Some Things She Has Said Since 6 p.m. Today

Tonight at dinner: "Here, Mama, I have a present for you." Hands me a rock. "Do you like it? You can put it in your purse."

While "reading" the menu: "Dad, what do you want? You want some chicken nuggets? And some french fries?"

As the waiter was taking our order: "I want beans and rice. And a lemonade. And a Sprite. No, a Sprite. PLEEEEASE!"

Upon being asked what she learned at school: "I learned animals today. I learned a monkey and a elephant and a gorilla."

After dinner, when I needed to use the restroom and Jason had already left the restaurant: "I don't wanna go potty. I stay at the table and wait for you. I go potty at home." She is coaxed closer to the bathroom, but refuses to go in. "I stay RIGHT HERE and wait for you. I will." Coaxed into the bathroom, hovering in a far corner while I am in the stall. "Don't flush, Mom, DON'T!"

Leaving the restaurant: "It's not naptime now. No, it's not."

On the way home from the restaurant, discussing her imagination: "I fly way up in the air and wave to you. I'm really high. You're really little."

Pulling into the driveway: "I wanna take a quick bath, okay? Just a quick one."

During her bath: "I want all my letters. Is this a one or a 'i'? I think it's a one. 'J' is for Jason! 'H' is for hat! 'F' is for Frank! 'Q' is for quilt! I want a quilt when I go to sleep."

Being smooched after her bath: "I am delicious. I taste like chocolate."

Being put to bed: "NOOOO, I WANT THE OTHER BEAR. THE ONE ON THE COUCH!"

Material Girl

Yesterday, as we left Central Market, it had just stopped raining. Grim clouds met a sunny sky, resulting in...a rainbow! We stopped in the parking lot so Lu could see it, and she was captivated. Her response: "I want a rainbow, Mama. Buy it for me!" How to explain that rainbows aren't for sale? It's a poster-worthy aphorism.

I finally talked her into building a rainbow with her Legos. We are going to have to do something about this kid's values.

Parenting in Tandem

We decided to rent a tandem bike to ride through Vancouver's Stanley Park. At the bike rental place, we were both charmed by the idea of a tandem bike, which seemed like a good idea until the French Canadian girl at the cash register snickered (or was she merely being French Canadian?).

We quickly discovered the basic, challenging principle of a tandem bike: all the instinctual balance that it takes to keep one person on a bike, when multiplied by two people and meant to work together, is much harder than just riding a bike. To quote Pie on another subject, it's like trying to drive a standard transmission with one person operating the gears and another person operating the gas and the clutch. Extreme cooperation. Jason conceded the front to me after 100 meters, his having ridden a bike about 19 years ago and me having ridden one on Monday.

At first, we kept saying to each other with every wobble, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Extreme cooperation is hard, but we got the hang of it. For instance, we agreed TOGETHER, that it was a good idea to get off the bike and walk it up a one-kilometer, steep-ass hill. Other good decisions ensued. And some laughing. And way less falling down than I do when riding on my own.

I think parenting is like that. Lu is our little bike: wobbly, unsure, second-guessing, we work together to propel her forward.

Peeking in Canadian Windows

The first stop in our Northwest trip was Vancouver, the prettiest city I have ever seen. Not pretty the way European cities are pretty (patinaed, with an authentic griminess), or even San Francisco (detailed and darling) or New York (so substantive it doesn't have to worry about its looks). Vancouver shines, bright with new buildings made of polished steel and green glass. Everyone is wearing effortless, slouchy layers of very hip clothing. They are seemingly from everywhere, stylishly global. The whole city seems to be saying, "Sore-y, we can't help it. We're just better than you." But Vancouver is not trying to make you feel bad, you can tell.

One morning, I ran along the waterfront past the fancy condos. All the green glass windows were open (windows open! in early September!), so I could easily peer in on their little Canadian lives. I saw families tucked into trim, modern breakfast tables, one with a couple of kids at their own pint-sized table which I recognized as very expensive. Others sipped coffee on their decks (good coffee from Scandinavian mugs, I guessed, but could not see as I ran along). The whole thing was like an ad for a Canadian real estate developer: Move here. You'll be a better person and you won't even have to learn a new language.

