My two-year-old's been saying yes ("essss!") for a year or more, but just yesterday morning, he began to use its antonym for the first time.
Yep, that's right. I have a toddler so sweet and accommodating that he hasn't bothered to say "no" to his mama-- or anyone else-- for the first 2.25 years of his life. Now, we've heard him say plenty of other words, so we knew it wasn't a matter of ability... more a matter of motivation, I think. What burning issue drew the negative from his lips, you ask? A dire situation: I wanted to pull him up and out of his crib, and he had other plans. "No," he said gently, smiling, waving his feet at me.
Translation: No leaving the crib until These Little Piggies is performed on each foot.
Am I wondrously blessed or what? Naturally we did the Piggy Ritual before exiting the crib, and came on downstairs. Later on when I turned on the Netflix On Demand and began paging through our queued kids' movies, the word was used again, clear as day: As each video came to the foreground, he seriously but softly gave me his verdict. "No." "No." "No." When we stopped at one of the Thomas the Train videos, hopping, squealing, and flapping replaced the negative, with his adorable approximation of train sounds: "Chi Chi! Whoa Whoa!!"
My heart swells with love for this little boy. He's taken his time, but since he finally started walking just after his second birthday, there's been no stopping him.
He's growing like a weed, adding words every day (Today, his first sentence: "Ducks, PLEASE!" to his Poppop, begging for a golf cart ride to go see the course's ducks. Again, my heart: first sentence includes the word PLEASE?? How did I deserve such a sweetheart of a child?)
My baby suddenly has little-boy interests and passions: legos, trains, construction equipment, letters. He's a committed vegetarian, diving happily into his spaghetti tonight while expertly spitting out every last bit of meat that we tried to sneak into the sauce. He kicks his shoes off endlessly in the grocery store cart, laughing me when I groan and bend to pick them up AGAIN. He rests his head in my hand at the dinner table, a gentle moment of love before he proceeds to cover himself and everything within arm's reach with his dinner. He still prowls the house in search of letters, both his magnetic fridge treasures and any letter he can spot on a book, magazine, or piece of mail. "O! P! X!" he screams, pointing a hand nearly shaking with joy at the proper letter.
Oh, my goodness, I am so proud of him. After his surgery, his misdiagnosed infection, his slowed growth, his poor botched circumcision, his eczema, his milk allergies... he's been slow to take off, to really show us the Quinton that's been hidden underneath all these struggles and his contented nature. At last, though, he's starting to rip the curtain away, chortling and squealing and racing around with glee as he does so.
What a fella. And what a soft spot I have for him.
I am sad (in more ways than I can quite articulate) to lose my little baby, but this little boy that's emerging is so fascinating, so special. Onward we go... lead us into your next adventures, buddy. We'll be cheering you on.
Showing posts with label parenthood memory. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood memory. Show all posts
Thoughts at Sleep Times.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Little eyelids droop, flutter, and drop. A moment later, she's gone. I watch her, listen to her breath as it lengthens and steadies. Four inches from her, her long legs touching mine, she finally (FINALLY!) starts her nap, and I marvel. Did really I give birth to this beautiful creature? How is it that seven pounds of mewling baby turned into this?
****
Six hours later, there's another sweet warm body next to mine, this one stockier, plumper, and almost comically earthy. Our relationship is often all about this little body: the Foods He Likes (cheddar bunnies, cheerios, bananas), the diapers he fills, the sleep he needs. But tonight, for a few moments, he leaves his body behind, flops backward onto the bed with a grin as we bring out the board books: Feel the Baby Animals, Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, and the ultimate: One Duck Stuck.
We read, point, flip pages. He grins with delight most at the pages that are most familiar, the comments he expects me to make each time we reach them. But when I ask him if he's ready for "RockaRocka", he grins bigger. "KKKK," he says firmly (meaning "OK"), reaching for my arms before I'm quite ready to pick him up.
We settle down into the glider, and his heavy little head nestles into my shoulder. He's big now; his legs are almost comically folded up underneath him so that his trunk can be as close to me as possible. I wrap my arms around this strong little fella, his broad chest and chunky legs, and again, I stop and steep in the moment.
