These Are the Songs of Our Lives

Dory singing/speaking whale

Intermittent weird sleeping and nightmares have continued for the child over the past few days, but also lots of impromptu singing. Primarily of the mundane narrative kind: the decision to go for all-unicorn attire (but NO unisocks, as one DOES NOT HAVE THEM, ooooooooooooonly YEEEEEELLLLLOOOOOOW -- so that will have to do*), the rejection of toast, followed by the louder insistence of avocado toast**; later, the demand for a snack laid out, whilst one's mother showers. The barest suggestion of a tune loops in and out -- up and down and over -- and the loudness is similarly variable, as she tramps from one room to the next, leaping from the much abused footstool, crashing into a doorway (which is then depicted in the next doleful song).

I cut up some strawberries, leave them on her craft table; and then am sucked in by emails before the shower. She swans into the kitchen area, to sing:

"I willllllll not eaaaaaaaaaaaaat those strawBERRRRRRRRRIEEEEEEES even-though-they-match-what-I'm-wearing...I willlllll not eaaaaaaaaEEEEEaaaaaat them~~"

I glower at my laptop and join her, singing: "BuuuuuuUUUUUUuuuut, I have CUUUUUUUUt them FOR YOUUUUUUUUU for SNACCCCCK~~"

"I can TELLLLLLLLL they are NOT SWEEEEEEEEET, so no-no-nooooooo!~~"

"You do not knoooowwww some-are-sweeter-than-others, you have to Tassssssssssste them~"

"No, and, noooooo! They are too-harrrrrrd-to-be-sweeeeeeeet~~" and she swoops the wings of her cape dramatically and twirls from the room, this time managing to avoid all doorways.

And then eventually the (barely) crooning gave way to being a frog, which made getting ready for anything a real hassle, since everything must be leapt to and vocabulary was limited to ribbit ribbit, and I really don't see how parents with multiple young children get anywhere/get anything done/retain sanity.

But! Speaking of music, we started dropping in on a morning music session held at her preschool. This has been great -- more little tastes of culture, breaks up one of our days without school, and I get to watch her classmates. This Monday, we arrived later, minutes before snack time. A grown up opened the door, carrying two stainless steel bowls, one with dried mango, the other with popcorn. "SNAAAAAACKKKK!!" a couple kids shouted, and several kids bee-lined it to kiddie seats at the long table. Others kept playing at the water table, or clay table, or with dolls. My daughter took her place and they collectively navigated serving/sharing/table manners. One of the teachers passed a boy seated at the table, "Hey, nice haircut."

"I HAD!" piped up the next boy, "I HAD! a haircut one time. And I came to school the next day! and I LIKED IT THE NEXT DAY!" Kids chorused about Zoey & Joey, the kids haircut chain that seems ridiculous until you have a young child.

"Where I go, they have a rollercoaster--"

"Me, too, yeah! And you sit in a car-"

"*I* sit in a car!-" 

My kid sits in silence. I try to stay out of it, but I can't always manage this. "Hey, that's also the place *you* go to, right?"

She sits there. And then says, grimly: "My Mom. says I can only have ONE lollipop.***"

The apple-cheeked boy across from her is astonished: "My Mom SAYS THE SAME THING!!!!!" Do the Moms know each other? Are they conspiring? The grown ups in the room snicker.

At that, talk shifts abruptly. A boy announces: "152 is the biggest number in the world!"

"Or two. Maybe two," offers another.

"A thousand and one," adds my daughter. I pop over to a nearby (so very low) table to jot down some of their comments. "hey Mom!" I look up. "You're doing good, Mom!" I give her a thumbs up. The days that we both visit her classroom aren't necessarily easier than others -- but she does seem more affectionate, sweeter with me. I suspect she likes that I have entered her world for a bit, in a different way.  

* no clue on the unicorn-yellow connection
** which will not occur, yes we have no avocados
*** that they hand out at the end, right.

Your Regularly Scheduled Sleep Will Now Be Pre-empted by This 4 Y.O.

