Somehow, here I am at the second trimester shaking my head and going,"What? Really?" I am slowly rejoining humanity after malaise we shall not speak of. I had our second midwife appointment on Wednesday. I am feeling much more confident with our decision to go with this practice. Unlike last time, I did a TON of research, looked at two birth centers, 3 hospitals, and a host of provider options. I went with the group that I pretty much thought I would, but I'm glad for my research.
We brought the hurricane that is Tavy since Freak wanted to hear the heart beat, and I wanted him there because I'm still not sure this is entirely real. Rather than giving you the boring stats, I will give you Tavy's running commentary since she did. not. stop. talking.
"Where Mama?"
"Mama on dat couch!"
"Mama NAKID!" (not really!)
"Mama where you clothes?"
"Mama need pants! Shoes!"
"I go Mama! Now!"
"I touch Mama hair!" (She was extremely distraught by me on the table. I think she might have been having flashbacks to my gallbladder surgery.)
"I see Mama belly!"
"I need lotion on MY belly!"
"Dat Mama baby in der!"
"Come out baby! Come out!"
"Mama need more lotion!"
"Baby do shaker! Shake, shake, shake!"
"Dat Mama baby!"
"I hears it!"
"Mama nakid!"
"I see mama under dat sheet!"
"Mama! You need clothes!" (plaintively from behind the screen)
"Mama all DONE!"
"I need Juice!"
"Mama! Here you pants! Shoes! Shirt! Now!"
"We go now!"
Needless to say, next appointment her royal highness will not be invited. And while I am sure that many, many children her age have happily attended births, I am pretty sure that the shy bean who took a long time to show us the heartbeat would not come out with Marvelous Marv Alberts toddler labor commentary.
Sorry for my lengthy absence. I have been "indisposed" as the Victorians would say, and "havin' hard time" as Tavy says. I am so incredibly grateful to be where I am when so many of my friends have had awful years reproductively speaking, and I am trying very hard to not publicly complain more than absolutely necessary to explain my low-functioning. However, I want to celebrate the new decade and how my daughter gives me laughter and hope for the future.
20 years ago, I watched 1990 role in with my parents. I was 12, and I might have conned the tiniest sip of champagne from my mother, but more likely there was eggnog and Dick Clark, and visions of a decade where I would spring my tiny town, head to college, and Big Things. Back then, Big Things included just the idea of a boy liking me. Even, so I had plans for my future homes and names for my future children of which there would be six. Or more.
10 years ago, I celebrated the new millennium with a sleepover with my brothers, my former partner, and two of his relatives. We watched Stanley Kubrick films, and law school was still a flicker of a new dream, my relationship with my beloved mother was a little rocky, entirely due to me, and I assumed that 2010 would bring financial success, emotional independence (I envisioned a future with little familial obligations), and a future of activism and high achievement. Kids weren't in that future and neither was writing.
Today, the three most important things in my life are my daughter, my family and friends, and my writing. I am a better person than I was 10 years ago, and I say that without vanity. I have been humbled again and again by this decade, and yet, my scars are mainly superficial now. My mother is my best friend again, the old relationship is a murky bad dream, and my husband is my partner. I have enduring friendships. We are broke, yet I am blessed beyond belief, and I live every day in awe of my imaginative toddler who has no idea that today is the dawning of a new decade. The world is her oyster.
I look to her, and I see a future trend maker. She got a kitchen for Christmas, and she is not limited to a world of chicken nuggets and salad. She makes "mushroom tea" and "roast water" and "oat me dinner" and "pizza pie" and "eggnog lettuce." She is not limited to a world of shirts and pants and dresses either. If she is an example, the next decade will be one of layers of imagination--jeans and sweatshirts under powder puff nightgowns with mama's "High Hee Shoe!" and an evening bag. Or three pairs of pants topped with a silk scarf cape, glittery head band, amber necklace, and three bracelets. Nudism is also a viable option for the future.