****
They are so very mine right now: mine to feed, diaper, nap, clothe, reclothe, tote around town. Mine to read to, sing to, walk with, eat with, train, teach, cajole, force, bandage, mourn with. I'm an introvert, and there are moments, even as I exult in their love, their innocence and sweetness and joy as they pile on me like puppies, I sometimes at the same moment feel a bit smothered, a bit Never Alone. Oh my word, what I would give at times for a day or three to myself, with books and yarn and a fountain pen and camera and all those things I used to have time to enjoy.
But then I think about those tiny veins in her eyelids, and the way her long eyelashes wave up and down like little surrender flags as she gives in to sleep.
And I think about his grin as he gleefully sticks his tiny finger into my ear canal for the thousandth time, delighting in watching me cringe and squeal and pull it away.
And I think about how proud I am that he's finally decided he wants to walk, and that she's almost sure to be reading before she even starts kindergarten, and how excited I am to be there for the next steps on their journeys.
And really, this is exactly where I want to be.
(As long as there's hot tea and an hour or two of peace and quiet available each night.)
****
Six hours later, there's another sweet warm body next to mine, this one stockier, plumper, and almost comically earthy. Our relationship is often all about this little body: the Foods He Likes (cheddar bunnies, cheerios, bananas), the diapers he fills, the sleep he needs. But tonight, for a few moments, he leaves his body behind, flops backward onto the bed with a grin as we bring out the board books: Feel the Baby Animals, Hand Hand Fingers Thumb, and the ultimate: One Duck Stuck.
We read, point, flip pages. He grins with delight most at the pages that are most familiar, the comments he expects me to make each time we reach them. But when I ask him if he's ready for "RockaRocka", he grins bigger. "KKKK," he says firmly (meaning "OK"), reaching for my arms before I'm quite ready to pick him up.
We settle down into the glider, and his heavy little head nestles into my shoulder. He's big now; his legs are almost comically folded up underneath him so that his trunk can be as close to me as possible. I wrap my arms around this strong little fella, his broad chest and chunky legs, and again, I stop and steep in the moment.
****
They are so very mine right now: mine to feed, diaper, nap, clothe, reclothe, tote around town. Mine to read to, sing to, walk with, eat with, train, teach, cajole, force, bandage, mourn with. I'm an introvert, and there are moments, even as I exult in their love, their innocence and sweetness and joy as they pile on me like puppies, I sometimes at the same moment feel a bit smothered, a bit Never Alone. Oh my word, what I would give at times for a day or three to myself, with books and yarn and a fountain pen and camera and all those things I used to have time to enjoy.
But then I think about those tiny veins in her eyelids, and the way her long eyelashes wave up and down like little surrender flags as she gives in to sleep.
And I think about his grin as he gleefully sticks his tiny finger into my ear canal for the thousandth time, delighting in watching me cringe and squeal and pull it away.
And I think about how proud I am that he's finally decided he wants to walk, and that she's almost sure to be reading before she even starts kindergarten, and how excited I am to be there for the next steps on their journeys.
And really, this is exactly where I want to be.
(As long as there's hot tea and an hour or two of peace and quiet available each night.)
Two and a half.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
My little fairy sleeps like a bag lady, with all her precious things piled around her.
In the morning, we're often awakened as the first one of them gets slung onto our bed, bedsheets, or backside. "Move over, mama. I come SLEEP with you!"
Depending on the hour, we either accept or reject her advances. (5:30 a.m.-- accept. 3:45 a.m.-- reject and escort back to her bed, where like as not I'll awake at 5:30 a.m., sore and crowded from scrunching myself onto her twin bed with her.) If accepted, chances are our sleep is over, as she squirms and points and chatters and giggles and pokes between the two of us. SoftDolly is always welcome, for even though she rattles softly, she never injures; PokeyDolly (these are their only names so far) has hard vinyl Fisher Price head and appendages, and can make you see stars when she's accidentally swung into your skull.
But our little bag lady, she insists. There will be no peace "sleeping" with her without the dollies. So we relent, and allow even PokeyDolly to pile in with us. So there we are, two largish adults, one solidly built two-year-old, a slightly tubbifying middle-aged dog (if she didn't leave the bed in protest when it was invaded), and a collection of dollies, sippycup, books, blankets, or whatever else strikes our gal as vital to her happiness.
