The Expanding Universe

When I remember Lu's tiny babyhood, the recollections have a glow around them. Perhaps the glow of all the late-night television I watched while I nursed and paced and nursed and paced. Or the fog of not enough sleep. Whatever light I cast those memories in, they contain just the two of us: a newborn baby and newborn mama learning how to be in the world.

She is two now, and her world is way bigger than just me. She told me today in the car on the way to school, "I love my friends, Mama," then named all these strangers, the first of so many she will know and love beyond me. I had a sad, territorial feeling about it. The kind of feeling that makes mommies into weird and smothering creatures who need to be discussed in therapy.

The realization that she had "friends" was nothing compared to the total rejection I'd been experiencing over the past few weeks when she ONLY wanted Jason. I picked her up at school one day last week and she greeted me with, "I need my dad." She was not even content to let me make her cereal, the ingrateful little Electra. I pushed you out of my vagina...for this kind of treatment?

After a weekend away snowboarding, I am back in her favor. Me and broccoli. Last night, while Jason was working late, I fed her and got her ready for bed without so much as a mention of Dad. She snuggled onto my lap while we read Babar's Museum of Art, which has all these funny reproductions of major works of art featuring elephants instead of people. She pointed to the elephant version of Mary Cassatt's "Mother and Child" and said, "That's a baby and a mama." Then she lay her head on my chest and, thumb in mouth, said, "You're my mama." And the big cosmic view narrowed to our little world. A baby and a mama, if just for the moment.

"I want to wear a different shirt, Mama."

That is a complete sentence, uttered today. With a pronoun and an opinion. Her sentences are clear enough now that I can practically hear the punctuation.

For a while it was like the island of Elba at our house. This little Napoleon had come here to rule us, only we spoke mostly Italian and she spoke French. Lots of demanding, babyish French. We understood her tone and angry gesturing more than her actual words. And we did whatever she wanted because even though she was small, we were afraid of her. Like those poor people on the island of Elba.

And then, right around 15 months, her words became clear and her vocabulary large (mostly nouns and a few swear words). It was amazing. The list I was keeping topped out at about 225, and that was months ago. But, meh, just a list of words, right? Now we have...sentences. Logic. Memory. Concepts. Personhood! It is amazing what animals these babies remain to us until we can see the connections they are forming. As in recently when a stoplight changed, but I failed to notice because I was putting on lipstick in the rearview mirror. "Green means go, Mama." Backseat freaking driving means you are a PERSON.

The New New School

Did I mention that we had to change schools — again — because we found out that they were regularly letting the kids watch TV? Up to 40 minutes a day, to occupy them during transition times like going potty and making lunch. Which is not evil or anything, and is, in fact, exactly how we use television. But I am not a professional. I am a parent.

The Old New School neither hid nor volunteered this detail. And of course, I did not ask about because TV was such anathema to my idea of school (unless you count the obligatory after-school specials in health class and that one time we watched "Gandhi" in the fifth grade and I was the only kid who stayed awake to watch it. Just me and Mrs. Green, weeping at the end).

For those of you keeping track, the Old New School was the one we had originally rejected because we thought it was too rigid, and we'd heard a rumor they wouldn't let the kids watch any TV at home. Ha! Those kids probably know what languages they speak in Canada from watching reruns of "You Can't Do That on Television."

We'd only ended up there because they called us and had an earlier opening, and it was good timing and convenient, and ultimately...crappy. After much hysteria and contemplation (thank you to Mary Ellen and everyone else I called up to affirm my gut feeling), we decided to change Lu to yet another school — the Original New School, the kinder, gentler school — after only 10 days.

She might someday be talking to her shrink about those two worst weeks of her young life. But in the meantime she is in the New New Schoool, a very sweet little Montessori joint where she is learning a lot. Like how the sun is not a planet. And the days of the week in Spanish. And to stand in line with her hands clasped patiently behind her back (sounds fascist, but is cute, I swear). All without the help of TV.

Negotiations: Act One

"Lucy, if you want to go bye-bye, you have to put pants on."
"Nooo-wa."
"Can you please help Daddy? Please let me put your pants on."
"FFtttt. Nooo."
"Okay, then we'll stay here."
"NO, GO BYE BYE."
"Well, you have to help me put your pants on."
[Momentary quiet as pants go on]
"Okay, now we have to put your shoes on."
"NO BLACK SHOES. BIG GIRL SHOES."
"Those are sandals. It's too cold to wear sandals."
"BIG GIRL SHOES. BIG GIRLS SHOOOOOOOES."
"Do you need a timeout, Lucy?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, sit in this chair."
"Waaaah."
[Door closes.]
"I'm a bad father."
[Muffled wailing. Banging on door.]
[Sandals being banged on door.]
[Alternate pleas for Mama, Daddy and Shoes.]

