to me. At the time I am enjoying it so fully, but it nearly brings me to tears, because I know this phase is so short-lived. I know soon she’ll learn real words, and there won’t be that sweet, sweet making up of syllables and sounds. I worry that soon she’ll become so self-aware that she’ll get self-conscious and shy about singing out loud (trust me when I tell you I will do everything in my power to ensure this doesn’t happen, but I fear it nonetheless).
I’m not really that polite of a person, generally speaking. But I must be more polite than I was aware of, because outside of “Daddy,” the first word she learned, and that has endured, was “please.” Okay? Then shortly after that came “thank you.” And not only that, but as she matures, she uses it very appropriately. At all the right times. Do you know what it feels like to hand her something she’s asked for, and then to have her say, “Thank you?” Or tinkoo, as it were. I always tell her, “Well, it’s my pleasure, my dear.” I always preached that my selfish nature would require a very grateful child. And sure enough, here she is.
Friday, May 19, 2006
Monday, April 24, 2006
A Good Plan
So we’re days away from the 20 month mark.
Michael and I always struggle with the “how old is she?” question. If it is from another toddler parent, we can breezily say the 19 month or 20 month answer. But if you say that to people that aren’t toddler parents, you can see they’re kind of out of touch with counting months, because when you say it they kind of zone out for a few seconds while they try to figure out how old that is. I told Michael that pretty soon we can just say, “She’ll be two at the end of August.” That should help out the inquisitors, and save them from the task of calculating month-counts.
Sami is talking so much now. She has many recognizable words, and a few that she’s adamant about, but that we haven’t quite gotten up to speed on, and she’s a master at the nonsensical—but perfectly intoned and rythymed—jabber that amuses me so. She’ll give a running commentary on our daily doings and I can hardly stand it it is so cute. Replete with pointings and gestures and whatnot.
This morning Michael was kind of thinking out loud as we watched her eat her breakfast of cereal while we ate our bowls of cereal. She’s so adept at it now. Anyway, he says this, “You know, we just love her so much, and adore her so much. And she’s going to love us back, and think we’re the greatest for a few years, and then she’ll get to be in her early teens and think we’re idiots and not want to be around us. Then she’ll get past that and like us again, but then she’ll be in her late teens, and she’ll be ready to go out on her own without us. And how are we going to deal with that?”
I thought about it a minute, and I shrugged and said, “We’ll be pretty old by then, and we won’t have that much going on – so we’ll just go with her.”
He high-fived me.
Then he got her out of her high-chair seat, and took her in his arms over by the window to look outside, and told her what our plans are. She didn’t seem that concerned about it, so we feel like that’s a pretty good plan.
Michael and I always struggle with the “how old is she?” question. If it is from another toddler parent, we can breezily say the 19 month or 20 month answer. But if you say that to people that aren’t toddler parents, you can see they’re kind of out of touch with counting months, because when you say it they kind of zone out for a few seconds while they try to figure out how old that is. I told Michael that pretty soon we can just say, “She’ll be two at the end of August.” That should help out the inquisitors, and save them from the task of calculating month-counts.
Sami is talking so much now. She has many recognizable words, and a few that she’s adamant about, but that we haven’t quite gotten up to speed on, and she’s a master at the nonsensical—but perfectly intoned and rythymed—jabber that amuses me so. She’ll give a running commentary on our daily doings and I can hardly stand it it is so cute. Replete with pointings and gestures and whatnot.
This morning Michael was kind of thinking out loud as we watched her eat her breakfast of cereal while we ate our bowls of cereal. She’s so adept at it now. Anyway, he says this, “You know, we just love her so much, and adore her so much. And she’s going to love us back, and think we’re the greatest for a few years, and then she’ll get to be in her early teens and think we’re idiots and not want to be around us. Then she’ll get past that and like us again, but then she’ll be in her late teens, and she’ll be ready to go out on her own without us. And how are we going to deal with that?”
I thought about it a minute, and I shrugged and said, “We’ll be pretty old by then, and we won’t have that much going on – so we’ll just go with her.”
He high-fived me.
Then he got her out of her high-chair seat, and took her in his arms over by the window to look outside, and told her what our plans are. She didn’t seem that concerned about it, so we feel like that’s a pretty good plan.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)