It's crowded, silly, and too early to be truly happy about our wakeful status. In a few minutes, our baby boy (aka the Squid, the Woodchuck, or, most recently, the WhistlePig) will be awakened by this ruckus, and begin his yawps for milk. Our day will begin, with feedings, entreaties to PUT ON THESE CLOTHES, PLEASE, scramblings for cereal and blueberries and juice. We'll have Sesame Street, and playroom time, and trips to Grammy's (weekdays) for lunch and naptime. You will defy me at least once during the day, and try to manipulate me with your sweet words and eyes, and I will clean up umpteen of your messes-- playdoh, crayons, blocks, dominoes, puzzles, crumbs, spills.
But for a few minutes, as we wrangle for a few minutes of sunrise peace with our bedfairy baglady, I am in total bliss.
You are still a complete enchantment, sweetheart. Even at 5:30 a.m.
(Picture above: Nap today, with SoftDolly, Tinkerbell, sippycup full of water, no pillowcase on her foam pillow, and blanket beside her, NOT on her, please.)
Ten things about Baby Q at 3 months old
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
1) Baby Q, you have the most beautiful eyes. We can't tell yet what color they'll be, of course, but they are deep and dark and big and lovely. Those impossibly long eyelashes that come from your dad's side of the family are sprouting on you already, and with your slightly-curly dark hair and those amazing eyes gazing at me, I sometimes wonder how I (definitely not the most lovely of women) have managed to give birth to such a gorgeous creature.
2) Of course, you're also in the middle of your baby skin nastiness-- lots of cradle cap and irritated rashiness going on right now. We've found a lotion (Aveeno's heavy-duty moisture baby lotion) that helps tremendously, so hopefully this will be a short phase. Most babies have it, I think, especially winter babies like you who have to endure cold dry air on their tender tender skin.
3) You want SO BADLY to try to talk. You look earnestly into our eyes, your mouth working, struggling to remember how to form a sound. Eventually a little coo or grunt or squeal comes out, and we're enchanted. You want so much to be a part of the conversations we have with you. And your favorite person to talk to is definitely your Grammy-- your eyes get wide and you wriggle with excitement whenever she starts talking to you.
4) Your sister loves you more than anything else in the world. Despite the fact that you steal hours and hours of her Mommy's attention, despite the fact that you're the source of more "Gracie, NO!"s than any other part of her life, she would rather be playing with you than doing anything else. She loves to hold you on her lap (with lots of help), to lay next to you on the couch, to sing to you and babble in a strange language that she uses with no one else (I need to get that on video before it's gone). Whatever struggles the two of you have later in getting along, however annoyed with you she may be sometimes, I hope I remember to tell you both how much she loved you from the very first time she saw you.
5) This week when we returned to Children's Hospital in Little Rock to repeat your kidney tests, the technicians had a horrible time getting an IV into you. They stuck both your hands and both your feet, failing four miserable, painful times before a woman named Kim managed to get the needle into a vein in the inside of your left elbow. It was so hard to see you on that table, weighted down with sandbags, crying miserably as they struggled to do something that you didn't understand was for your good. You'd look at me as I stroked your hair and tried to talk to you during their attempts, and your eyes seemed to just beg me for help, desperate and confused about why I wasn't intervening on your behalf. (Your mom's side of the family gave you that little inconvenient trait-- my veins are hard to find too, and I often get myself bruised up pretty good when someone needs to get blood from me or put in an IV.)
6) You don't really like to be alone. When I put you down for your naps, your most successful and longest ones are in rooms where people are moving around within earshot. If you're crying in your room alone, I can often moved your swaddled little body into the room where I am, and without another word of complaint, you fall asleep within just a few minutes. I wonder if this is an indication that you're going to be a "people person"; it's definitely pretty convenient, since your sister hates to leave you alone to sleep in a room by yourself. I have a sleep book that recommends that babies learn to sleep in quiet dark rooms, though-- not sure yet if I'm going to try to persuade you to sleep in that environment or not.
7) You're growing like a weed and are much larger than your sister was at this age. I put a one-piece sleeper on you today that your sister wore well into the summer when she was your age; it looks like it might fit you for a month or so at the most. After worrying about Gracie's growth and tinyness so much, it's a huge relief to have a big strong boy who eats with gusto and grows like crazy.
8) You have broad, squatty hands like your daddy, but you have my narrow tiny feet. I think this is hilarious, because your sister has just the opposite-- rather delicate little hands, and big, flappy flat duck feet like her daddy's.