Like the generation before her, she is not constrained by old math and stodgy grammar. Her alphabet skips from g to p, and she speaks fluent text speak--no plurals or verbs needed when shorthand will suffice. Her math goes from 1-10, sometimes 11, but six is apparently not necessary.
In her world, Pizza is something that you wait to "load" because everything good comes from the computer and "loading time" is just a part of toddler life. Cell phones are the only phone she has known, and she envisions a world where you can speak into your wallet and order things up. "Helwo? Need Money! Ride horse now!" She tells me about her dreams--that we "go store! get bananas!" and "see my best friend L!" These things happen in cars, but she dreams of a world where transport is instantaneous and she can "Get Nanny right NOW!" Purchases arrive from "De Store! In Mail!" In the next decade, we will undoubtedly find her on eB@y as she already asks to see pictures of things we have told her are coming.
In the future, she will have a "Sister Brother" just like "Baby Can" from her favorite book, but she is more interested in robotics. She tries to teach Baby Baby to walk and to say "Taaaaaaavvyyyyy" and to express emotions like "Do Wah!" I half expect her to succeed. However, due to an off-hand, ill-timed comment, she knows that there is "Baby in Mama Belly" which will need "pants and underwear" after it "sleep 2 hour! Wake up! Come out!" Her grasp of reproduction will lead to great breakthroughs by 2030 I am sure. She recommends "Olib (Olive) Oil" as a baby name of the future.
By 2020, I am sure she plans to have "reeeel horse" and to have "Nanny and Grampy sleep my bed" and to "dribe dat car" and "chop! Wif reeel knife!" and to "do work now" as she orders her life to her whims. Like me, life will surprise her, change her, and humble her, but I hope above all else that she keeps her unbelievable intelligence as she truly is our future.
Time . . . it slips away from me, yet stalks me like a jealous mistress. Juggling home + increased teaching + a new book + toddler has me exhausted, but I don't want to neglect to document what an amazing age 25 months or so is even if I can't think of a cohesive narrative to do so.
I hired a middle school aged mother's helper (daughter of a friend) to come two afternoons a week as her schedule (and tolerance allows). Tavy was so excited to go pick her up for their first afternoon that when we arrived back home it was "See you, Mama!" while she introduced S to the wonders of her ball pit and had story after story read to her. The next day, I told her that S was coming again, and she raced downstairs and emerged with a plastic picnic basket that Clanna sent her eons ago and which has been largely ignored.
"Need Picnic for S!"
"Okay? What goes in the Picnic?"
"Juuuuuuice! And COOKIE! And CHIP! And CUP! And Knife!"
All but the last item got loaded up, and I got my Golden Heart entry for this year completed while I listened to the tea party going on in the living room. It was bliss. The only thing better than spending time with my child is watching others enjoy her too--she is just such a card, and I love sharing her personality with others.
Sometimes her own personality isn't enough for her--after S left, she had to pretend to be S. She wanted to "put shoe on" at the couch like S did, and she wanted me to give her "PEEPER with ABC" on it "NO LOOSE!" (S got paid in a check). Other times she pretends to be her friend L, " I L! Sing ABC! ABC! Need cheese! App-puh in box!" She only eats cheese when she is L. Other times she is her friend Infanta, and she is tiny baby: "WAH! Dadadadadadadadadaad WAH! Mama!" She needs to throw herself prostrate across my lap, and she need "SWEET-TUH." She only tolerates sweaters when she is Infanta. Or she is P--"Drink Milk! Ride RED Stroll-uh!" And then she is all her, "I NEED MY MAMA!"
She got S to play her favorite game with her which is where one of us draws what she tells us too--it's like Pictionary for the toddler crowd, and nothing makes her happier than dictating a scene: "Draw Matt! Draw Bus! Draw Daddy Car! Draw IE!!!!!!!!!! Draw Matt Bag!" I spend hours drawing babies, horses, Matt, and L, Infanta, and all her friends.
