During the night-night ritual, Lu accidentally smacked Clifford with a book.
“Awww, I’m sorry, Clifford. Let me give you a kiss. (kisses nose) Are you okay? (lays head on him, petting him) Did I hurt you? Dada, can Clifford sleep in my room with me, Dada?”
p.s. Lu, oddly, has been calling Jason “Dada.” He HATES it. And, as though she senses his loathing of the term, she starts and finishes every sentence in his general direction with it. Dada. Haha.
When we first brought Lucy home from the hospital, we had this log in which we were supposed to record her every pee and poop. It was to serve as a record of how much she was eating (and thriving). In true Freudian fashion, I was obsessed with this log, which we kept for almost the first month of her life. Now, there's a new facet to the record, not just what and when, but where (in a diaper, in panties, at home, at the grocery store).
We are in full-force potty-training, trying to be both persistent and laid-back. She is making great progress, especially considering the Automatic Flushing Scare of July 2006. We had been giving her stickers, but their allure has worn off and now we're onto cookies as rewards. The log for the past few days reads as follows:
Sunday: 9:00 a.m.: Pee, bathroom floor, my foot
note: defiantly refused to sit on potty, then marked me like a dog. raised my voice, will surely be something to discuss with shrink later
Sunday: 10:15-10:30 a.m.: Nothing, potty at Blue Star Cafeteria
note: multiple exploratory sorties to bathroom as ruse to avoid sitting in her seat
Sunday: 12:20 p.m.: Poop, diaper
note: asked her if she wanted to try to finish on the potty. declined.
Sunday: 12:30 p.m.: Poop, diaper
Sunday: 2:30-6:30: Pee, various diapers
Sunday: 7:30 p.m.: Pee, potty
Monday: 8:15 a.m.: Pee, potty
note: only did it for cookie
Monday: 9:45 a.m.: Pee, potty at T3
note: had to do test flush, then put Baby Rosie on, then peed, then demanded promised donut
Monday, 11:30 a.m. (approx.): Pee, potty at Museum with Granny
note: major milestone in public peeing history
Monday, 3 p.m.: Pee, potty
note: after waking up from nap with dry panties
Monday, 4:30 p.m.: Pee, then Poop (attempted), potty
note: exclaimed "Pee comes first!"
Monday, 7:30 p.m. Pee, potty
note: first whole day with no accidents! great progress from foot-pissing!
We have an ongoing debate about how much television Lu should watch, which is an extension of the debate about our own TV watching. Which is not a debate, so much as ongoing internal muttering ("There are so many thing I should be doing instead of this. Wow, Patrick Dempsey never stops being hot to me. I should really find something to read."), punctuated by the occasional hysterical outburst ("Jason, fold while you watch!")
We never watch "regular" TV in front of Lu, unless you count professional sports and whatever soap/talk show my mom wants to have on while she is here. And, speaking as the only person in this organization who cares about her TV diet, this is good. She mostly watches good stuff: non-commercial toddler TV with numbers and letters and life lessons and affirming messages! So you can imagine how it breaks my wannabe ascetic intellectual heart that she thinks Tivo is a character like Elmo. She kisses his little legged icon on the remote. "I love Tivo, Mama." I love Tivo too, but it is a secret, shameful affair.
Then, "The Little Mermaid" arrived. It was part of a funny care package from Baga and Opa that included a disposable camera and some delicious cookies, which Lu has wanted to eat for every meal. "The Little Mermaid," a seemingly simple Disney film. It's for kids — what's not to like? I won't go on a diatribe about the anti-feminist themes at the heart of "The Little Mermaid." I won't give an overly intellectual analysis of the stereotypical portrayal of people of Caribbean origin. The real problem with "The Little Mermaid" is that it's delightful, it's magnetic. You can't tear your eyes away (even if you're two and Ursula is too scaredy for you). You want to watch and watch and watch.
"The Little Mermaid" is like cookies. Once it shows up, you want to have it for every meal. We are currently trying to refocus her interest on worthwhile things like vegetables, which she hates, and photography, which she loves. (Thanks, Baga and Opa — she's quite an artiste, although of the 15 exposures on the camera, 13 are of the ground and 2 are of boogers).
I am not sure what would happen if Ariel and Tivo were to reproduce, but I am pretty sure Lu would start a new religion to worship their offspring.
Lucy has been hanging out with Anthony, Christie's son. He is five months younger than she is, but they seem to get along well. Here they are together at the Gaddis ranch.
On Saturday, Anthony came over to play and she ordered him around, trying to direct him in role-playing about school and the zoo. He sweetly ignored her and stacked things and played on the Sit and Spin. They would occassionally interact or hug or disagree, but mostly they did their own thing. Which is exactly how it will be when they are old and married.
Dealing with Lucy lately is like negotiating with a Teamster — no, a lawyer for the Teamsters! She's argumentative and impossible; anything you say can be turned against you, thanks to the perfect combination of bullying will and rhetorical skill.