It has been a week of inexplicable night waking, on our daughter's part. Three AM one night, 4:30 the next. She has gotten it in her head that it would be nicer if WE were to wake HER up in the morning, which simply doesn't work, as SHE is the alarm clock. But one morning last week, Rick was up before her (due to an appointment), and murmuring low to her as she woke up, and now she is trying to change the family rhythms. She reminded us a couple times that we could wake her up the next day and we said, ohhh, hmmm, maybe, though you tend to wake up before us~~ which she dismissed. The following day, we awoke to angry crying that we had failed in our alarm clock role. Screaming and gnashing of teeth is obviously unwelcome before coffee. The parents delivered more hard-nosed messages: we would NOT be doing this. She was VERY GOOD at waking US, and this would NOT be happening. Another day. 3 AM: Mommy. Mommy! REMEMBER that you will WAKE ME UP TOMORROW MORNING. 

Mommy: It is the MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT! WE have discussed this. We are NOT waking YOU up in the morning ~~

PS Daughter: Mommy! I have to TELL YOU SOMETHING~

Mommy: When you wake up, you may put on your clothes, or come snuggle with us and one of us will get up with you~~

PS: YOU COME TO MY ROOM TOMORROW MORNING AND WAKE ME UP.

Mommy, being Mommy, then took several hours to fall back asleep. Setting one up for a lovely day with diminished patience and waning coping skills.

Next night, 4:30 AM-- wild card!

PS: Mommy. MOMMY. I HAVE TO TELL YOU SOMETHING.

Mommy: It's the middle of the night. What's UP?

PS: My tummy? is rumbling. And my lips are shut.

Mommy: Okay.

PS:  I think there's a cricket in my belly

Mommy: There is NOT a cricket in your belly! WE LOVE YOU GO BACK TO SLEEP

PS: Or a little animal

Mommy to Daddy: Oh my F'ing G-d

Daddy to Mommy: I'm goin' in.


And it was very good he did so, as it became apparent that the cricket anxiety was somewhat deep -- if not the cricket itself -- and it's harder than you might think to convince preschoolers of...well, anything. About 98% of the time they are pretty damn sure that they can walk into any given situation and inform everyone else of the underlying rules, any weirdo different dimension exceptions, and how all of it usually leads to them getting a treat to eat. There were no treats in this case. Luckily her stomach rumbled while he was in the room.

PS (whispering): DID YOU HEAR THAT

Daddy: Yes, and you know? My tummy rumbles A  LOT and often sounds like that. You don't have a cricket in there~~

PS (with barely restrained contempt): BUT HOW do YOU know, You're NOT A DOCTOR (quieter) I need to go to a doctor~~

Daddy: Because honey, an animal? Or an insect? If it got all the way into your tummy? It couldn't be alive anymore. It would be dead.

Remarkably, this seemed to calm her. He soothed her a bit, and she went back to sleep. And then we all...eventually...went back to sleep.

Next night, the middle: DADDDDDDDDDDY???

She had a bad dream, a large crow had tried to eat her and myself and so there was more soothing needed. Lots of *something* going on with the girl, which will doubtlessly shake itself out.  In the meantime, sleep while the sleepin's good!

 

Well, It's Cute on a Four Year Old~~~

Life with the 4 year old continues in its chaotic, joyful, histrionic fashion. This weekend the girl and I had a full calendar, mainly with errands and appointments, plus a little social relief. Saturday morning was her first appointment with an allergist, as directed by her primary doctor -- I was mildly concerned with how resistant she would be to allowing the scratch tests -- but she came through that part just fine -- laid on her belly, then propped herself up to marker in a little notebook. "They will open the door and think I am a boy because I have no shirt on! I will surprise them." I jinx things by sending Rick a text with her coloring, "All going well at the allergist!" At which point, I colored something differently than she wanted, so she naturally lobbed a marker at me, and demanded "YOU FIX IT RIGHT NOW!" which also failed to yield the desired results. I confiscated the markers and notebook and now she tried to hit me and wailed. So crying sounds came from our room after all, though not from a scratch test. Upside: no allergies! So far, mostly good.

Prior waiting at a different locale, favorite El Harissa

A long day ahead, so we tried out the nearby Golden Egg diner. Classic, bustling, chrome and old vinyl. I allowed her a small chocolate milk, and that certainly focused her for a bit. Then she crumpled a teensy piece of paper straw wrapper into a "worm," and we played baby/mommy caterpillar for awhile. We were both tiring of the new game, and she tried halfheartedly to peel open several jelly servings (thwarted); the older woman across the aisle who periodically tried to engage the preschooler said:"You have been waiting A LONG TIME for your FOOD!"