I love using S because I am letting Tavy have a little bit of TV at other times here and there, but I don't want to push that any further. She likes to sit on my lap and watch Sesame Street clips on youtube or Harold and the Purple Crayon on hulu, and Freak got her a Bernstein Bears DVD (She calls them the "Be Nice Bears!" which she loves, and she still does Little Bear. None of what she watches is particularly educational, but she is not much into the "edu-tainment" shows we have tried.
I have a high school aged girl who occasionally watches her at my school, but she has been busy with Track, so Tavy has spent some afternoons with L and her mother. We also go to "school" one day a week with L, and school has provided a new routine and a new basis for helping out around the house. (Around the house, I'm helping out! Helping out, Around the house--Thank you, Signing Time for that being stuck in my head). L is incredibly musical, so it is no wonder that Tavy associates her with all the school songs. "CLEAN-UP!" "GOOD MORNING TO L!"
She loves to make us sing the clean-up song over and over and over . . . . . She wants to do everything "ON OWN!" now. "ON OWN!" And now she is awake, so I will have to wait and write about how she cooks later.
I believe I am down to like 10 readers at this point due to my supreme shortcomings when it comes to updating, but I wanted to alert my loyal few to some changes.
I am moving my professional life to a different website. If you have been using my real name to reach Wavybrains, that's not going to work anymore, and you will be automatically redirected to the new site. (Which is FABOO!)
If you don't know my real name (it was on the banner until yesterday in 72 point type), but would like to follow my writing career, please send me an email. I won't be putting a link up between the two sites at this time, as I want to keep my ramblings about toddlers and pets somewhat on the down low. I've never wanted to be anonymous blogger, and that's not going to change; however, I wanted a more professional web presence to promote my writing career.
I also want to continue to use Wavybrains as a virtual baby book and navel gazing tool, and that part of my life needs to be a bit more insulated from my professional one. You are, of course, welcome to follow me in both places, and I look forward to sharing my journey to publication with you. The RSS feeds for Wavybrains are not changing, so you shouldn't have any worries if you have been reading me through a reader.
I've brought back the vintage Wavybrains header for the time being. However, I'm considering a possible move to wordpress in the very near future.
Thank you so much for your continue support!
Dear Small-Yet-Rapidly-Growing-Thing,
You will forgive us if we fail to offer our felicitations upon the occasion of your recent holiday. As we were banned to the basement during your party and left to forage for stray corn chex and crackers that purport to be fish yet aren't, we feel no guilt over our failure to select an appropriate gift. However, should you feel slighted, mouse season is rapidly approaching.
In the last two years, we have undergone a status change so dramatic that we now feel as welcome as Kanye West at any event with a microphone. While we do appreciate the fact that we have not had our annual poking and prodding in quite some time, we deeply mourn the loss of treats, surprise toys, little cans of yum, belly rubs, and regular brushing. You get to wake up secure in the knowledge that if a car trip is taken you will go. If a park is to be visited, you will be the (often sole) beneficiary. If fish is on the menu, your piece is guaranteed. You, my dear not-so-bald thing, are a usurper whom we have grudgingly come to tolerate. Your enthusiasm for us is rather touching, even if it does leave one's fur a bit . . . sticky.
We are heartened that you can say our names better and better and that you know that we are CAT and DOG with NAMES versus a entire species of Sit-Sit (heaven help us) and P-Y (not such a terrible idea). The Canine is easily appeased when you say "I lub Sit-Sit" and ask "Sit-Sit have hard time? Need Hug?" when she is doing that frantic notice me dance. As I have allowed any number of your small grubby acquaintances to lay on me and use me as a furry piece of play-dough, I require more than "I lub P-Y" to feel fully validated. However, all this benign neglect on the part of the large humans has allowed me to advance my education with endless hours immersed in Austen and Shakespeare, so I am not without gratitude. I do like that you have requested my presence in your sleeping chamber; however, this would be more than an empty gesture if the large ones did not bar my entry.