9) You're getting better about enjoying a swing or a rest on your back to look around by yourself, but you'd really prefer to be in someone's arms at all times. You're quite the snuggly baby, and you like to be held on your side and bury your face into your holder's elbow or chest. It looks like you'd smother doing that, but it's your favorite little spot and will put you right to sleep most of the time.
10) I realized today that, because you were born in November, that you've barely been outside at all in your entire life so far. Other than being shuttled from car to building and vice versa, you've rarely seen the sky, or trees, or felt the breeze or sun on your face. I look forward to changing this just as soon as the weather warms. I hope that you'll be a gardener and outside-lover like your sister and your momma.
2) Of course, you're also in the middle of your baby skin nastiness-- lots of cradle cap and irritated rashiness going on right now. We've found a lotion (Aveeno's heavy-duty moisture baby lotion) that helps tremendously, so hopefully this will be a short phase. Most babies have it, I think, especially winter babies like you who have to endure cold dry air on their tender tender skin.
3) You want SO BADLY to try to talk. You look earnestly into our eyes, your mouth working, struggling to remember how to form a sound. Eventually a little coo or grunt or squeal comes out, and we're enchanted. You want so much to be a part of the conversations we have with you. And your favorite person to talk to is definitely your Grammy-- your eyes get wide and you wriggle with excitement whenever she starts talking to you.
4) Your sister loves you more than anything else in the world. Despite the fact that you steal hours and hours of her Mommy's attention, despite the fact that you're the source of more "Gracie, NO!"s than any other part of her life, she would rather be playing with you than doing anything else. She loves to hold you on her lap (with lots of help), to lay next to you on the couch, to sing to you and babble in a strange language that she uses with no one else (I need to get that on video before it's gone). Whatever struggles the two of you have later in getting along, however annoyed with you she may be sometimes, I hope I remember to tell you both how much she loved you from the very first time she saw you.
5) This week when we returned to Children's Hospital in Little Rock to repeat your kidney tests, the technicians had a horrible time getting an IV into you. They stuck both your hands and both your feet, failing four miserable, painful times before a woman named Kim managed to get the needle into a vein in the inside of your left elbow. It was so hard to see you on that table, weighted down with sandbags, crying miserably as they struggled to do something that you didn't understand was for your good. You'd look at me as I stroked your hair and tried to talk to you during their attempts, and your eyes seemed to just beg me for help, desperate and confused about why I wasn't intervening on your behalf. (Your mom's side of the family gave you that little inconvenient trait-- my veins are hard to find too, and I often get myself bruised up pretty good when someone needs to get blood from me or put in an IV.)
6) You don't really like to be alone. When I put you down for your naps, your most successful and longest ones are in rooms where people are moving around within earshot. If you're crying in your room alone, I can often moved your swaddled little body into the room where I am, and without another word of complaint, you fall asleep within just a few minutes. I wonder if this is an indication that you're going to be a "people person"; it's definitely pretty convenient, since your sister hates to leave you alone to sleep in a room by yourself. I have a sleep book that recommends that babies learn to sleep in quiet dark rooms, though-- not sure yet if I'm going to try to persuade you to sleep in that environment or not.
7) You're growing like a weed and are much larger than your sister was at this age. I put a one-piece sleeper on you today that your sister wore well into the summer when she was your age; it looks like it might fit you for a month or so at the most. After worrying about Gracie's growth and tinyness so much, it's a huge relief to have a big strong boy who eats with gusto and grows like crazy.
8) You have broad, squatty hands like your daddy, but you have my narrow tiny feet. I think this is hilarious, because your sister has just the opposite-- rather delicate little hands, and big, flappy flat duck feet like her daddy's.
9) You're getting better about enjoying a swing or a rest on your back to look around by yourself, but you'd really prefer to be in someone's arms at all times. You're quite the snuggly baby, and you like to be held on your side and bury your face into your holder's elbow or chest. It looks like you'd smother doing that, but it's your favorite little spot and will put you right to sleep most of the time.
10) I realized today that, because you were born in November, that you've barely been outside at all in your entire life so far. Other than being shuttled from car to building and vice versa, you've rarely seen the sky, or trees, or felt the breeze or sun on your face. I look forward to changing this just as soon as the weather warms. I hope that you'll be a gardener and outside-lover like your sister and your momma.
Random is better than nuthin'.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Oh, my. So much time has gone by.