PS*: ....yeah, SO. LONG!

Me (internal): Not really helpful to point it out, thanks~

Woman: WHAT are YOU going to eat!!

Brain melting

PS: [ticks off food items, before turning to me] WHY do we have to wait SO LONG, it has been FOREVER [drapes herself dramatically across the tabletop].

Me: Yes, we have been waiting a while, but it's really busy, you can see them working in the kitchen and they're also making food for people who are just coming in to pick up food~~

I make eye contact with the waitress, raise my eyebrows, and she returns my gaze. She's clearly an experienced waitress, so I feel confident she knows the questioning look likely translates into "where's our food?"  Either it's just simply taking a bit, or she'll follow up. I settle in. My daughter, however, has other plans.

"Excuse me!" she pipes up in her far-reaching little girl voice. "Excuse me!" The waitress turns around and bends down to her, with a humoring a face.

"We have been waiting so long for our food that I have begun to worry you are not focusing on us." I bang my forehead on the table in an effort to hide my guffaw and the waitress also adjusts her face not to smirk. Her delivery is smooth, without pause. Well, she says, she will go check on our food. As luck would have it, the order has just come out, and our server delivers the food with a flourish:

"Here we are. Are you still worried~~?"

"No..." She dimples and eyes her meal.

"So, how old ARE you?"

"I am four," says the demanding one. Or she holds up her fingers.

"You know, you are VERY well spoken for four years old"

"I know," she says, digging into her bacon.

Following this exchange, the waitress was initially quite friendly, but then she cooled. I suspect she decided my daughter was simply parroting something I said. Had I not had *this child*, I imagine I would have come to the same conclusion. I felt embarrassed, but what can you do? This is merely the first decade of emotional hot potato -- lobbing embarrassment back and forth, all in the family.

*PS= preschooler

Just Add Water

Laaaa-di-da, I've been spending my mornings poolside. A slight breeze ripples the water, the sun urges me to just layyyyy back and clooooose my eyes. True, it's only half an hour, but pool time is like beach time -- slower, divorced from life*-- a respite, however long. Also true, the air is filled with squealing, shouting. Some wailing, or, at the very least, performative hitched breathing. But the wailing is not yours, it does not belong to you: breathe in, let it float away, as it will. From a distance, one can murmur, "Ahh poor thing, he's having a *hard* morning" and nestle against the vinyl lounge chair. I'm happy to say my preschooler's also enjoying her swim lessons. She bobs up, proudly floating with her foam barbells and gives me a cartoony thumbs up. She is convinced she can already swim now ("I'M A GREAT SWIMMER!) -- she *can't* -- which is a handy reminder for continued vigilance around the water.

The weather has been beautiful this week, though often a touch chilly in the mornings, which has helped with transitioning her from the pool and back into the car (damn transitions, so tricky). A young "tadpoles" class has coincided with our daughter's individual lessons, so I get to watch the parents dipping their mostly happy toddlers up-and-down up-and-down into the very shallow section, with much clapping and wide eyed encouragement. A little curlyheaded girl -- the same size, but probably two years younger -- than my daughter is intent on running away in an endearing-if-you're-not-involved fashion; the grandmother in pursuit says, "You want an extra one? You can have her for the day, no charge!" We laugh and she scoops her up in a dripping, giggling,wrestling bundle.

A few minutes later, as my daughter drags her towel slowly along the wet ground, and I trip over my feet, trying to herd her toward the locker rooms, I hear the same woman noting to her older charge: "No, I do NOT need to be yelled at again~~" I make some kind of sympathetic noise with raised eyebrows, because, I, as well, do NOT need to be yelled at again. And the shorter set do not seem hampered by us explaining this. And yet, we must start somewhere. We try not to return the yelling. We round the corner into the pre-timed showers. A different woman lathers and says grimly: "If you yell at me one more time, I'm not taking you to the library." The wet girls look indifferent, or bemused. They will most certainly yell again. The showers are short, the day is long. And for the mothers, it will most likely be longer without the library trip, but it's hard to balance it all. These interactions were oddly comforting. It is a loud time. It is a Summer of Yelling.  

