The Pie turned 3 this week. I’m not sure how it’s possible because it was only a couple of days ago that she left my body and made my world all sparkly! At least that’s how it seems to me. The first three years of her life have passed in hyperspeed – and that’s probably due more to her high-speed little self than anything else – and I know I will soon wake up to discover a that a prepubescent beastie lives in my house.
Following a conversation with a good friend, I started thinking about all the transformations that have taken place in my life in the past three years. For the most part, I think the differences between then and now are significantly positive, but there are might be a couple that I could have lived my whole life without experiencing. But if it meant not having my daughter, then I would do them all a hundred times over.
What follows is a list of those changes.
1. I have touched things I never imagined touching – dead mice, spiders, poop
2. I fear different things now. It used to be trivial, mindless worry, but now I am consumed with her safety, her health, her well-being.
3. My heart breaks so much more easily than before.
4. I feel her pain more than my own.
5. There is a person on the planet who becomes giddily excited when I enter a room.
6. I don’t sleep nearly as much or as soundly.
7. I have discovered that there is no such thing as a leisurely shower.
8. I watch cartoons.
9. I never have a clean house or finished laundry.
10. I actually become excited about someone else’s bodily functions (tooting, pooping, etc.)
11. I actually read labels now.
12. I don’t watch the news anymore. As a mother, it’s too depressing and frightening.
13. I discovered I am smarter than I thought I was. Coming up with explanations for all the “whys” makes me really work my brain!
14. My sense of wonder that I had as a child has returned.
15. My heart now walks around (runs around) outside my body.
16. I don’t think about myself – I think of her – constantly.
17. Although I own a queen-sized bed, I usually only use about 18 inches of it.
18. I stopped coloring my hair. Clairol stock probably plummeted!
19. I don’t buy the expensive make-up anymore – because if I can wear the cheap stuff, so can she!
20. The only thing I read these days is the directions for putting a toy together.
21. I attend tea parties – with TinkerBell and Raggedy Ann as guests.
22. I have developed an intense dislike for Play-Doh. Don’t get me started…
23. Balloons are not nearly as fun for me as they used to be (see previous blog entry on balloon hating)
24. I no longer have any interest – or time, or energy – in dating
25. I have a new name….just call me Mama.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Power of Prayer
Hallelujah! Let us rejoice and be glad that Kate Gosselin has been cast out of our television and admonished, according to the gospel of Dancing with the Stars, Season 10, Week Five: “Thou hast befouled American family television, so out with thee, into the vast abyss and reside forever in the ninth circle of Hell!” Can I get an Amen?
We have been cleansed, people! Washed clean of the sour puss of hatred, we can forge ahead in unison to enjoy Dancing with the Stars once again. Our prayers have been answered, God is good and we have been saved!
Saved, I tell you, from the wrath of the one who bore eight. Snatched from the jowls of the beast, whose evil strolling to music served simply to assault our senses. Join me, disciples of all that is holy and look to the Heavens once again; pray to vanquish the one who bestows roses upon unsuspecting women.
Amen!
We have been cleansed, people! Washed clean of the sour puss of hatred, we can forge ahead in unison to enjoy Dancing with the Stars once again. Our prayers have been answered, God is good and we have been saved!
Saved, I tell you, from the wrath of the one who bore eight. Snatched from the jowls of the beast, whose evil strolling to music served simply to assault our senses. Join me, disciples of all that is holy and look to the Heavens once again; pray to vanquish the one who bestows roses upon unsuspecting women.
Amen!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Get Caught Up!
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Thanks!
Thanks!
Balloon Hatred
I hate balloons. There was a time when I actually liked them; I found them cheerful and festive in an innocuous way. It was entertaining how these little orbs of air and latex bounced around, ricocheting from one object to another. On a few occasions, I actually filled them with water and tossed them from a 3rd floor window. (Don’t tell anyone…) So, I remember a time when balloons and I got along pretty well. That was before I became a mother.