We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.
We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.
She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)
We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.
And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...
And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.
May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"
And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)
And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...
In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)
Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.
We are in bliss, but life is so busy. Yes, we have a new baby, one that is being breastfed and is not yet (quite) sleeping through the night. He is lovely, beyond lovely actually.
We also have a newly potty-trained toddler, one who loves to take off her clothes at random times (it's January, child! our upstairs is unheated and I sleep in my fuzzy robe! what are you THINKING?) and now sleeps in a twin bed.
She also leaves that bed at least once a night to request my presence ("Mama cuddle in Gracie's bed," I hear suddenly as I realize that there are two earnest eyes peering at my face from about four inches away in the dark.)
We also own one less house in Florida (PRAISE THE HOLY LORD WHO SOLD OUR HOUSE IN A WEEK, AMEN) and, as a result, one house in Arkansas. And, as of this week, our kitchen has entered the 21st century with the (very pricey) addition of plumbing, updated wiring, and a DISHWASHER. Again, cue the host of angels triumphant.
And there have been colds, and stomach viruses, and sinus infections, and coughing rattlelungs. Should we all survive this winter, we will definitely be rejoining the flu shot club next year. I'm not sure if it would've helped, but this is SO much worse than last year, when we'd had the shots...
And there was Christmas, a lovely special Christmas with our little girl, who marveled at Christmas lights, stockings, Santa, plastic holly, baby Jesus, and the Christmas aisle at Wal-Mart with total abandon.
May I never forget:
-Evidence of Husband's vocabulary slip as we drove past a glowing plastic nativity scene: "Holy CRAP, it's Baby Jeeus!" from our sweet toddler's lips.
-December 26, as we said grace before dinner, I was interrupted during my prayer: "Thanks Santa," she said earnestly, nodding at me. "And Thanks Stockings."
-The way she said, wistfully, any time we drove through the unlighted town square for weeks afterwards: "No mo Christmas. All gone. Happy New Year?"
And now, there is possibly a new career for Husband in the works, one that helps people and will help us and will help him enjoy his workweek. (There is risk involved, though. We're trying to figure that out.)
And Monday, we'll know if our sweet little baby needs surgery on February 5 to unblock that obstructed tube. I would so love to spare him that little 4-cm scar...
In short, we've been very busy, fairly sleep deprived, somewhat sick, a little frantic and terribly, terribly happy lately. I hope to write more soon, including a letter to my little son about what these first months with him have been like. (Oh, the curse of the second child... Bird has a letter every month during her first year. I'll be doing good to get Q one every three months, I think. Unfair and unjust, as my daughter would say.)
Don't haul me out to the wood cart-- This blog's not dead yet.
22 months old.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Bird, I love this new you.
You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.
Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.
You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.
You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)
We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.
Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.
You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.
...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.
I am so proud to be your mommy.
You found your words this summer. About a month ago, language just exploded out of you. It amazed us. I just tried to think to some of the things you say, to record them, but there are now so many that I can't figure out where to begin or which are most remarkable. We know so much more of you now that you can talk.
Grammy discovered that your hair's long enough to put into pigtails now, and the new hairstyles have changed you from a baby to a full-fledged Little Girl overnight. You love your "dog ears", and rarely pull them out of your hair-- but a barrette never stays in long once you've realized it's there. Just too easy and tempting to remove, I guess. It's amazing how much older you look with your hair pulled away from your face.
You have an endless enthusiasm for dogs. Aunt Leigh's Lucy, a golden retriever mix, and Mel and Darla's Pete, a farm mutt, are your favorites. You chase them, laughing, petting their heads and backs and pulling on tails and generally crowing with delight. Being big, loving, good dogs, they put up with a great deal of your affection/absuse, wiggling their affection back to you. Our own silly dog likes you, but being so little, is a little more likely to accept a pat or two and then retreat to a safe distance before you get too excited. Someday your daddy wants you to have a bigger dog, I think.
You love playtime with your Daddy-- chasing each other through the house, tickling and swinging up into the air and laughing. He takes you out to your sandbox, and you both let sand dribble through your fingers while you intone in deep voices, "TIME..." (short for "the sands of time"- it's your private little joke). You love walks, either in the stroller, or holding steadily to Daddy's hand as you toddle down the street in the late afternoon heat. (Your pregnant momma has been standing at the window and watching you walk away, wishing she could come along without dissolving into a sweaty shaky pregnant mess. Maybe when it cools down a big more, I'll be able to go.)