Several minutes later, in a move one only expects in a sitcom, the first woman pulls next to me on the road and rolls her window down.  With the windows down, one hears a loop of hoarse endurance bellowing. The older brother, who has been chill through everything, stares straight ahead. Bright and cheery: "Offer still stands!" Oh, how I like her.

"She was at the pool," my daughter informs me. 

"Sure, just lob her through the windows!" We laugh and roll up our windows, my daughter wrinkles her brow, and off we drive.  

*especially if you dropped your phone in the car, in your mad dash over

Whatever the question, the answer is DADDY

"Put your toys away, it's dinner time." On different days I could have been saying this to a child or an adult in my house, but here I'm being called out by the wise ass bartender. I have some shrimp summer rolls to balance out a pint of sour, but am fiddling with an Instagram post, or rather my sad typing skills. I'm hunched over my phone unless I catch myself; I'm close-to-doomed posture-wise. Old Tribe Called Quest is playing and I can't resist answering that Yes, I can, kick it. Dweeby, all of it. At least I'm out.

Anyway, we are, yet again, in the midst of major transitions:

A.) The girl starts pre-school next week, three afternoons. Suddenly she won't be seeing her primary babysitter -- lovely and capable, she brought her ukelele with today, to play "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and show my daughter a couple simple chords. So sweet, it made my heart hurt. But by golly, the girl is ready for an expanded world! More people, more activities. She wakes up, asking what we're going to be doing for the day. "But where will we go??" Well. As fun as I have sometimes thought myself to be, I'm not entirely up to the role of constant entertainer.

But, so. Suddenly she will be off, for much longer periods than my usual babysitting breaks, and clearly now my personal growth will shoot forward, yes? Either obvious immersion in new creative projects or return to frequent writing and/or figuring out career goals for my imminent future. I think I may have the start of staycation syndrome: I will have a week off, now I can entirely fix my life.  I should dial it back a little, while still raising the bar for myself, if that makes sense. A little bit of a re-boot in the midst of everything. Because more changes are most definitely coming in the next couple years, so holy hell, I should take advantage of this now.

Obviously, too, it will be strange with her away from myself and the house for over 4 hours at a go, and three days in a row, but watching her at a school visit yesterday showed us (yet again) that while she sometimes holds back in larger kid groups, she will probably hold her own just fine. She has no problem correcting people about what she wants; and she will eat All the foods if you let her. They were alternately sharing thick banana slices. The teacher clarified for our daughter that the rule is, "we have two hands, so we can take two pieces at a time." "Oh," she gestured, "I can fit two in each hand~~"

B.) The Mommy Love is gone. Oh, it's just submerged! You say. Fine. I'm not fishing. But I'm used to the love fest, even in the midst of trying times (which there have been A LOT OF recently), but now it's Daddy this and Daddy that. There was always the puppy love, on the evenings he came home before her bedtime, he has always been a bit halo-ed, BUT. Last week:

Moments after I came home, to relieve the babysitter: "I wish DADDY was here. I just LOVE HIM SO MUCH."

"I know, but he's at work. How much do you love Mommy?"

"I LOVE DADDY SO MUCH. I just love you a little."  So this + LOTS of *Ahem* oppositional behavior = AWESOME TIMES. Possibly exceeding my patience levels. I mean, it takes all the affection to deal with someone hitting you, kicking you, and then demanding block tower time (in which, make no mistake, she will bully you about all your block decisions).

At the preschool visit yesterday, the little ones were doing "journalling," which involved them drawing pictures of their family, and telling the teacher what they wanted written about the page.     "Daddy!" she called, in syrupy tones across the room,"I drew a piiiiiiicture of you!"  The teacher prompted her about other family people to add. "There's no one else I want to draw," my daughter said. Decisively. Rick touched his forehead to my shoulder, while he shook with silent laughter. I understand this is developmentally normal. But experientially? NOT A FAN OF THIS PHASE.

