Not a Moment Too Soon

Lucy is not yet two, but, man, can she be terrible. I won't list her whole rap sheet, but the shrieking, fit-throwing, and hitting are making her less lovable (or at least less likable).

Until yesterday. We were sitting in her bathroom and she was proffering different body parts for me to kiss. "Mama kiss arm. Mama kiss elbow. Mama kiss foot." Then she sweetly took my face in both her hands and said, "I love you." It was the first time ever, unprompted. That moment erases countless other hard ones. I am a sucker for her.

The Artist Formerly Known as Duck

It is disconcerting when your 21-month-old child starts asking for her precious love object, Duck, by his SPELLING. "Deeyooseekay? Deeyooseekay?" Are you kidding me? I know she can't spell, and I won't even get sidetracked by discussing the potential genius in this. Really, my focus is the inconvenience. Henceforth, he shall be known as "Pato." Next month: "Canard."

Ebenezer Lu

She may look like that sweet Seuss scamp, Little Cindy Loo Who (who was no more than two), what with her funny sparse pigtails and sweet smile. You know, the one who thawed the Grinch's heart and saved Christmas in Who-ville?

Well, forget it. Little Lucy Lu Who almost ruined Christmas for me today. Me, and a bunch of other people who wanted to gather politely and see Santa Claus and eat cookies and drink cider. Today was a party for all the kids and parents who have ever participated in the "T3 and Under" bring-your-baby-to-work program at my office. The plan: dress the baby up really cute, show her off a little, maybe be the centerpiece of heartwarming human interest story on the local news.

But no. TODAY, Little Lucy Lu Who, her heart a sooty lump of coal, threw the most epic fit ever. Forty-five minutes of aggressive, inexplicable crying and flailing as we were getting ready to go to the party (so much for the "really cute" part of the plan). After various stages of locking her in her room ("time out"=time for me to think about what I did to raise up such a wicked little Grinch), we were composed enough to get in the car and drive to work. Her socks did not match. Her face was puffy, her nose ran, and she was still in that spasm-y post-fit breathing. But she ate some Goldfish in the car, sang the only five lyrics of "Jingle Bells" she knows, and even smiled a little. Things were looking up.

That is, until we entered the conference room, crowded with charming children munching gingerbread and chatting up Santa. My bosses were there, along with a representative of the mayor's office, there to declare it "T3 Day" in honor of T3's contributions to working families. Little Lucy Lu Who screamed during the proclamation, "NO, NO LIKE IT, NO LIKE SINTA CLOS. OUTSIDE. GO BACK." I am pretty sure that is not going on TV.

Even though I am sort of mad at her about all this (yes, I know she is not even two, but I am her mother and I can be mad), I reflect on how I felt while I was at the mall on Saturday, pressed up against all that manic Christmas spirit, wanting to scream, "NO, NO LIKE SHOPPING. OUTSIDE. GO BACK."

Christmas: not for quitters or whiners.

School

It's time to think about Lucy's school. Notice: no quotes around school. This time, we are talking about real school, and where Lucy will go after she graduates from St. Luke's. Technically, it could be another daycare-like place and not school, per se. But when I saw a bunch of three-year-olds discussing what languages are spoken in Canada, I could only think of it as SCHOOL. And when I thought of how far behind Lu would be if we let her little brain languish amid daycare activites such as "storytime" and "playing," I knew it had to be school. There will be no playing. There will be only learning.

So we have decided to go with a little Montessori school in North Austin run by some nice Indian women. Not the actual school where the Canada lesson was going on, but a smaller, somewhat more relaxed place where the three-year-olds were having music class. Everyone at the school greeted Lucy warmly, and she confidently wandered into whatever activities were underway. They gave her animal cookies and a juice box. She kept saying "kids! kids!" We loved it, and we gave them some money to hold her spot for June.

I know it's just daycare/school/a safe place for her to spend her days, but it feels like a huge decision. One that will set the course of her academic and professional future. There's the issue of Montessori: maybe it's too rigid and academic for toddlers or very independent children? She may be expelled within a week (like Ben Cohen, Montessori drop-out and legendary misbehaver)! I have also heard that Montessori fosters so much self-directed learning that moving to more traditional settings can be hard (like Karen Longshore, Montessori graduate, wackily un-traditional).