One thing we've been working on lately is the concept of danger. "Lucy, we have to hold hands in the parking lot, because it's dangerous." "The stove is hot and it's dangerous." "Climbing on the barstool is dangerous."
So far, the only thing that's gotten through is dangerous=don't do that. It's gotten through so clearly that this morning, she refused to wear a denim skirt and knee socks (my effort at trying to accommodate her new socks-pulled-up-all-the-way and I-don't-wanna-wear-pants aesthetic). The little labor union lawyer declared, "Noooo, that skirt is dangerous!"
Tonight we had dinner with the Weitzes, and after an initial bout of shyness, Lucy came around. She sang "The Itsy Bitsy Spider" and "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." She showed off her burgeoning understanding of sentence structure: "Lucy, what is your favorite color?" "My favorite color is red."
She and Andy discussed ice cream preferences. She complimented Megan's necklace. She ate some queso, a nacho, some beans that were "TOO HOT!" then "just rice first, okay?" Then the Mexican food and the novelty of new friends wore off and she began rearranging the furniture (chatting about food and books is not interesting when you are two and half). What is interesting? What is a fabulous bribe that buys you ten more minutes of chatting? And we're back to...ice cream.
But then I had to explain the part about the waiting. Patience. Very abstract concepts that Lu repeated as though talking about the waiting would make the time go faster.
"Patient is when you wait."
"I'm gonna wait and then I'm gonna have some ice cream, okay?"
"You still eating, Mama?"
Finally, we walked over to get ice cream. She got pink lemonade. I got vanilla bourbon. She ate all my vanilla bourbon, showing that she not only understands waiting, but also sharing.
While we were eating our ice cream, she announced, "I have to go potty," but then thought better of actually going into the bathroom. Why wait when you can just go in your pants instead?
A good laugh and a long sleep are the best cures in the doctor's book.
--Irish proverb
This weekend, Lu did a lot more laughing than she did sleeping. And also more screaming than she did sleeping. She spent Saturday at the Gaddis ranch: riding a horsedrawn carriage, swimming, drinking Sprite, bossing her two-year-old boyfriend Anthony around, bossing everyone around, really. There was no napping.
There was very little napping Sunday, then a huge fight about what to wear to Peyton Price's birthday party. I lost. She wore the bright orange hoodie dress with light pink socks — pulled all the way up — with gray and hot pink sneakers. Wardrobe aside, she was pretty good at the party. There was queso and cake, plus plenty of tiny, one-year-old toes to run over as she drove Peyton's Winnie the Pooh car.
Then onto Pie's house, where we had spaghetti and a few fits (related to her food being grabbed by one-year-olds who don't have as refined a concept of "mine" as Lucy does). For dessert, we tried on wigs.
We will pay for this weekend's unfortunate laugh/sleep ratio all week. Anyone wanna babysit?
P.S. Doesn't she look like some sort of deranged cherub in this picture? Which makes Matthew a...deranged cherub handler?
A while ago, Pie gave Lu this present, the most fitting present ever given to anyone, from anyone. Pie was so excited about giving Lu this present, you'd think it was a continent, a diamond mine, a perpetual trust! And Lu, for her part, was just as happy to receive it.
The present: a pink hat box filled with various dress-up items. Lu calls it her "Princess Box." Sequined, non-specific clothing items that can be worn as skirts or tops or cuffs or headdresses — harem attire. Plus a pair of sparkly plastic mules that, when worn on the wrong feet by a 2-year-old, click-clack on the floor like drunk woman leaving after last call. And a hat. And a pair of sunglasses. All in pink and purple and white. She's obsessed with it.
We attempt to drive home the difference between at-home attire (gypsy/hooker clothes) and go-out attire (t-shirts and jeans), but maybe this effort is wasted since the distinction will entirely reverse itself by the time she is 19. Meanwhile, if you see Lucy dressed like a low-rent Barbara Eden, just know that she won the argument, but I certainly tried.
Gross Thing #1
I boldly decided to not only take two babies to the grocery store today (Lu and Laney), but to take one of those babies wearing panties. We went into the potty so that I could use it (with the stall open while Laney gaped and Lu pleaded with me not to flush). I did not flush, but did wash my hands extra vigorously as though it would somehow make up for the not flushing. Mere minutes later...well, all I can say is mind the puddle near the natural foods aisle. "Uh oh, I pee-peed," said Lu. "Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh," said Laney. I said some other things.
Gross Thing #2
When I was learning French, I taught Emily to say "Quelle belle vomit!" — a phrase she would use with great enthusiasm and frequency. It's totally nonsensical: it means "What pretty vomit!" Totally nonsensical until today, when Clifford ate most of a dumped-out box of crayons and then yakked on the rug, producing...you get the idea.
"I want a Cheeto, Dad."
"Cheetos aren't for breakfast. You want some yogurt and some toast?"
"No, Cheeto. PLEASE."
"Okay, you can have a Cheeto after you eat your yogurt."
[Eats yogurt, in a hurry.]
"I want a Cheeto now, Dad."
[Gives her two Cheetos.]
"I want three four five, Dad."