Despite all this, we had assumed that things were on an upswing. Clearly our optimism was misplaced. Things have taken a dire turn for the worst. As if we could possibly get any more unappreciated, you have tossed us over in favor of . . .
A HORSE!
Ye gods, the HORRORS. Several weeks ago, you came back from an outing (pet-less of course) talking about "HOR! HOR! HOR!" We assumed you meant that disgustingly fertile tabby down the street and moved on with our lives. However, when you started requesting "I RIDE HOR!!!" we knew the Apocalypse was near. You wanted a pony, and your humans are just the sort of weak-willed impulsive imbeciles to comply. After all, when you decided that you loved the carousel as part of HOR MANIA 2009, the large round human told He Who Shall Be Obeyed and that very evening, you were escorted for a special HOR outing wherein you got to ride the HOR several times in a row. Indulgent parents indeed.
We began to fear that an actual equine specimen might arrive in our midst. We discussed possible hay disruption tactics and saddle tampering operations. Stockpiles were laid in advance of a HOR of a Winter. Your HOR grew to mythical proportions. "Only one cookie for Tavy!" "O-Tay. Cookie HOR?" "Where's your belly button?" "HOR have button?" "HOR eat RYE-CHEX?" "HOR have Mama?"
So when your joyous holiday arrived (you will note that neither of US has a footnote in a day-planner let alone what appears to be a month long orgy of "PRIZE! Happy day? HAPPY DAY!" for you. No we are not bitter), we were dismayed but not surprised when discussions of horse trading occupied the large humans. Perhaps it would be a friendly specimen, preferably one with an affinity for cats. Perhaps it would be a horse whisperer and could tame my loyal canine fool. One could dream.
The large human was dispatched to the south. That-which-conveys-us-to-the-vet was cleaned out. . Perhaps a pygmy horse was located?
No, this was much, much worse.
A cold, DEAD, hardened HOR was brought in. It creaks. It bounces unpredictably. It lacks any sort of area for lounging. It sits upon mats that are NOT FOR MINGY. It provides entertainment for still more of your little friends. "YOLA ride HOR? YOLA mama ride HOR?" You give it kisses. You attempt to feed it choice morsels of food. You cover it with blankets. Where's OUR blanket? You request its presence in other rooms.
And, you ask for "REEL HOR! EAT HAY!" Oh, heaven help us. Are there MORE HOR in our future?
This. Must. Stop.
You are a cat human. You are (regrettably) a dog human. It is acceptable that you have all those pillow-like animal facsimiles that are NOT FOR MINGY. It is tolerable that you are obsessed with a bear, but he is just a little bear, and the round human has made it clear that you will NOT be getting a bear. At least she does have A limit, even she allows you milk with HONNNEEE as a conciliation prize.
You are not some common cow wrangler. Annie Oakley you are not (Calamity Jane perhaps. Also, see how all that literature time has paid off?) You will NOT get REEL HOR. You will ban the lifeless HOR at once. You will drop your imaginary HOR friend. "HOR do it!" is not an acceptable excuse.
NO MORE HOR!
Signed,
Your long suffering pets and charter members of Domesticated (at least one of us) Citizens Against HOR.
Happy Second Birthday to my gorgeous, smart, amazing girl!
You were born at 2:40 p.m. two years ago. This afternoon at 2:30, you hopped off my lap (Mama was praying for nap time) and rustled under your bed for several moments before you emerged triumphant with the quilt that the nurses at the hospital gave me when I had you.
I hadn't seen that gorgeous quilt in several months, and it's never been one of your particular favorites, but you snuggled up in it, whispered "Happy Day," and were asleep by 2:40 p.m. I was planning on putting that quilt on your wall, but now I think I'll let you sleep with it instead.