Lucy's Legitimacy

I wanted to title this post "Lucy is a Bastard," but Jason wouldn't let me. He thought it was too harsh, that "bastard" was too mean. Mean...but true. I found out today that Jason and I aren't married.

At least, maybe not married. Not legally married in any way that is proveable without a number of affidavits. I have had this suspicion for a little while now. A couple of years ago, I was doing some Internet searching/stalking of myself and others I Iove/am interested in, and I discovered this interesting site where you can look up old records. http://www.genlookups.com/texas_marriages/ And, interestingly, I did not find me and Jason among the rolls. I attributed it to a clerical error, the inaccuracy of the Internet.

Then last fall, after Nini got married, when she embarked on offiicially changing her name, she spoke of these official papers she got proving she was married. I was curious. I had never gotten these (nor needed them because I didn't change my name). I started to wonder where our piece of paper was: Did our priest forget to send in the paperwork? But I laid it on the Big Worry Heap, alongside such issues as "that hall closet is kinda gross" and "I should have better posture."

Today, I realized we were going to Canada. I mean, I knew we were going to Canada, but I realized my passport had expired and I might need something more than charm to get me across the border (charm still works well when crossing to Mexico, by the way). So I researched the documents we'd need, searched wildly in my office for my birth certificate, found my youngest sister's birth certificate (which lists her as a MALE, further to the flaws in the system!), then had to go down to the Bureau of Vital Statistics to get my own.

I filled out the necessary forms and saw that at the same time, I could get a letter of "marriage verification." So I decided to get my birth certificate and solve the mystery of our marriage all at once.

No record. No record of our marriage, seven years later. At least not at Vital Statistics. Our next step is to take it up with the county, who has our marriage license on file. Hopefully, any number of nice people who vowed before God and everyone to support our marriage would be willing to sign an affidavit saying they'd witnessed an actual ceremony. But there is certainly more documentation to pursue.

For now, seven years later, it appears we have been playing a good game of house! Here I thought I was being so modern by not taking Jason's name. For the nine hours I have been a common-law wife, I've been distressed. It seems I am more conventional than I thought.

For Lu's part, I think, with the right attorneys, she still stands to inherit the Sugawa fortune.

p.s. Sorry to all of you who gave gifts and ate cake (and even sorrier to those of you who sent gifts and got no cake -- you were truly robbed).

Making the Baby Vain

Another of the many ways I am damaging Lucy: makeup. It started with the brushes. She'd watch me put makeup on in the car and demand to have her own brush. Now she's demanding actual pigment. "I need lipstick, Mom. I need some of your lipstick." I don't spend all that much time grooming, but what little I do (cover the spots, paint the lips, the basics) happens in the car while she is riding in the backseat (we can cover the subject of modeling bad driving another time).

I am not sure how to explain makeup or why I like/need it, and why she doesn't, or even the whole concept of physical beauty. But she seems to be interested in it. Granny (and others) have been telling her she's "special," which she frequently counters with "I'm not special, I'm Lucy." But tonight she described some dog on TV as "special," and I asked her what special means. "Special means cute, Mom. I'm so cute."

Before I could explore my many-layered response to "I'm so cute," she asked me about my eyebrows. Earlier, she and Jason had dropped in on me during an esthetician appointment, catching me in flagrante de waxo (more or less).

L: "Whatchu doing, Mom? You lying down?"
K: "Melody is fixing my eyebrows. And washing my face."
L: "She's gonna give you a bath?"
K: "She's gonna give my face a bath."
L: "Oh. I'm going to the grocery store with my dad. Bye."

Later:
"What Melody do to you, Mom?"
"She fixed my eyebrows and washed my face."
"Your eyebrows look cute, Mom. You're so cute."

I wanted to explain that between the brushes and the makeup and the wax and the occasional harsh chemical, that was a nice thing to hear, even if I didn't want to want to hear it. But instead, I just said thanks and told her she was so cute too.

