We have tried to limit her gum chewing to one piece (sugarless) per day. At that rate, she will need 5 months to chew all the gum she received for her birthday (thanks, Michelle, for the ENTIRE SACK OF GUM). But she still hung her head in the trash can and cried on Sunday when I made her spit her gum out so she could eat dinner. I'm like, "DUDE, you have 350 other pieces of gum."
Four
Lu turned four today. When I was around her age, I have memories of thinking, "Why are all these old people always talking about how big I am? Why does Aunt Nita have a beard?" But I remember little else. The me that existed 30 years ago is gone, and someday this Lu will be gone. Here are some things I know about her right now:
• Her favorite color is pink. And red. And yellow. And blue. And purple.
• When she passes gas, she blames it on other people. Dad. The dog. Duck.
• She's sneaky. For now, we are interpreting this as a sign of high intelligence.
• She knows how to use a computer. And an iPhone. And a digital camera.
• When she plays make-believe, she assigns foreign-sounding names to everyone. She also has a dog named "Challenging." And she explained to Jason that "ingenious" is the French word for "pretty."
• She can add and subtract.
• She loves to draw and cut and glue things, then use tape to stick them on the wall. Throughout the house, at Lu level, her artwork is displayed.
• Right before she falls asleep, she sucks her thumb furiously and twirls Duck in the air on the other hand.
"A Lot Of Princesses Holding Hands"
She erased this mere minutes after I took the photo. Alas, art is fleeting.
Nearer My Dog to Thee
Clifford was always a little crazy, but he is becoming more neurotic by the day. He follows us around the house: "Do you love me now? Do you love me now? How about now?" He is a legendary digger (we'd get calls from the neighbors at our old house saying, "Clifford's got his head stuck under the fence again."). But lately he's been digging IN the house, rooting through closets and messing up furniture. And when he's left outside unwatched for more than one minute, he immediately digs under the fence to run...to the back door. To be with us again. ("How about now? Do you love me now?). He did it today while I was on the phone with Chad, appearing at the back door after a slog through the muddy flower bed. From one angle, he looked like a brown dog.
Stricken by sudden-onset separation anxiety at the age of 9, he desperately wants to be with us every single moment. He sleeps in Lucy's room, or he scratches on our bedroom door to be let in just to put his nose on my hand. The poor dog needs anti-anxiety meds. Or therapy. Or maybe a walk.
Tired
I have been in Dallas since Sunday night having lots of meetings. And, as empty as that might sound, these have been four of the most productive days of my career. But I am tired. I am tired in my smile, my handshake, my knees, my butt, my BRAIN (the listening, feeling, strategizing, politicking, small-talking, LOVE ME/PICK ME regions of the brain). I list between bold confidence and paralytic insecurity. I feel like I have spent four days running for office.
Oh, and I am supposed to be in Philly, but it is snowing in Dallas. IN MARCH. And the people I love are in Austin.
ON THE PHONE
Lucy hates to talk on the phone. She must get that from me. When she does deign to grace me with her voice, she does it in all caps.
"HI, MOM. YOU'RE IN DALLAS? UM, TODAY I'M GOING TO GET PICKED UP BY ALEX'S MOM EARLY AND HAVE A PLAY DATE. I MISS YOU. UM, ARE YOU BRINGING ME A GIFT? I LOVE YOU, BYE."
Like a Sailor
I am walking through the house with Cass, the architect, discussing paint and flooring. Jason is in the other room, discussing whether or not Lu is going to watch TV.
Lu, losing the argument, says loudly, "Dammit!"
Cass and I freeze. I hear silence from Jason in the other room. Cass and I squelch laughter. Jason, collecting himself, stands firm in his anti-TV position (and wins, I should note), without acknowledging the cuss word.
So, um, we have a swearing problem at our house. As much as I'd like to think she learned it from those thugs at school, I am pretty sure she learned it from me. We need some kind of strategy for correcting her, except for the part where we can't stop laughing. It's funny. Dammit.
Thriller Still Thrills Me
Michael Jackson. Michael. Jackson. Take a moment to remember how great he was before he completely lost his mind. When I was ten years old, I listened to my "Thriller" tape so much I wore it out. I was moved by the music — physically moved. I won't describe the moves themselves, just know that I not only had visions of breaking it down in the cafeteria of Berkman Elementary, I had actual routines (which were, mercifully, never performed).
There is a seminal piece of music in Lu's future. One that will define how she relates to the world, shake off her parents' taste and stake her own musical territory. It's just not as good as this one.
Instant Message Between Parents
Idle Parenting
Lucy does not take ballet or judo. She does not have playdates. We do not do enriching activities. She goes to school and comes home and plays quietly by herself for hours at a time. We ignore her until she invites us to participate ("Mom, sit here. You're in my class. Don't talk, just listen."). This just-getting-by school of parenting, like so many things in my life, is a tremendous source of guilt. But today, a friend at work sent me this article, and I feel liberated. The author makes a strong case for leaving kids alone, arguing that the neglect of their developing minds helps them, uh, develop. On their own.
So far, so good. I am proud to report that Lucy has never once said to me, "I'm bored."