This morning, she begged and pleaded for her father to get up, who was intent on sleeping in. "I want one of you to come see me in my room, I mean NOT YOU MOMMY, I mean DADDY but both of you. DADDY GET UP" I was, naturally, happy to sleep in; but eventually when Rick came to fetch me, he was followed by the little one, bellowing at me, "DON'T GET UP, MOMMY DON'T GET OUT OF BED, YOU DON'T, STAY IN BED, NOT YOU"  which really didn't inspire a rise-and-shine attitude. After I shifted to the kitchen, it was followed by more bellowing: "STOP TALKING, DON'T SPEAK!!!!" I drank coffee at the dining room table, while she ran between the kitchen and the living room. My groggy lack of interaction failed to appease, as she ran through, silently mouthing, "DON'T SPEAK" while holding her hand like a stop sign in my face. Mmmmhmmm. I may be rather old, but I will surely enjoy preschool this time around. 

Lunch Hour Takes a Dangerous Turn

A trio of the BigHeaded Dead, Art Institute of Chicago

Hey did you read my awesome and only post from last month, about the "Making Home" exhibit at the DIA, my subsequent Gregory Crewdson documentary watching* and brooding? Right? Right. I wrote it over several days, as it was difficult to carve out one chunk of time. Multiple saving somehow foiled by the sorry, mysterious black hole that is my glitchy, glitchy macbook pro, which Geniuses (insert copyright) nevertheless insist is healthy, robust. But, so. Obviously I have gotten over this by now, but life is busy, and clearly there are way worse things to brood over. And, were one more evolved, one would skip the brooding in any case, because life will beat it out of you anyway, why hurry this along?

So, bigger things. like guns. Today is Tuesday and my 3 year old has just paused from cramming ravioli into her mouth to ask, "What are guns?" Unh. We have already been having BI-Zarre chats about death of late, as her father took her to a memorial the weekend before last. But here we are, in Terry Gross land, not even coverage of a mass shooting or even a murder, but a director and actor interview. To be honest, I really haven't become adept at switching the radio, CDs, or TV to shield her ears, but it would seem the time to start has already passed. I still catch myself exclaiming at fellow drivers, though the backseat driver instantly provides a tonally accurate replay: "WHY DID YOU SAY: 'You've gotta be kidding me?'" Her remarkable, relentless attention is catching up with me. So. the director of Taxi Driver has just told Terry that at a certain point of his life, he just slept better with a gun under his pillow. And I internally cringed, because I can think of few things which would make me feel more threatened than having a gun nearby. Cue preschooler head swinging my way, pesto-greasy fist paused by her mouth: "What are guns?" To be exact, she actually pronounces it like gum,  as in the oddity we chew, which she also just noticed for the first time this week.

This isn't a setup for a lucid crossing over of the preschool-middle aged divide. More of a chagrined fumbling of information, tossed up into the air, while I watch for reactions, and add more topics to google in relation to childhood development. I am wearing a carefully neutral face. Well, I note, they are things that some people own. They are made to hurt or kill animals or people. How can any of this make sense?  Most of the time, police officers or soldiers have guns. But they try to use them to protect people in dangerous situation. Clearly this makes NO sense, on top of being vastly untrue in uncountable instances. But sometimes other people will have guns. She is trying hard and I'm not giving her a lot here to go on. "...And doctors! They have gums, to help people--"

"--No. Doctors NEVER use guns in their work, because shooting a gun wouldn't heal anyone and that's their whole job, to help people by healing them. Guns are very, very dangerous and police and soldiers have special training to know how to use them. When you shoot a gun at someone you really hurt them--"

"--bandaids--"

"Nope, this is a HUGE owie. Some people can be fixed in the hospital from being shot, but some people DIE-"

"-and THEN they are put in a museum." This she delivers with triumphant satisfaction. For the past six months or so, she has been adamant that dead people show up in museums without fail, which I kinda get, what with all the galleries of Western portraiture and disturbingly lifelike sculptures.  I won't lie: this is one of my favorites of her kid-logic conclusions.

"Well noo, remember Daddy mentioned the cemetery? People are usually buried there. But not everyone dies from being shot. But it's a big enough owie that it changes you, being shot."

 "I could shoot a gum--"

"NO you could NOT shoot a gun, it's VERY. DANGEROUS. That's not -"

"I could put a gum in my mouth like this" and puts fingers in her mouth to demonstrate, as if it were a carrot stick or her Crayon toothbrush or the (annoying) wrong end of her spoon. And the last two bits to me solidified why to never ever have a gun in a house with children: had she even heard suicides mentioned or that specific threat? "NO, that would NEVER be something for you to do, that would give you a HUGE OWIE. This is not something for children to use."