Now, I worry about balloons. Not just worry…I actually HATE balloons. They have evolved into insidious little beasties that toy with the affections of my darling child; they cause emotions to spin out of control and possess the potential to kill. And the Pie acts as if she cannot live without one when we stroll through any establishment that has utilized balloons as decoration. Our trip to the store quickly disintegrates into a power struggle when I say, “No, you cannot have a balloon today.” Ugliness typically ensues…then I say, “Okay, you can have a balloon.” (A tip to the employees of those establishments: DO NOT offer my child a balloon without my permission. That’s just mean.)
Oh, the joy the spreads instantly! Radiating from those sapphire eyes, pleasure that cannot be contained is cast far and wide. Her little face squinches up with glee and her sparkling smile gleams brighter than the sun. I love to make my daughter that happy – in fact, I LIVE for it. Then I must be hyper vigilant to guard against loss or damage to the ecstasy sphere. I repeat like a mantra, “Don’t let go….don’t let go…don’t let go…” I sometimes wonder if I’m talking to the Pie or to myself. So in her effort to not release the balloon, she starts to bite it. She likes the sound her teeth make when they meet the expanded latex. Ick! Anyway, I suddenly can’t tear my eyes from her, waiting for the balloon to pop, scare her and be sucked into her windpipe, choking the life from her. As a lesson in compromise, I cajole the Pie into tying the balloon to her wrist. I can relax for a few minutes as we finish shopping, check out and load up the car. Then we take the balloon home.
The life expectancy of a balloon is brief, my friends. A two year old cannot conceive that nothing lasts forever. She expects her precious little ball of air to still be tethered to the end of her bed when she wakes in the morning. What she does not expect to find is a soft, shriveled squishy-ball lying dejectedly at the foot of her bed. And, folks, Mommy doesn’t appreciate something that looks like an old man’s testicle furtively nestled against her daughter. As she opens her eyes, she looks up into thin air. As she lowers her chunky little legs from her toddler bed, she steps on the object that less than 24 hours before filled her with delight. Her revulsion is evident in her squeals, which quickly melt into tears. “Where boon, go, Mama?” Oh, dear. She is saddened by the loss of her joyful little friend and I get to formulate a scheme to get the tiny bloated sac into the trash can without her knowledge. I’ll bet I spend a third of my waking hours disposing of the bodies of various toys and other items that are no longer appropriate for her to play with. I feel a bit like a hit man!
So watch out, balloons…don’t piss me off! I can poke a hole in you so fast, it will make you dizzy!
Now, I worry about balloons. Not just worry…I actually HATE balloons. They have evolved into insidious little beasties that toy with the affections of my darling child; they cause emotions to spin out of control and possess the potential to kill. And the Pie acts as if she cannot live without one when we stroll through any establishment that has utilized balloons as decoration. Our trip to the store quickly disintegrates into a power struggle when I say, “No, you cannot have a balloon today.” Ugliness typically ensues…then I say, “Okay, you can have a balloon.” (A tip to the employees of those establishments: DO NOT offer my child a balloon without my permission. That’s just mean.)
Oh, the joy the spreads instantly! Radiating from those sapphire eyes, pleasure that cannot be contained is cast far and wide. Her little face squinches up with glee and her sparkling smile gleams brighter than the sun. I love to make my daughter that happy – in fact, I LIVE for it. Then I must be hyper vigilant to guard against loss or damage to the ecstasy sphere. I repeat like a mantra, “Don’t let go….don’t let go…don’t let go…” I sometimes wonder if I’m talking to the Pie or to myself. So in her effort to not release the balloon, she starts to bite it. She likes the sound her teeth make when they meet the expanded latex. Ick! Anyway, I suddenly can’t tear my eyes from her, waiting for the balloon to pop, scare her and be sucked into her windpipe, choking the life from her. As a lesson in compromise, I cajole the Pie into tying the balloon to her wrist. I can relax for a few minutes as we finish shopping, check out and load up the car. Then we take the balloon home.
