They Weren't Kidding About Terrible

Describing this phase as "The Terrible Twos" is not a cliche — it's an understatement. Here is her rap sheet over the past few days:
• Frequent hitting, mostly of the mother
• Kicking, screaming, violent opposition to getting dresed
• Refusal to get into carseat
• Refusal to have diaper changed
• Refusal to sit in chair and eat
• Constant, yelled demands for food, different food, cold water, dropped items and generally "NO, NOT THAT!"

I know you're thinking, she's two, how can she win? We are bigger, we drive and unlock doors, WE ARE THE PARENTS. But we are losing. Yesterday something very bad happened, something I swore Jason to secrecy about and am deeply ashamed of, yet I cannot help but write about.

I spanked her.

Jason and I were trying to wrestle some clothes on her, and inexplicably, she was flailing and screaming. Maybe it is not inexplicable, maybe it was the fact that we were running late (we now have to add an extra 30 minutes to any departure process because multiple time-outs must be accounted for) and when we are running late, which we are a lot, Lu and I get into this stress spiral where she senses that I really want her to do something and she, naturally, does NOT want to do it. N-O-T not. She was thrashing her limbs, and I smacked her on the butt. And we all gasped. And I ran into the other room to give myself a time-out.

It was a truly horrible feeling, not because spanking is the very worst thing in the world, but because in that angry moment, spanking could have been...beating. I am sick over hitting her, because even that fairly benign smack flies in the face of all the things we are currently trying to teach her. Like, you know, don't hit people.

I went back into her room, where she was letting Jason dress her (a dismaying discovery: spanking works). I said, "Lucy, I'm sorry I hit you. I should not have done that." I gave her a hug and a kiss, and she seemed not to even know what I was talking about. Two-year-olds are more forgiving than their parents, it seems.

33 Years of Independence

Thirty three years ago today, my mom and dad were debating whether it was a good idea to go to the First Annual Willie Nelson Fourth of July Picnic. It was too hot, they decided, and my mom had a backache and was nine months pregnant. So they decided to skip the picnic and go to Brackenridge hospital and have a baby instead.

And I was born. Delivered by Dr. Bud Dryden, who was the mayor at the moment. Really he was the mayor pro-tem, but the mayor was out of town, so if you're not into specifics, I was delivered in the Capital of Texas on the Fourth of July by the mayor. Dr. Dryden was a medical school friend of my grandfather and uncles, a one-time mayoral candidate, long-time city council member and even longer-time community doctor. The emergency room at Brack is named for him, and the only thing he was more famous for than caring for Austin's poor was his gruff manner.

My parents had a bad car wreck and while my mom lay in a coma, Dr. Dryden noticed that the very tip of my mom's ear had been sheared off. "Dammit, Jim," he said to my dad, "I could have sewed that back on if you'd brought it in." My mom was fairly newly pregnant with me at the time of the wreck, and though she recovered and everything appeared to be okay, she still had a subdural hemotoma that Dr. Dryden was worried labor would disturb: they'd planned a C-section. So when my mom arrived at the hospital in pretty advanced labor, his response was, "Well, goddammit, Diane!"

I don't know the specifics of how they got me out (and neither does my mom, thanks to whatever good drugs they gave you in 1973 — and I don't mean the kind at the picnic), but the hematoma stayed where it was and I had all my fingers and toes. I am certainly getting some of the details of my birth wrong, and I am sure my mother will correct me in the comments section of this entry, but that's the basic outline as I know it.

Jason just distracted me from this post with a question about gestalt. I am not sure I understand what gestalt is in general or mine is in particular, but Willie Nelson is surely part of it. Willie Nelson and Bud Dryden, inextricable pieces of the pattern of elements started 33 years ago today.

Sweetest When Sleeping

The last time I saw Lucy today, she was lying face down, bare-assed and screaming on the bathroom floor. She and Jason were in a panty/pull-up conflict. Pull-up? NOOOOOOO, I WANNA WEAR PANTIES. Okay, panties? NOOOO, I WANNA WEAR A PULL-UP. Okay, let's get that pull-up on. (Note: "pull-ups" are misleading. Once a child is actually coordinated enough to get the pull-up...up by him/herself, the kid should not be soiling him/herself.) I attempted to kiss the pants-less beast goodbye ("NOOOOOO!"), then said to Jason, "Hey man, I'm getting off this crazy train. Vaya con dios."

And that, sadly, is the last I saw of her until about 9 tonight, when I came home from work and peeked in on her as she slept. She stirred in the sliver of light from the hall, poking up her diapered (yes!) butt, then rolling over to peer at me sleepily. "Goodnight, mama," she said, turning back over with her thumb in her mouth. It's funny how quickly I shift gears: is she lucky to be alive, or are we lucky to have her?

New Parenting Skills

Since I've had Lucy, I have learned to do a few new things:

Juggle. Both metaphorically and physically. I can catch almost anything you throw at me, especially if it is urp or plastic dishes.