Those arguments aside, the appeal of Montessori is the smarty-pants factor. I can't deny it — I want her brain to be big. Or at least give her as many opportunities as I can to grow it. Within reason, of course. My friend Pam, whose twin daughters will also be going to this school, told me she'd heard that the other place (three-year-olds and geography) makes you sign a contract that you won't let your child watch TV. Uh...no. This reinforces my deep fear that TV is making the baby stupid, but I would gladly sacrifice a few academic accomplishments for the peace that only Elmo brings. So we are going to the kinder, gentler Montessori school. And anyway, it's English and French. Duh.

Public Relations

Toddlers don't care what people think of them. At least not with any consistency. One minute Lu is so charming she's practically running for mayor: saying "meet you? meet you?" and shaking people's hands, counting in Spanish, lifting up the shirts of strangers or very new acquaintances and demanding to see "bellbutton," kissing everyone (sometimes with tongue). You know, the stuff we all do when we want to be liked. The next minute, she's that kid. The one you wish would go home already. You're not judging, you feel sorry for the parents, sorry for the kid whose parents have kept her out so late, but really, you want the whining to just...stop...now.

So lately, we have seen a lot of that kid. Not to be confused with Lucy Sugawa for Mayor 2027. We saw her on Saturday at Marc and Lauren's Lobster Fest 2005, the food event of the season, where she should have had a fabulous time. I mean, everyone was wearing a bib — just her style. There was a piano, a guitar, stairs, a dog, other children. Rice Krispie treats! When a Rice Krispie treat won't make you happy, you are in a grouchy, grouchy place.

And this is the place we have been for days now. I hope the other Lu comes back. I'd vote for her.

Keep Lucy Weird

Proof that Lucy is an Austinite:

Yesterday at Chuy's, Lucy wanted tortilla chips and then "dippin'? dippin'? dippin'?" which means "something to dip the chip in please?" But the salsa was a little too hot for her, so we tried to keep her content with chips. Then the waitress asked if Granny and I wanted to start off with some queso, and Lu went ape. "Queso? Queso? Queso?" We ultimately settled her down with a little guacamole for her chips, but the kid likes queso. Which is good, because if she weren't happy in Tex-Mex restaurants, she should really consider moving.

Hair Club for Toddlers

We're making some progress in the hair department. Not much, but we have definitely moved beyond what you would call bald. [Those of you who haven't seen Lu lately, I promise to put pictures up soon.] In fact, people keep marvelling at her hair. Much the way you would if some bald guy starting growing hair. You have low expectations and are pleasantly surprised.

She now has enough hair for pigtails, of sorts. More like two sparse sprigs in rubberbands, slightly to the sides of her head. Like little horns, which is fitting. It is a funny-looking hairstyle, but people seem to like it. I am convinced that they compliment it because not to comment on something so obviously attention-seeking is, well, insulting. Like when you have on a really interesting vintage blouse that you think is SO CUTE, but is apparently so loud that you can't hear any of the compliments people might be giving you on it. Perhaps because they are not...saying...anything. Because your shirt is ugly and they don't want to tell you.

I fix her hair in this daring style and tell her how pretty she looks because it makes me feel better. I am fixated on her (lack of) hair. And also pretty certain I manifested this hair situation by saying once, "I sure hope our baby isn't one of those kids who has all their teeth and no hair. That's so weird-looking." So God struck Lu...bald.

Most Depressing Movie Ever

"Ever" seems like a strong word. But of the movies that is about ordinary life — if your version of ordinary life is a small college town where you're so smart and bored that your only entertainment is spouse-swapping — this one is up there. And I have now seen it twice. Saw it the first time in the theater ALONE because it was arty and likened in reviews to Raymond Carver, one of my favorite writers. But I liked Raymond Carver at a moment in my life where bleak scenes of suffering and ennui were poetic to me. Nowadays...well, I am neither suffering nor bored, but still, I get it a little more.

And I don't need to see a movie about the worst-case scenario of my upper middle class life. Especially not twice (thanks to a combination of prime time, the World Series and HBO). It was one of those movies where I felt compelled to say to Jason, again, as I do after many movies about poor decision-making: "Let's just agree not to [sleep with our best friends, smoke crack, gamble away all our money, etc.]