Dorky Destiny

Sometimes Lu's dorkiness worries me. I can feel the embarrassing moments unfolding in front of her — distant ones like when she will insist on getting the ugliest perm in the world, or the time she will get in trouble during P.E. because she tries to sneak a book into the gym, or when she will fall down in the student center in front of a bunch of really cool seniors. Even at two and a half, her lack of coolness is very clear. I am trying not to project my own dorkiness onto her, but does this look cool to you:

New Low

Even I am amazed at the lengths I/we will go to for a good time. Here I sit at Mother Egan's Pub, waiting for trivia to start. It is technically Jason's "turn," meaning I will go home at some point. For the moment though, the whole family is here. At a bar.

Lu had the most gigantic blow-out diaper ever. Crap on leg, on shorts, on everything. I changed her in the back of the wagon, then set aside the soiled pants. Now she is running around the bar with no pants. Shades of things to come.

p.s. No wait, she has returned with Jason from his car, where they found some hideous, too-small purple pants that don't match her shirt. Is it wrong that I think no pants is better than bad pants?

The Talking

I don't know how to write a post about the talking without being one of those parents who says, "I don't mean to brag, but I feel sure, I can just tell that Suzy/Johnny/Chelsea/Jack is gifted." You are not fooled by the disclaimer. They are bragging. You hate those people. You hate their children.

I don't think Lucy is gifted. I just think she knows lots and lots of words. That she uses to make sentences with nouns and verbs and pronouns and adverbs and adjectives and prepositions, in various tenses. I fear that when she takes some standardized test, she will prove to be what I am: so verbally exceptional and mathematically retarded as to be... slightly above average. The advantage of verbal ability early on is that everybody TALKS. But who solves for x at age 2? No one. So the verbal kid looks like a smarty, while the other quiet genius? Well, that kid just mentally counts all the money he/she will be earning while Verbal talks his/her way to a Liberal Arts degree and a job in advertising. GO MATH!

Jason was talking with Lu's teacher, Ms. Uzma, about the talking. Ms. Uzma is a pretty Muslim lady who wears Western clothes and a smart, coordinating head scarf. Lu loves her, and when she first started at Twin Oaks during the colder months, she insisted on wearing a hood at all times to be like Ms. Uzma. I think maybe the feeling is mutual, though Ms. Uzma is a pretty tough character who tells the children sternly they are "so sad!" when they are doing something wrong. Lu is always telling Duck, Pig, Bear and Clifford how they are "so sad!"

Ms. Uzma told Jason that Lu is so verbal and mature that they sometimes forget that she is only two and a half. She speaks as clearly as a five-year-old, Ms. Uzma said. They forget about her real age until Lu throws an epic fit like the one she did at lunch today. She's three grade levels above on verbal skills, below grade level for behavior. Which makes her...slightly above average.

See Whirled

Some friendly advice: don't go to Sea World on the last viable weekend before school starts. Unless you already hate everybody. I have had such bad feelings about other human beings after that experience. Bad, bad ones. Some titles I considered for this blog entry:

"Oh, the Sweaty Humanity!"
"Put Down that Ice Cream Cone and Move Your Fat Ass"
"There is Nothing Amusing About Standing in Line"
"Sea World: a Place that Makes You Want to Spear Something"

I have always hated amusement parks (see above about "not amusing"). I hate the lines. I hate the manufactured thrills. I hate the forced urgency: "By God, Lucy, we paid $90 and YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE A GOOD TIME." There are plenty of real reasons in life to stand in line (to meet the Pope/the Dalai Lama/Bono) and want to vomit (food poisoning/malaria/pregnancy). And the Diet Cokes are almost always cheaper.

It was so easy to imagine myself as better than those inner-tube-carrying masses. Yet there we all were, working toward a common goal: fun. There was no caste system, no velvet rope to duck under. We were all equally...sweaty. Lu enjoyed the dolphins, the waterpark, and intermittently, the Shamu show. Maybe it was her disrupted sleep schedule or the fierce pursuit of fun, but she was not as dazzled by the whole business as I expected. When she said, "I want to go to the hotel," I all but did a jig. Instead, I did a cooling inner dance, and felt like I had taught my daughter a valuable lesson: Amusement parks suck. The hotel's where it's at.