The life expectancy of a balloon is brief, my friends. A two year old cannot conceive that nothing lasts forever. She expects her precious little ball of air to still be tethered to the end of her bed when she wakes in the morning. What she does not expect to find is a soft, shriveled squishy-ball lying dejectedly at the foot of her bed. And, folks, Mommy doesn’t appreciate something that looks like an old man’s testicle furtively nestled against her daughter. As she opens her eyes, she looks up into thin air. As she lowers her chunky little legs from her toddler bed, she steps on the object that less than 24 hours before filled her with delight. Her revulsion is evident in her squeals, which quickly melt into tears. “Where boon, go, Mama?” Oh, dear. She is saddened by the loss of her joyful little friend and I get to formulate a scheme to get the tiny bloated sac into the trash can without her knowledge. I’ll bet I spend a third of my waking hours disposing of the bodies of various toys and other items that are no longer appropriate for her to play with. I feel a bit like a hit man!
So watch out, balloons…don’t piss me off! I can poke a hole in you so fast, it will make you dizzy!
Whoopsie
I was adding previous blog posts and realized I was doing them backwards.
Please bear with me during this time of de-/re-construction.
thanks ever so much
Please bear with me during this time of de-/re-construction.
thanks ever so much
Shortly before the Christmas holiday, during a stroll through a superstore, I glimpsed what I thought would make the perfect gift for the Pie: A Barbie Kid-Tough Tricycle. The two shades of pink and purple hypnotized me into believing that my daughter simply could not exist without it. And it was on sale – so I bought it and hid it in the laundry room closet.
On Christmas Eve, while my daughter slept snuggled with her dolly and stuffed Curious George dolls, I snuck into the laundry room to assemble the glorious trike. As the pieces emerged from the box, I began to worry that I had undertaken a strictly masculine task and that my lack of a penis would surely inhibit my completion of said task. Before me lay the following: a straight axle, wheel hubs, pedal axle, nut caps (which sound to me like something men need in the winter), bushings (I’ll leave that one alone), fork arms, a seat unit and handlebar assembly. I recognized each of these words, but not how they were applied to the detritus that scattered my laundry room floor. So rather than freeze to death or end up throwing a nut cap through the window, I replaced all the items into the box and returned it to its hiding place in the closet. I was beaten and I knew it. It would have to wait until her birthday…or maybe next Christmas.
Fast forward to New Year’s Day. The Pie enjoys helping me with laundry – she pushes the hampers to the laundry room and hands me the clothes to place in the washer. So it was during one of our laundry trips that she got curious and opened up the closet door. At her eye level, there gleamed an open box of pink and purple plastic thingies that in her estimation were created exclusively for her immediate enjoyment. “Mama, make this,” she cried as I looked to the Heavens and questioned why I ever bought the thing in the first place. The Pie likes to help, at least what she thinks is helping, and she promised she would help me make the tricycle. “Okay,” I thought. “This might be a good mother-daughter bonding moment where she can understand that girls can do anything.”
Yeah, right. What she learned was that Mama knows a lot of dirty words and she’s not afraid to use them! While the directions for assembly were fairly straightforward, the application of them became inhibited with the presence of my “helper”. The instant I snapped the seat into place, she wanted to sit on it. The moment I installed the back wheels, she wanted to ride it. I temporarily placed the fork arms and was about to screw in the covers, when she hopped on and the whole thing blew apart underneath her. To an onlooker, the scene probably would have incited laughter of the gut-busting variety, but I was not amused. At some point in the assembly process, the Pie located the handlebars, hoisted them above her head like a WWE Champion and marched around the house screaming, “HANDLEBARS! HANDLEBARS!” Yeah, yeah … it sounds cute – but believe me, it was not. Nor was it easy talking her into handing them over when it was time to attach them to the trike. Just the threat of not riding the toy was enough to do trick, however, so we neared completion of the Barbie Kid-Tough Tricycle.
As I tightened the final screw in the beast, I felt awash with pride and accomplishment. I did something I thought I would never be able to do – all through the encouragement from and love for my daughter. Seeing her pedal around the house on her new trike is reward I never imagined. I triumphed over fear and apathy for the sake of my child and learned a lesson in the process: don’t buy anything that comes in a box with the words “Some Assembly Required.”