The movie is called "We Don't Live Here Anymore." Except that we do live here, and we won't be doing any of the stuff you'll see in that movie.

P.S. Jason reminds me that this blog is about Lu. All I can say is that Lu will thank us one day when we don't end up like the people in this movie. So it IS about her. So there.

Singing in the Nude

When Lucy is getting ready for her bath or otherwise underdressed, we sing this song we call "The Nude Song." It is inane, like most of the songs from the Lu repertoire: "Tiny Lu, Woo Woo" (to the tune of "In the Mood"), "Twinkle Twinkle Little Lu" and so on. From a songwriting standpoint, Lu is magic because it rhymes with and can be substituted for "you." And also ryhmes with "poo."

Thanks to our constant stupid singing, "The Nude Song" has stuck. She will bring you a stuffed mouse (the character from "If You Give a Mouse a Cookie") and say "Kose off," and when you strip the guy down (he wears removable boxers and overalls), she will sing "Lu, Lu, Lu," as though singing "The Nude Song." To help with your mental picture, the tune is vaguely surf-like, and the lyrics are:
Lu is nude and she's totally rude
Lu is nude and she's acting lewd
Lu is nude
Totally rude
Lu is nude

And so on. It is one dumb-ass song. But it is our song. Which explains our pride in hearing her sing it. She will also sing it about us, or anyone she perceives as naked, although it's subtle, because in her 1.5-year-old brain, the words are just "Lu, Lu, Lu." It's all about her.

Same thing for talking on the phone. She will pick a phone and speak this gibberish language in the perfect rhythm of actual phone English, with a few actual words thrown in: "Hello, dis Jason. Blah blah blah Mama, blah blah ok, blah blah, oh man, blah blah diaper crackers, blah blah blah blah yeah uh huh." Which my friend Chad explained to me is exactly how she hears us: a bunch of nonsense peppered by occasional words she understands.

So, for the moment, we have a self-involved nudist on ours hands. Here's hoping it's a phase.

And in the Role of Flower Girl: Lucy E. Sugawa

From the time she got engaged, Melanie was insistent that Lucy be a flower girl in her wedding. I was skeptical. There were no kids in our wedding because a) we had no little kids that needed to be included and b) I couldn't handle the panties-showing, tantrum throwing x-factor. Nini, however, is a pro. She likes kids (not just ones she's related to) and she accepts their eccentricities. So, we agreed, when Lu was a tiny squirming infant, that she would be Nini's flower girl...someday in the distant future, when she was capable of scene-blocking and taking direction.

So, some things did not happen in the year since her anointing as flower girl:
Did not learn to follow simple commands.
Did not learn to walk in straight, focused line.
Did not learn to be quiet.
Did not grow much hair.

And yet, to Nini's credit, she let none of these failures disqualify Lucy from her post. We did lots of training in that meringue of a dress: "Look at Lucy, so pretty!" She would see her dress hanging in the closet and say "Dess Nini dess ohh!" We'd put it on her and she would gasp with excitement. Nini even gave her a pearl necklace and bracelet to wear, which she exclaimed over all day: "neck-ice bace-it ohh."

Except in the moment of truth. We put her dress on at the very last possible second to avoid having it smeared with...whatever. And instead of "ohhh" we got "oss oss oss," which is Lu for "Dude, this shit is hot and itchy, get it off me." Which, despite how gorgeous we looked, is pretty much how we were all feeling.

Yet she carried on, performing her official duty as godchild/showpiece and causing limited embarrassment. She walked up the aisle with me, and when we got to our post, she exclaimed, in a medium volume, the names of every single person she recognized, fixating ultimately on Emily and Debbie ("Mimi? Debbie? Mimi? Debbie?"). When the string processional ended, she clapped and said "Yea!" She lasted until the homily, when she began to wander around to greet the guests. I gave Granny the signal and Lucy made her exit.

She was the belle of the reception, running around like a crazed creampuff. She even managed to horn in on the first dance, which Melanie and Adam were gracious enough to let her crash. The only person prettier was our Melanie, who took my breath away. This bride couldn't possibly have had the show stolen from her, despite being generous enough to share it with a hammy, disruptive child.