Two years ago, I gave birth to a dream, and today, you are my whole world, my reality, my everything. And I could gush, but you were having enough of me kissing and squishing you earlier, so instead I will just say, "HAPPY DAY!!!!"
Dear Future Grandchildren,
There will come a time when your mother will look right at you and say, "I hope you end up with a child just like you!" I'm writing to tell you that that time is 23 months. As you approach your second birthday, your poor mother with no hair, stubs for fingernails, and bite marks in unmentionable places, will weep with gratitude for your wonderfulness as she wishes for you too to know the pleasure of a child just like YOU.
I'm pretty sure that this is when your mother will call me (or buzz me through her tooth transponder or whatever we have 30 years from now) and demand that I come move in. I know because I have called Clanna every night for the last week asking her when she is coming and asking how young is too young to send a minor on an aircraft unaccompanied?
And I will laugh, and I will move heaven and earth to help her because LORDY will I remember. And then, I will remind her that you are merely intoxicated on the freedom that being almost two brings. And I will listen to all the crazy stories of the things you do, just as my mother listened to me. And while your mother goes and floats in a vat of chocolate sauce with a romance novel on a microchip, I will tell you all about a little girl named Tavy and the things she would say and do at 23 months:
She would sit and practice tantrums by happily chanting, "No, Mama! No Dada! No! No! No! Why? Where? What dat? Why? No! No! No DAT ONE! No! DIS ONE! NO!" Until one day, she said, "No MAMA!" and meant it. And then she would say no, even when she meant yes! Oh, how she loved to say no!
But she also loved to say EVERYTHING. She would repeat everything we said, even somethings we didn't want! She would even try hard things like "Rubber Baby Buggy Bumpers!" When we didn't understand something, she would say it over and over, louder and louder trying to help us speak Tavy-ese. She practiced sentences all day long and made us laugh and laugh.
Of course, sometimes she got really, really, really mad when we couldn't understand her, and then she would kick, and scream, and cry, and sometimes even bite her Mama. She could give the best hugs and kisses, and she always said, "I sorry! I sorry!" However, she wanted everyone to LISTEN to her ALL THE TIME.
She also wanted to climb and run ALL THE TIME. One time she climbed up to the top shelf of her toy box and said, "Help, please!" We would take her to the park, and she would run and run and run. She ignored the equipment--she just wanted to run. She never looked back to see if we were following--she just wanted to be free.
So, we helped her out by taking down the baby gates at home, but it was TOO MUCH freedom, and she asked Mama to "shut de GEET!" She went up and down and up and down and up and down the stairs. She spun round and round and round and round in big circles, little circles, and figure eights. She made herself laugh and laugh.
She learned to unscrew caps and open jars. One night she managed to open a HUGE jar of pepper and sprinkled it in the kitchen saying, "Sand! Sand! Sand!" Then while her mama tried to clean it up, she stuck her fist in her mouth, but she had pepper on it! Ooooooooooh, how she cried (don't try that one!). That SAME NIGHT, she unscrewed the top to the vanilla bottle and poured it into ice cube trays while her mama made cookies amid slowly loosing her mind.
She liked to shut her little plastic ducks up inside the metal vegetable steamer while saying, "Open! Shut! Inside! Outside!" as she practiced for more evasive maneuvers. She learned how to use the potty quite well, but we had to stop her from trying to clean it! She took the toilet brush and tried to clean the whole bathroom, but knew enough to demand, "Mama WIPE! Mama WIPE UP!"
She started to learn her colors, and this could be funny. At first, she thought everything was blue, and when corrected, she said, "DIS BLUE SHIRT RED!" Then she learned black, and would only ride in Daddy's black car and only wanted black shoes on her new doll. She loved to color with markers, but her favorite canvas was her body. She loved to tattoo herself, but she would also come up to her Mama and say, "I draw Dada!" and they would draw a picture for her daddy. This was usually a grand idea, but then there was the day that Mama allowed finger-painting in her clean kitchen and somehow finger-paints ended up spilled EVERYWHERE, but we don't speak of that evening except to say, "Well at least she brought Mama a wipe!"
