While the cat's away...

... The mouse will completely take advantage of the other cat.

Kate has been out of town so it has just been Lucy and dad. It's been fun. It really has. But Lucy has learned a couple of magic words that will haunt me for the rest of my days.

"Please Daddy!"

Of course those words come with the requisite pouty lips and half-moon, smiling eyes. And I fold like a taco. Smart kid.

You'll be happy to learn that with mommy away, Lucy and can focus on the important things in life. What is an ERA? And, what is the real value of a scrambling quarterback in the NFL? I'm still working on getting her to hum the ESPN theme song.

Kate comes back today and I think she'll be happy to see that I haven't let the dogs eat her or turned her into a NRA member.

For days she has been throwing around "I love you!!" Lucky recipients have been Granny, Mom, Clifford, Baby Rosie (christmas gift baby doll), Mary Ellen West and of course Mary (her rag doll). But no Daddy.

Until this morning. "I love you daddy!" The words came out of her mouth in a sweet, bronx-accented babble. Of course I went weak in the knees.

The moment was quickly ruined when it became clear she wanted to eat Goldfish crackers in front the TV. Smart kid.

Only Children Are Not That Strange

The pressure's on. Many of my mommy friends are pregnant with their second children. You know, Gwyneth Paltrow and Brooke Shields. Emily Rankin and Beth Wardy (who both have babies younger than mine).

It is distressing to me. Because I don't want to have another baby (I can hear the collective gasp from the grandmothers and aunts in the audience). I am not saying I NEVER want to have another baby. I just don't want to have one yet. And I might not. I just don't know. Is that okay?

Lu is perfect. I largely enjoyed being pregnant, except for maybe the very beginning and the very end, when Maggie informed me, "Those don't even look like your feet." And they didn't. Strange feet aside, pregnancy was pretty much a glorious, princess-y experience (if you were going to be a kind of puffy princess). Delivery: also good (at least as good as pushing a piano out of your privates can be). Infancy: good, and when it was not good, it was hilarious, which has always been good enough for me. I can safely say there is no trauma that I fear repeating.

Maybe I fear the second one won't be as great. Maybe I am afraid my slightly more slack stomach will collapse into complete matronly squishiness. Maybe I like this precious, perfect life we have, balanced like a Jenga game on a windy day.

Whatever. I have my reasons. Don't give me a hard time. I am an only child, after all. As everyone knows, we are very defiant.

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.