Swear creatively. Pie and I went running on Sunday morning with Lu in tow, and I realized we were having an animated conversation with all the swear words spelled out. That is a real commitment to cursing.

Plan. I pack Lucy's lunch and set out her clothes the night before. I have a complex laundry cadence that has everything clean — including at least one Duck — by Tuesday morning before she starts the new school week.

Go without sleep. I know how cliched it is to talk about not sleeping, but I went from being a famously sound sleeper who needed her 8+ a day to...well, less than that. The sound of Lu sucking her thumb down the hall can awaken me. At which point I lie there and resent everyone who is asleep, while Jason proves his ability to snooze through hostile tossing and turning.

I am thinking I will list these things on my resume alongside "Proficient in Spanish" and "Working Knowledge of Microsoft Word."

Fish Dad

I was just reading Lu "Mister Seahorse," which is about a bunch of progressive underwater dads. Mr. Seahorse carries the seahorse babies in his belly, Mr. Tilapia hatches the tilapia eggs in his mouth, and Mr. Catfish swims around tending his little catfish brood. Maybe the moms are at the undersea spa. But wherever they are, they're lucky fish wives (who, I bet, never sound like fishwives because of the parenting contributions of their husbands).

Jason has always been a fish dad. He was the one who taught Lu how to sleep on her own. He is still the one who can calm her nuclear reactions. He's a generous partner and a gifted parent. I don't appreciate him as much as I should, but I did this weekend when he was in hanging out with Bill Clinton, and I was a single parent. I don't know how people do it by themselves — or without a partner like Jason. I am lucky I don't have to find out.

Add to the List of Things I Swore I'd Never Do/Be/Tolerate

My whole life, I have been disgusted by lost stickers. You know, the kind that stray from their proud places on notebooks and hands and lunchboxes and wind up on floors of restrooms or subway walls. Ignoble dehorned unicorns, who could be mere horses except no one ever made a sparkly purple horse sticker. Happy faces whose smiles have dimmed. Stars fallen from their galaxies of praise. All gummy and desperate. Ew.

I know that is a lot of prose to describe something so pedestrian, but this sticker thing grosses me out. And now I have them ALL OVER MY HOUSE, thanks to the sticker/praise system of potty training, which is iffy. So far, all we have to show for it is a series of soiled Elmo panties and lots of orphaned "Good Jo" and "ood Job" stickers in places I don't even want to think about, places I don't clean or look. Places you will most certainly consider after you have been at my house, when you find a strange "Kate Donaho, 5813 Highland Hills Drive, etc." sticker on the bottom of your shoe (did I mention Lu is satisfied with any kind of sticker and I have been tempted to put a postage stamp on her after a successful potty?). May you be as grossed out as I am next time you find one.

Point/Counterpoint

Today, before dropping Lu off at school:

BIG PERSON: "Let me wipe your nose. You have green boogers."
SMALL PERSON: "Nooo."
BP: "Dude, let me wipe your nose. Boogers are yucky."
SP: "No, Mom, boogers are yummy."
BP: "Um, boogers are yucky."
SP [shaking head earnestly]: "Boogers are yummy."
BP: "Yucky."
SP: "Yummy."
BP: "Yucky."
SP: "YUMMY!"
BP: "Okay, I give. Boogers are yummy."
SP [smug]: "Yep."

This Is Lucy's House

Lucy has been on vacation. We sent her and her little pink rolling suitcase off to El Paso (with Nini), where she spent four thrilling days with people who think she is a charming genius child, which she is when she is with them. According to Nini, when the plane took off and the houses and people got smaller and smaller, she likened it to Mr. Rogers' neighborhood and became convinced that Mr. Rogers lives in El Paso. "Mr. Rogers" even called her a few times while she was in El Paso, which gave Uncle Adam a chance to practice saying the phrase "Hi neighbor." We expect him to wear a cardigan from now on.

While Lucy was on vacation, we were on vacation. We ate lots of nice dinners in restaurants, splurging because we were saving the babysitting money. We slept until lazy hours like 8:30 and 9. We went to five different Target stores (don't ask) with only one almost tantrum. We were a little...bored. The expanse of free time yawned before us. The absence of chatter and bossing and PBS was deafening. Even the dogs, whose lives she ruined, seemed to sniff around looking for her.

We missed her and our house missed her. Granny has taught Lucy to play this game: as soon as we turn onto our street, Lucy starts asking, "Is this Lucy's house? Noooo. Is this Lucy's house?" And when she spies our house, she exclaims "THAT'S LUCY'S HOUSE!" as though she has snuck up on it. On the way home today, she was more excited than ever to see our house. "Here we are," she said, "we're home." I remember who were we before Lucy came into our lives, but this house feels like it was hers before she even got here. It's nice to have her home.