Fade to shot of defeated, snotty child wearing shoes, not sandals, accompanied by triumphant father, complimenting child on her lovely shoes.

SCENE

An Open Letter to St. Luke's

St. Luke's parents and friends,

We didn't want to leave Lucy with anyone — ever — last November. We were fortunate enough to hold off the big childcare decision until she was eight months old, but it still felt huge to leave that bald baby girl in the hands of strangers.

They didn't remain strangers for long. In almost no time, we could call the Center and say "This is Kate" or "Hi, it's Jason" and get a full report on how much Lucy had eaten, pooped, played and cried. From whomever happened to answer the phone!

It's a magic place, St. Luke's. If she could have stayed forever, we would have happily sent her straight from St. Luke's to college. Alas, there are greater subjects than waterplay, fingerpaint and scarves in which to major. But she learned a lot of big lessons that will serve her well into graduate school:
--Be sweet (hugs, gentle touches and big sloppy kisses are very effective).
--Rocks are for hands and pockets (adult rock-eaters are often shunned).
--Sit on your bottom when you eat (you could choke, for heaven's sake).
--Use your words (the kid could stand to user fewer, frankly).

We have moved on, grudgingly. But I am convinced no other group of teachers would have been so nurturing...and so understanding of Lu's idiosyncracies (bad napper, constant talker, inappropriate snacker). I have learned more from them than an entire nightstand of pop-psych baby-raising advice. The love of the teachers and the supportive community of families — all striving and scrapping to raise loved babies — will remain with us forever.

To quote Lu: "Please, thank you, yeah, sure, you're welcome, I love you,"
Kate and Jason
(political ad paid for Lucy Sugawa for Mayor campaign)

The New School

Lucy is going to start Montessori school next Wednesday. Full time. I am sad to think of her spending more waking hours with strangers than with us, but it does make me feel good to think that those strangers will be teaching her things like math and brass polishing. Apparently brass polishing is considered a "life skill" in Montessori. Is this really vocational school for housekeepers, rather than the academic fast track I had hoped for?

We took her to visit the school today, so next Wednesday would be easier for her. Or us. She wasn't crazy about the Music Man (bearded dude with guitar), but she did seem interested in the Montessori puzzles. And the playground? She's freaking expert at playground. So when I told her it was time to leave, she looked up at me casually and said, "Bye, Mama," as though she fully hoped we would just leave her there, right then. Glad we made it easier on her.

Someone's in the Kitchen with Lucy

Cooking is productive. The thing to do when you're stewing about something? Stew something. Or bake it or braise it or roast it. Cook the food into submission, and exhibit a level of control over ingredients that you don't have over your own life.

Or your own nearly two-year-old. I won't continue my griping about Lu, but the kid is running this joint like Margaret Thatcher with a slightly better haircut. Iron Lu is exhausting. She entertains herself creatively — magnificently. Until the precise moment she stops wanting to do whatever it is she is doing. HARD STOP. This activity is dead to us. We hate it. Damn blocks. We never liked these blocks. Banish them. Cast them from our sight. We're done, just like that.

So, as Lu approaches the Terrible Twos (I shudder to imagine the molten fury that will erupt from her skull come March 12), and work-related stress mounts, and house chores pile up accusingly around us, my solution is...cook. We need to eat, don't we? Cooking is the perfect stalling task — necessary, creative, repetitive, productive. In two days, I have made salmon with tomato vinaigrette, two variations of roasted asparagus, an unfortunate chocolate gingerbread, braised chicken in tomato sauce with olives, lemon garlic spaghettini, peanut butter cookies, a crude capellini alfredo and the jewel in my culinary crown: cheddar apple muffins.

Sure, the muffins themselves were indecisive and dense, but their key ingredient? Enthusiasm. Lu stood on a stool and mixed the batter herself, earnestly dumping ingredients and whisking it all together — with some help from Chef Mom, but I eventually gave in to cries of "No, MY mussins! Lucy do it!" After I settled into the role of sous chef, we got the batter into the pan, watched them cook with great anticipation ("Mussins cooking? Hot?"), took them out of the oven and...lost interest. Lu, like her mother, hates the food once she has cooked it.

Today her snack tray from school was, as always, nearly as full as when we prepared it. Lu is way too busy running things at school to eat. There are people to SEE, problems to SOLVE, sticks to GATHER. So when I opened her snack tray, it appeared she had eaten nothing as usual. But upon closer inspection the muffins were gone. She even asked for more on the way home. "Lucy mussins? Lucy and Mama mussins?"

There are like 8 mussins left. Come and have one. Even though they taste kind of weird, I promise they will make you smile.

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.