We spent the weekend at a cabin with friends this weekend, less than an hour from here. You loved being outside, playing with toddler friends Ava and Jesse, and having so many adults around. At one point, when your daddy and I were preparing dinner for the crowd, I realized that you weren't in the living room with everyone else as I'd believed. A quick search through the bedrooms and bathrooms yielded no Bird; we found you on the front porch, holding a big ball that I think was last in the backyard, bare feet covered with grass and damp hands scrambling at the doorknob. Close observation yielded your secret: you've figured out how to unlock deadbolts. You'd ask first to "WALK," but if no one yielded to your request you'd set about trying to get a deadbolt undone to go by yourself.
Guess we'll be installing some safety latches soon, well above your reach. I'm so glad you learned this at a cabin in the middle of nowhere rather than at our house with a busy road running behind it.
You're still very sweet and generally accommodating, but you can be headstrong. Suddenly, you hate your high chair at Grammy's, which has been completely acceptable for the past year as it was, strapped to a kitchen stool. Now you want to eat in one of the grownup chairs, your highchair perching like a slightly unsteady booster seat atop the cushion. You often prefer a cup over your sippy cups, and fight putting your diaper back on after we've had a session on the potty. I'm getting the distinct impression that you want to be a big girl.
...And I guess that's good, because in ten weeks you'll be a Big Sister instead of the only Little Baby. You'll be fetching diapers and blankets and having to be patient while I tend to him before I can tend to you. It's going to be a big change, and while we're thrilled about this new baby coming, we're also kind of sad to leave the era of Little Bird Alone behind. You are a delightful, absorbing only child, sweetheart.
I am so proud to be your mommy.
One small step forward...
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
After dinner tonight, while we parents were tidying up and the wee one was running about underfoot undermining our efforts with Tupperware distribution, I spotted her squatting with an earnest look in her face.
"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."
And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.
Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)
Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).
She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.
We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...
"Pot." she said seriously, looking straight at me. "Pot."
And for a second I didn't get it, but then I remembered her preference for shortening all words to one syllable whenever possible, and realized what that squat meant. "You want to use the potty?" I asked breathlessly.
Serious nod yes. (Such a serious little girl I have-- fun loving, and mischievous, but also grave and always observing, always trying to figure things out, to be Right about things.)
Immediate transfer to the bathroom, where a fairly wet diaper was hastily removed, and a little girl sat gravely on the toilet for a few moments. We were a bit too late, but she recognized what she was doing in her diaper, and asked for the potty. You bet I let that gal flush the toilet anyway and wash her hands afterwards (both of which she loves).
She's peed and pooped on the toilet for my mom, but never for me. I count the request, though, as considerable progress.
We're crossing our fingers and praying to NOT have two in diapers this November...
To remember.
Friday, December 01, 2006
You'd woken suddenly, two hours into your nighttime sleep. You screamed in that way you scream when you don't know why you're awake, don't like being awake, and don't know how to quit being awake. I held you as you struggled, trying to whisper and sing to catch your attention, stop the crying. Nothing was working.
And then I had a thought. And we stepped over to the window, turned the plastic rod on the blinds, and the grand, soft, white world was shown to you. White hillsides, black trees, soft gray sky.
You froze, settled your head on my shoulder, and sighed a little tiny sigh. I held you, mesmerized, as I watched you drink in the beauty of your first snowfall.
A few minutes later, I turned you away from the window, just to see. You lifted your head, shifted your weight, and laid it on my other shoulder-- your face now pointed toward the window again.
I didn't move again for quite a while.
Bird, you saw what I see in the snowfall tonight.
That was pure magic for me. Thank you.
And then I had a thought. And we stepped over to the window, turned the plastic rod on the blinds, and the grand, soft, white world was shown to you. White hillsides, black trees, soft gray sky.
You froze, settled your head on my shoulder, and sighed a little tiny sigh. I held you, mesmerized, as I watched you drink in the beauty of your first snowfall.
A few minutes later, I turned you away from the window, just to see. You lifted your head, shifted your weight, and laid it on my other shoulder-- your face now pointed toward the window again.
I didn't move again for quite a while.
Bird, you saw what I see in the snowfall tonight.
That was pure magic for me. Thank you.
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