Maybe It's Just Me
Contrary to what one might believe, I do actually have small windows of time when my mind begins to wander…usually when I’m taking a shower or driving home from work. It is during these times, that a vapor lock occurs inside my cranium that refuses to let rational thought inside. Topics that manage to invade my gray matter include, but are not limited to, conspiracy theories, invention ideas, recipes, craft ideas and fantasies. Don’t get excited, not THAT kind of fantasy! They often involve mundane tasks such as painting the walls or mowing the lawn. But maybe it’s just me…
For example, this morning, in the shower (one which I actually got to take by without the presence of my daughter) it occurred to me that Anthony Sullivan – the British guy who pitches products like the Super Snake and was on the show “Pitchmen” with the late Billy Mays – could theoretically be responsible for Mays’ untimely death. Ok here’s what happened: my alarm went off to the radio blaring one of Sullivan’s latest commercials and as I stumbled to the shower, I kept thinking how his voice was just as annoying as Billy Mays’. Then I remembered that Mays was dead and how it seemed that Sullivan was snatching up all the ad time for the “incredible new products” to hit the market. Even that Sham-Wow guy is in jail (icing on the cake for Sullivan), so the market is now saturated with guy! What if he orchestrated something to take out his biggest rival? Autopsy reports state that there was cocaine in Mays’ system, but his family adamantly denies any drug use. Knowing his nemesis had a heart problem, Sullivan could have mixed a little Bolivian marching powder in with the Oxy-Clean and “accidentally” blown a cloud of it into the air, which Billy inhaled and, after a bump on the head from a suitcase in an airplane, he buys the farm. I am NOT saying that anything like this actually happened. I sympathize with the Mays family and couldn’t care less about Sullivan – I have a MUTE button. Maybe it’s just me…
And here’s one…as I was getting dressed, I wondered what feat of German engineering had occurred to keep Mariah Carey in her dress at the Golden Globes. That joke is just TOO easy, so I won’t even go there! Some of the clothing that stars wear is so beyond the ridiculous that I wonder what they are thinking when they don a fluffy confection of sheer lace, blinding sequins and high and/or low cut cloth swatches? Do we really need to see the breasts of these women? And why don’t the men do something similar? I wouldn’t mind if Hugh Jackman (my close, personal friend) showed up shirtless in a pair of tighty-whities and flip-flops!! Come on, what these women wear is tantamount to that, so why the double standard? Maybe it’s just me…
On another note… don’t you think it would be FANTASTIC to have a 24 hour drive-thru convenience store kind of establishment? Here’s the scenario: You need diapers, smokes, pop and juice in the middle of the night and you’re in the middle of a downpour of epic proportions. You also have a baby (or toddler) in the car with you. Do YOU want to get out of the car, run around to the other side to get the baby, cover the baby in a blanket, run into the store – already soaking wet – get the needed items, run back out into the rain, put the baby in the seat (getting further soaked from the waist down while buckling the straps), open the trunk and put said items in, run to the driver’s side and hop back in? Yeah, me neither. Which is why we need a place where you can drive up to a covered menu board, you can poke buttons for what you need, then pull up to a window where you pay for your order. Then once payment is received, you proceed to another window or door where the items you ordered only moments before are delivered to your warm, dry vehicle. Beauty, right? Maybe it’s just me…
Does anyone else have these strange moments where your brain takes flight and the craziest thoughts enter in? Care to share? Oh, maybe it’s just me...