I think that was about it for the exchange, outside of various lame attempts to follow up questions.  How does it make people hurt? What's a bullet? How does it help you to sleep better? All horrifying and mystifying, collectively speaking. Would we be talking about sex by weeks' end? Which would be a relief, by comparison. I periodically remind myself that most people don't remember things earlier than five years, but it's not like I'll suddenly be up for impromptu disquisitions on man's inhumanity to man when she turns five. I know that no parent has all the answers, and that simply acknowledging that is okay, too. But how to arm them (ha) with enough age appropriate knowledge, without scarring them? Clearly, she will need to know the world has tragedy, horrible misfortune, hatred and evil in it, but please, just not yet.

Related articles on talking with young children about gun violence offer some tips -- one sentence stories for the very young, stressing that parents do everything to keep them safe -- brief searches on talking to kids about guns at all yielded talking points for combating children's curiosity, in a household with guns.

So far, no subsequent gun talk, but this: "GROSS means yucky but ALSO is someone on the radio. GROSS is a name."

*splendidly, luxuriantly over-the-top in terms of physical setup and resulting atmospheric narratives

Trader Joes: Now with 20% More Naps

So I had a throw-back moment of bliss yesterday afternoon. Not pre-baby, but mannnnnn. The briefest of recaps: my daughter is three. That's it. Now all those who were silent when the "OH MY GOD the TWOs" were having their say, they have now stepped up to say, "Okay the TWO's? They don't know what they were talking about it, because it's three that's the nightmare, it's fshhhhhhhewwwooo, it will knock you on your ass, seriously." I am in agreement, because about two weeks before the 3rd birthday, all the crazy-ass supreme leader tendencies jacked up ten levels, and we were, indeed, all fshhhhhhhewwwooo. As your little one grows, the frequency with which very earnest loved ones and strangers admonish you to "CHERISH EVERY MOMENT" decreases, which --lovely intent aside --  also decreases overall cortisol levels and lowers the probability of seemingly random punches.

So the 3.0 child is 20% more awesome and nth% more trying, so it all depends on the moment over here. She talks/sings/demands through the one naptime, is exceedingly vocal about all her caprices; and is adept at trying to shift the daily narratives ("MOMMY, YOU are not COOPERATING with ME!").  It could be said I exist in parallel: I'm variously vocal about my caprices, am also crafting the daily narrative, but here we diverge -- I long for the shutdown, the quiet renewal. Would that I had a calm nap time, I would gloriously bask. The closest we ever get to naps these days are sporadic car naps, with those figuring in once every three weeks or so. I'd say the last two minutes of our ten minute drive to Trader Joe's she succumbed. Out like a light: I lifted her out of the car seat, with no stirring. Experimentally, I sat us down on a bench by the entrance and she snored softly. Her weight eased against me, her legs dangling on either side of my hips.  I closed my eyes, felt the warm spring breeze and the sun on my face, heard grocery cart clangs and people on their phones. Pat Benatar gave way to "Sussudio" to T'Pau to Soft Cell and I felt mildly shamed to fall so clearly into a target demographic -- I was alternately appalled by the cheese and delighted by old favorites, but I knew every song from its first sound.

Better than sleep? Total relaxation, without oblivion.  And this child, sleeping on me, with the freedom to just sit and feel it. I don't remember when this last occurred. And how often will it happen in the future? She woke up a couple times, looked in my face, frowned, and plunked her head back down on my chest. She was determined not to go anywhere. I caught up on bookmarked articles on my phone, nodded at passersby. We started our shopping trip after an hour, while she was still woozy with sleep, and disinclined to engage with random shoppers who wanted the boost of momentary kid time. By the time we reached the nearest park, however, she was full of vim and vinegar. She noted the park was filled with people. "I will tell them about my scooter," she said before bellowing: "KIDS!!! I HAVE...A SCOOTER!!!" The 7 year olds on the soccer field took no notice. She pursed her lips and gazed around, before spying a brother and sister at a nearby play structure. I unbuckled her scooter helmet and off she ran.

Decoding the World, One Stall at a Time

“There are no showers in here,” my daughter observed. I was squatting before her, holding her square on a toilet.