She liked to pretend to be tiny baby and would crawl and say "WAH! WAH!" and ask for ba-ba or want to pretend to nurse. She liked to pretend to be Little Bear and would practice words that he uses like "Almost! Maybe! HONEY! HON-EEE! Huckleberry Pie!" She would ask for milk and HON-EE and laugh and laugh. One time, she pretended she was an apple and climbed into the produce box! She liked fruit so much, she wanted to eat ONLY fruit and would get so mad when there was no more!
She liked to fetch us our shoes, and she could even bring Daddy a shirt or socks from his bin. Sometimes she would bring us things we didn't quite want like trash or pieces of mail that she opened. But, when she had something naughty, she didn't want to be caught. She learned to ditch the contraband right before her Mama caught her and then run the other way, so that the Mama had to choose between scooping up the baby or going after the loot. Her favorite get away run was to Mama's bed, and she would jump and giggle. She taught herself to somersault on the bed!
She also taught herself to not sleep. She took longer and longer to fall asleep, and sometimes she wanted Mama to rock her in the rocking chair, while she rode in Mama's sling, just like Tiny Baby. Mama's heart melted when she started taking Mama's slings to ni-ni with her. But then, she started taking 30 minute naps. One week, 42 minutes was her record nap length. Her Mama was convinced this was an act of war, but really, it was just HER being HER.
Wonderful, amazing, frustrating, joyous, genius, headstrong, confident, clingy, needy, loud, loving, surprising, delightful, exhausting HER.
And I hope that YOU are just like her.
Love,
Me
Clearly, I need help with my basic math skills:
Time spent researching cheap, fun, toddler art ideas: A few hours
Time spent stirring up a giant batch of finger paint for a toddler art play date: 1.5 hours
Time spent driving to play date and setting up play date: 30 minutes
Actual time that my toddler spent painting: 2 minutes (the record time spent painting was 10 minutes by a 3 year old future Picasso).
Time spent picking up Uncle Nanny from the bus: 5 minutes
Time toddler was entertained: 3 hours
Time required to clean kitchen: 1.5 hours
Time spent mixing a batch of playdough for toddler to use in her high chair: 20 minutes
Time spent demonstrating dough to toddler and assuring her that it is NOT "dirty dough!": 30 minutes
Dishes added to sink: 1 pot, 1 spoon, and a half dozen odd items used to "enhance" the dough experience
Actual kitchen cleaning time gained: 15 minutes. Tops.
Time required to drag big plastic tub into center of kitchen and filling it with soapy water and inserting toddler: 5 minutes
Actual kitchen cleaning time gained: 40 minutes
Time required to insert "Little Bear" DVD into DVD player: 2 minutes(dusting off TV and DVD player and finding plugs included)
Timne required for snacks and potty breaks: 10 minutes
Actual cleaning time gained: 1.5 hours
Time spent preparing a "toddler bento box" lunch: 20 minutes
Dishes dirty: 4
Actual morsels of food eaten: 3
Time spent handing toddler box of blackberries: 5 seconds
Actual morsels of food eaten: 1 pint blackberries
Time spent going to library to pick out new books: 1 hour
Time spent reading new books: 10 minutes
Time spent re-reading "Little Bear": 99999 zillion hours
Time required for Mama to get toddler to nap: 1.5 hours
Actual time napped: 47 minutes
Time required for Daddy to get toddler to nap: 5 minutes
Actual time napped: 3 hours
Time spent changing diapers: Roughly 10 minutes, 10-12 times a day
Time hoped to be gained by potty training: Loads? Right? At least one hour?
Time spent asking about potty, taking to potty, cleaning potty, waiting for potty, waiting for potty some more, talking about potty, changing into new underwear: Roughly 9 hours a day. Give or Take. Or 45 minutes of each waking hour if you prefer new math.