For example, this morning, in the shower (one which I actually got to take by without the presence of my daughter) it occurred to me that Anthony Sullivan – the British guy who pitches products like the Super Snake and was on the show “Pitchmen” with the late Billy Mays – could theoretically be responsible for Mays’ untimely death. Ok here’s what happened: my alarm went off to the radio blaring one of Sullivan’s latest commercials and as I stumbled to the shower, I kept thinking how his voice was just as annoying as Billy Mays’. Then I remembered that Mays was dead and how it seemed that Sullivan was snatching up all the ad time for the “incredible new products” to hit the market. Even that Sham-Wow guy is in jail (icing on the cake for Sullivan), so the market is now saturated with guy! What if he orchestrated something to take out his biggest rival? Autopsy reports state that there was cocaine in Mays’ system, but his family adamantly denies any drug use. Knowing his nemesis had a heart problem, Sullivan could have mixed a little Bolivian marching powder in with the Oxy-Clean and “accidentally” blown a cloud of it into the air, which Billy inhaled and, after a bump on the head from a suitcase in an airplane, he buys the farm. I am NOT saying that anything like this actually happened. I sympathize with the Mays family and couldn’t care less about Sullivan – I have a MUTE button. Maybe it’s just me…
And here’s one…as I was getting dressed, I wondered what feat of German engineering had occurred to keep Mariah Carey in her dress at the Golden Globes. That joke is just TOO easy, so I won’t even go there! Some of the clothing that stars wear is so beyond the ridiculous that I wonder what they are thinking when they don a fluffy confection of sheer lace, blinding sequins and high and/or low cut cloth swatches? Do we really need to see the breasts of these women? And why don’t the men do something similar? I wouldn’t mind if Hugh Jackman (my close, personal friend) showed up shirtless in a pair of tighty-whities and flip-flops!! Come on, what these women wear is tantamount to that, so why the double standard? Maybe it’s just me…
On another note… don’t you think it would be FANTASTIC to have a 24 hour drive-thru convenience store kind of establishment? Here’s the scenario: You need diapers, smokes, pop and juice in the middle of the night and you’re in the middle of a downpour of epic proportions. You also have a baby (or toddler) in the car with you. Do YOU want to get out of the car, run around to the other side to get the baby, cover the baby in a blanket, run into the store – already soaking wet – get the needed items, run back out into the rain, put the baby in the seat (getting further soaked from the waist down while buckling the straps), open the trunk and put said items in, run to the driver’s side and hop back in? Yeah, me neither. Which is why we need a place where you can drive up to a covered menu board, you can poke buttons for what you need, then pull up to a window where you pay for your order. Then once payment is received, you proceed to another window or door where the items you ordered only moments before are delivered to your warm, dry vehicle. Beauty, right? Maybe it’s just me…
Does anyone else have these strange moments where your brain takes flight and the craziest thoughts enter in? Care to share? Oh, maybe it’s just me...
Letting Go...Or Not
Many years ago, a friend of mine became quite emotional as she told me about a song called “Letting Go,” by a female country artist. It is apparently the story of a woman who learns to release her fears and anxieties about her life, trusting that it will all turn out okay. The song’s lyrics are simple, but impactful: “There’s nothing in the way now… There’s room enough to fly… and though she spent her whole life waiting, it’s never easy letting go.”
The story begins with a woman who is packing her daughter’s belongings as she prepares to leave home and attend college – she must let go of the relics of her daughter’s childhood and accept that the girl is now a young woman. Then the story turns to the empty nest woman whose husband suddenly leaves her; she must let go of the anger and betrayal in order to move forward with her own life. Finally, the same woman’s mother struggles for life in a hospital. Regardless of the pain of losing her beloved mother, she knows that it would be better to let her slip quietly away to a better place.
Letting go seems to be a really difficult thing for anyone to do. When we are small children, we want to hang on to our blankies and dummies (my word for pacifiers) because they provide us with a sense of security and familiarity. I think that’s the case for all of us even as we grow into adults. There’s the excitement and anticipation of something new, but when it becomes comfortable, well-worn and cozy, we attach ourselves to it – whether it’s a pair of jeans, a driving route to work, or a significant other. We can’t bear to let go of it either because of the memories attached to it, or the way it comforts us or the ease of it. In all those cleaning and organizing shows on cable, one of the things the professionals ask is “Have you used or touched it in the last 6 months?” Good question.
When I was teaching the Pie to walk, her first steps were equally exciting and painful for me. She was moving toward a certain level of independence and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. I took her tiny hands in mine and felt her pulse race as she tentatively stepped forward. Her eyes shone and her grin lit up and I could feel her subtle tug against my hand, quietly asking me to let go…to let her strike out on her own, regardless of boo-boo potential. But I couldn’t do it. I could not allow those pudgy little fingers to slip through mine so soon…it seemed the last vestige of our invisible bond was slipping away. Eventually, of course, I did let go and she hasn’t been still a minute since!