“It’s true, restaurant bathrooms don’t have showers. They don’t expect you to take a shower here.” We processed this new bit together. We switched spots and she placed little hands on my waist and thigh: “I will hold you, so you don’t fall in,” I thanked her and she purred, “It’s okayyyyyy, You’re fine. I won’t let you fall in. Because you’re a sweetie.” Which is not why I refrain from letting her fall in, though it’s nice to hear: she’s in a highly contrarian phase and it’s safe to say we’re both exhausted at morning's end/ afternoon's end/day’s end. 

Afterward she chattered to a polished woman using the nearest sink. The young woman gave her a pained, tight-lipped smile, and briskly shook water from her hands before exiting. I reiterated that outside of Daddy and Mommy, who are very proud, people probably don’t want to hear about her bathroom accomplishments. “But why?? WHY?” Her response was equally as pained as the woman's expression had been; I did my best to clear matters up. 

For the moment. Because there are so many why's throughout the day, so many mysterious basics to nail down. Not to mention the larger, more complex issues which dog our existence through adulthood. I confess, I often get a kick out of some of the easy ones -- it's like I'm a tour guide, helping to decode the odd ways of a strange place. Often the question momentarily startles me, as I'm yet again brought back to a large gap in understanding some aspect of our daily life. How busily the babies/toddlers/preschoolers must puzzle together all levels of existence. Astounding. So it's nice to get the questions wherein you may simply say, "Ahh, this is a paperclip, we use it to attach papers to each other; this is a penny, we don't eat them"* vs. rambling discussions of how currency is valued, how monetary value and people's worth become linked; how governments can choose to actively grow glaring inequalities...

Obviously, these conversations are farther off, though death is already popping up (courtesy even-the-sanitized fairy tales). While I try not to sugar coat things for her, so far I have sidestepped defining "guillotine."  I know the Madeline books were written in a different time, but why include a guillotine??? Bah. Ahh that Peppito... 

But to return to potty training. As I'm sure that's what you'd prefer to read about. I'm not a fan of potty humor/body humor. Never have been. I don't think I'm squeamish, but it just leaves me cold. So, I get not wanting to engage with random young folk about their bodily functions -- though I like to think pre-parent me wouldn't have been huffy about it. But I have begun to understand that to be in tune with where my daughter is turns out to demand a letting go of my attachment to some societal niceties. She may turn to stranger-you and brag about her poop, or check in about whether you have a penis; or loudly sing variations of POOP(/Y) and PEE to the tune of Annie's "Tomorrow."** And we can teach her the gradual lessons of propriety, but they won't take effect for quite some time. It still makes me cringe a little, but also laugh. It's probably good for me. A little less propriety and a little more devil-may-care can't hurt. And on balance, it beats a scream-crying fit any day of the week.

*also perfect illustrations of how even the "easy" questions beget answers leading to more questions. 
**Also, relating to propriety and boundaries, privacy still holds some mystery to her. I was in the bathroom, alone, until her appearance; she announced," I will close the door so you can have PRIVACY". She certainly closed the door, but with both of us inside. She smiled proudly at me, and twiddled the shower curtain.

Your Birthday was Gross; Separately, Puppy Prints!

Vinology lowered their lights drastically at 6 PM on the nose, and the music developed a heavier, echoey beat, but on the booth side of the restaurant, the two filled tables are doing nothing to add to the hip, safely dangerous feel. There's me, who's drinking but wearing my knotted up scarf against the chill; and the family next door celebrating one of their two young adolescent's birthdays. The kids are mostly game, though McDonald's was mentioned wistfully. The mother started with brief  "how you were born"/ wonder of life anecdotes. The kids are mostly grossed out and no less confused for her forthright manner.

The girl, accusingly: "The baby PEED inside of you," as in: you allowed this to happen and you are, by extension, gross.

Mom: Well, no, not exactly, when you are pregnant, you are feeding the baby inside of you, and there is hardly any waste, because the baby is using everything to grow, to develop~~

Girl: ****

Boy, helpfully, to girl: You peed from your mouth.

Girl: No.

*****
So, on that note, I'm out of the house, and Javier's putting Oyo* to bed this evening. Given her current habits, she will likely sing over him tunelessly while he reads to her, attempt to climb over him to the reverse side of the glider chair, as if she would flip into some grand new world; and then whisper-coo "Daddy Daddy Daddy" at him from the crib in an obvious attempt at re-engagement. But, uh, I'm away from that. I guess this is what happens, right?