I now find myself faced with another kind of decision about letting go of something. It’s not tangible object: an old pair of shoes, a cherished photograph, one of the Pie’s toys. It’s something that at one time was integral to my life on a visceral level, but that now serves only to frustrate and anger me.
The answer to the question of having touched it in the past 6 months is a resounding “No.” Nor has it touched me. It seems to have disappeared into a cocoon, slowly mutating into something unrecognizable and certain to never be the same again. But even as I walk right up to the precipice, dangle it over the abyss and prepare to release it from my grasp…I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t throw it away. As much as I need to – want to, even – I can’t.
I hope she knows that.
The story begins with a woman who is packing her daughter’s belongings as she prepares to leave home and attend college – she must let go of the relics of her daughter’s childhood and accept that the girl is now a young woman. Then the story turns to the empty nest woman whose husband suddenly leaves her; she must let go of the anger and betrayal in order to move forward with her own life. Finally, the same woman’s mother struggles for life in a hospital. Regardless of the pain of losing her beloved mother, she knows that it would be better to let her slip quietly away to a better place.
Letting go seems to be a really difficult thing for anyone to do. When we are small children, we want to hang on to our blankies and dummies (my word for pacifiers) because they provide us with a sense of security and familiarity. I think that’s the case for all of us even as we grow into adults. There’s the excitement and anticipation of something new, but when it becomes comfortable, well-worn and cozy, we attach ourselves to it – whether it’s a pair of jeans, a driving route to work, or a significant other. We can’t bear to let go of it either because of the memories attached to it, or the way it comforts us or the ease of it. In all those cleaning and organizing shows on cable, one of the things the professionals ask is “Have you used or touched it in the last 6 months?” Good question.
When I was teaching the Pie to walk, her first steps were equally exciting and painful for me. She was moving toward a certain level of independence and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. I took her tiny hands in mine and felt her pulse race as she tentatively stepped forward. Her eyes shone and her grin lit up and I could feel her subtle tug against my hand, quietly asking me to let go…to let her strike out on her own, regardless of boo-boo potential. But I couldn’t do it. I could not allow those pudgy little fingers to slip through mine so soon…it seemed the last vestige of our invisible bond was slipping away. Eventually, of course, I did let go and she hasn’t been still a minute since!
I now find myself faced with another kind of decision about letting go of something. It’s not tangible object: an old pair of shoes, a cherished photograph, one of the Pie’s toys. It’s something that at one time was integral to my life on a visceral level, but that now serves only to frustrate and anger me.
The answer to the question of having touched it in the past 6 months is a resounding “No.” Nor has it touched me. It seems to have disappeared into a cocoon, slowly mutating into something unrecognizable and certain to never be the same again. But even as I walk right up to the precipice, dangle it over the abyss and prepare to release it from my grasp…I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t throw it away. As much as I need to – want to, even – I can’t.
I hope she knows that.
Birth of a Comedienne
I wish everyone could spend just one day with my kid. Not just because I could use the break, (because who wouldn’t?) but because she would keep you laughing until you pee your pants a little. The Pie is one of the funniest people I have ever personally known and the best part is – she doesn’t even have to try! Her innocence and sponge-like retention of the most trivial things makes her a treasure trove of hilarity. What follows is only a carefully small, hand-selected collection of actual things that have been uttered by The Pie.
A PROFESSIONAL OPINION My daughter loves to role-play and pretend, so oftentimes I find myself in some ridiculous situation feeding invisible apples to made-up bears; but on this occasion, I was the baby, and the Pie was the mama. She covered me with her Curious George towel, patted me on the head and said, “night, night.” She then sat on a chair and pretended to read, like her care takers are wont to do when she naps. After about 8 ½ seconds, she proceeded to “wake me up.” She asked if I had good dreams (like I always ask her in the mornings), so playing along, I told her of a fantastic dream that involved magical plants, flying cars, rainbow staircases, talking frogs, singing butterflies and shoes that exploded! With a very serious face and with deep compassion, she once again gently patted my head and said, “You really sick, Mama. Go back to bed.”
MUSH MOUTH The Pie spends her days with her Mimi, a woman I consider to be a very good friend. We are so close, in fact, that we consider each other part of our families. Mimi’s son had been spending time with a young lady and she one day announced she was pregnant. It was shocking news in light of the fact that the young lady has spent time in Africa as a missionary and seemed dedicated to a “Christian” life-style. In the throes of Mimi’s apoplexy at her baby having a baby, she alluded to the fact that her son had “knocked up a missionary.” My daughter, who hears all and sees all, told me later that MimI was crying : “ 'cause Anden knock over a mush!"
SMELLS LIKE A FAIRY TAIL…ER, TALE The Pie likes her stories. One day as she pretended to be a giant, demolishing everything in her path a la Godzilla, the adults around her encouraged her with shouts of “Fee Fie Foe Fum…I smell the blood of an English man!” And because she repeats (sort of) everything she hears, she lets out the following cry: “Fee Fie Foe Fum… I smell a BUM!”
EASY AS 1,2,3 As most parents do at some point in their parenthood career, I have implemented the counting strategy to admonish the Pie into a desired behavior. As a child, I thought it was kind of goofy myself, but I see the value of it now. Well, I USED to until recently. My daughter is painfully similar to me in that she is headstrong, stubborn and emotional. I have been working with her to ask for things in a nice manner – saying, “please” when she wants more juice, chewy snacks, noodles, whatever. Recently, she wanted more chocolate milk in her cup and proceeded to throw her cup at my feet and say, “More chocolate milk!” I assembled my face in the proper motherly gaze and inquired, “Is that the right way to ask Mama for something?” Her response? “1…2…”
A PROFESSIONAL OPINION My daughter loves to role-play and pretend, so oftentimes I find myself in some ridiculous situation feeding invisible apples to made-up bears; but on this occasion, I was the baby, and the Pie was the mama. She covered me with her Curious George towel, patted me on the head and said, “night, night.” She then sat on a chair and pretended to read, like her care takers are wont to do when she naps. After about 8 ½ seconds, she proceeded to “wake me up.” She asked if I had good dreams (like I always ask her in the mornings), so playing along, I told her of a fantastic dream that involved magical plants, flying cars, rainbow staircases, talking frogs, singing butterflies and shoes that exploded! With a very serious face and with deep compassion, she once again gently patted my head and said, “You really sick, Mama. Go back to bed.”
MUSH MOUTH The Pie spends her days with her Mimi, a woman I consider to be a very good friend. We are so close, in fact, that we consider each other part of our families. Mimi’s son had been spending time with a young lady and she one day announced she was pregnant. It was shocking news in light of the fact that the young lady has spent time in Africa as a missionary and seemed dedicated to a “Christian” life-style. In the throes of Mimi’s apoplexy at her baby having a baby, she alluded to the fact that her son had “knocked up a missionary.” My daughter, who hears all and sees all, told me later that MimI was crying : “ 'cause Anden knock over a mush!"
SMELLS LIKE A FAIRY TAIL…ER, TALE The Pie likes her stories. One day as she pretended to be a giant, demolishing everything in her path a la Godzilla, the adults around her encouraged her with shouts of “Fee Fie Foe Fum…I smell the blood of an English man!” And because she repeats (sort of) everything she hears, she lets out the following cry: “Fee Fie Foe Fum… I smell a BUM!”
EASY AS 1,2,3 As most parents do at some point in their parenthood career, I have implemented the counting strategy to admonish the Pie into a desired behavior. As a child, I thought it was kind of goofy myself, but I see the value of it now. Well, I USED to until recently. My daughter is painfully similar to me in that she is headstrong, stubborn and emotional. I have been working with her to ask for things in a nice manner – saying, “please” when she wants more juice, chewy snacks, noodles, whatever. Recently, she wanted more chocolate milk in her cup and proceeded to throw her cup at my feet and say, “More chocolate milk!” I assembled my face in the proper motherly gaze and inquired, “Is that the right way to ask Mama for something?” Her response? “1…2…”
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