Summer has blurred into Fall, with plenty of gorgeous, refreshing days. The Moppet is tossing out various new word surprises every couple of days, though some are only discernible to Javier and myself. Yes! has been added to Yeah, 'ouse has appeared for buildings, a few key people have their own lovingly-but-consistently garbled names (Sadie reads as Adezede in her brain somehow); she is still on a mission to grab as many balls as she can.

I am down to three blocks left to carve for the Cakeasaurus picture book, woohoo!

Separately, I found time to do my first pet commission (linocut):

I'm pretty excited about this new design, both its finished state, as well as the potential it represents for future work (view Etsy listing here). I was dismayed to encounter a bit of printing difficulty on a mechanical level, though I have leads on some different routes to take for other larger soft linoleum cuts. Hmmm and hmm. It had been so long since I tried to print anything other than my usual shina plywood on the wheeled press, that it didn't even occur to me that something significantly softer would need such different attention. SO very much easier to carve, but much harder on my hands and wrists to print. Minor aging complaints...

*the one year old, whose name expires in March 2017. never use ages for nicknames! Should be obvious, yet this is the third time I have done it (prior instance: two adorable sisters, separated by one year in age)

Doom, Doom, DOOM!...Or maybe not. WE ARE THE 30%!

...A little less than a third, lacking the outrage of the 99, or the extensive funds of the 1%... {From yesterday}

For some reason, a study that appeared in Demography journal, which Washington Post summarized last Summer has been newly shared by Facebook friends today. The study was yet another that concluded having children negatively impacts a couple's happiness; and I was drawn to it like the cliched moth to its flame. This focused on 2,000+ German participants. The Post headlined it as follows: "It turns out parenthood is worse than divorce, unemployment — even the death of a partner" Niiiiiice. To be fair, about 30% of participants remained roughly as happy as they had been, prior to their first child; but the remaining 70% decreased one to three units in the happiness scale. The surprising part? Gender not a factor.

The heartening thing was that this tracked the FIRST year of baby life, which everyone says is the hardest (in some ways) and HELLO OYO is...well, oyo. Fourteen months, as of tomorrow, so it seems we have come through the fire just fine, bumps included. Javier and my relationship is relatively young, though, so we were dealing with A.) a first pregnancy at the same time as B.) combining households, which I resisted in a skittish way for a little bit and then C.) dealing with everything within my previously owned house instead of having a new neutral space and D.) long work hours from Javier, which he has always been upfront about and does his best to counterbalance. See? You get a broad study, and then one reads it, and tries to make the results fit or not fit at a specific personal, anecdotal level. Ahhhh, solipsism!

...Anyway it cracked me up to see FB friends posting the link: single, no kids: "Enough said"; married, kids "It's the kid's fault!" Heh. Obviously, as a relatively new mother, my feelers are out for all of this kind of talk/coverage. Plus, as someone in a committed relationship of under three years, I still swing between blissful gratefulness, cartoony aggravation (head blows up! yet character still animated!) and grim, push-through-it "Oh we CLEARLY have a lot to work on in communication." Outside of couplehood, I feel like I have managed to maintain a separate life beyond parenting -- though I imagine it would be an entirely different story without money enough for regular babysitting and a partner who values my creativity and independence. No money, at all, at all? With a baby who slept poorly through the first year (not a fault of Oyo. She does fluky things like waking up for the past two nights at 1 AM, for roughly an hour, talking to herself amiably; but sleeps well generally) ? Intermittent homicidal feelings and despair would be the norm, and *natural* I'd assume...

As it is, here I sit in a nice corner of a dark basement level restaurant for happy hour (optimistically rebranded as "Charming Hour" on the menu). When I entered it was empty, aside from a handful of industry folk shoring themselves for their evening shift; but suddenly the room has grown boisterous. Lesson from the next table: Champagne is a teenage drink ("You know, it's close to soda," WHATTTT). An older man is trying to woo younger women at the bar's end by quoting Friends episodes: Stop now. 

****** ...And I also needed to stop then, as my playtime was up. Happy Wednesday, Everyone! For those for whom days of the week have less meaning, Happy...Day!