Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting

Roar.

Bea shuffled hesitantly up to Santa. She wouldn't sit on his lap, but consented to stand in front of him for a little tête-a-tête.

Santa: Have you been a good girl this year?

Bea: [long, awkward pause] Nooooooo. I on red. 

Santa: That's okay. What do you want for Christmas?

Bea: I want a dinosaur! And a reindeer! And a ghost!

The next long, awkward pause belonged to Santa. 

To his credit, he came through on all three fronts. Bea had a ghost flashlight in her stocking, a pair of reindeer slippers, and more dinosaurs than any one child needs. Oh, and a tiger that clearly really just wants to be a dinosaur. He keeps trying to hang out with the prehistoric crowd.

First order of business: A picnic. What dinosaur doesn't like gummy sharks? 

Arms too short to reach the gummy deliciousness? No problem. Bea was happy to hand-feed the T.Rex. 

 The rest of the day (okay, who am I kidding? The rest of the holiday vacation) was one long roar-fest. I'm not sure how that child still has a voice after all the dinosaur roaring and growling she's done. At top volume, of course. Dinosaurs aren't quiet.

A few days ago, Bea acquired a remote-controlled T. Rex. He roars on his own. He walks. He scares the crap (literally) out of Folly bird. He also cheats at the dinosaur races Bea sets up. Picture all the dinosaurs (and the tiger) in a nice row. "Ready? Set? GO!"  "AW! T. Rex win AGAIN!!" 

Bits and pieces

Because this fall is kicking my butt and I can't get it together to blog regularly.

* * * *

Liv is working on a solo modern dance piece for her CAPA audition this fall. She has a weekly 1:1 with the patient and kind and fun director of her dance studio; so far they've picked the music and choreographed the required 60 second piece. Now, lots of practice, practice, practice.

I've never seen my kid do something like this before, and I'm fascinated (and proud). Watching her work out the steps she wants to include, then figure out the order and timing of them, then pull it all together... it's pretty amazing. She has always danced as part of a group before, and always to choreography the instructors determine. 

She's having a fantastic time, too. She leaves the studio happy and excited every week. Even if she doesn't get into CAPA, this has been a good experience for her. A stretch goal, as my boss would say. 

* * *

John and Bea emerged from the playroom the other morning.  "We just spent an hour down there playing a new game: Flying reindeer that shoots out of its butt."

For some reason, he felt compelled to add a disclaimer: "It was not my idea." 

Bea is on a one-preschooler crusade to take out the bad guys in our house. (And Waterworks shopping center. And Trader Joe's. And the library. And Chinese school.) Apparently, there are a lot of bad guys out there. And you can shoot them with a flying reindeer's butt. Or the engines on the back of a space shuttle. Really, anything will work as long as you can fly it around and make "pewpewPEW pew pew PEW PEW" noises.

Every so often, Bea shapeshifts and becomes a dinosaur or Simba and eats the bad guys. I love those nights because I don't have to cook dinner.

* * *

I am on a parking ticket roll. Which is, um, not a roll anyone really wants to be on. First it was street cleaning (my car was parked on the wrong side of the road).

Then it was an expired meter at CMU, where it costs a quarter for every 7 minutes and the meter helpfully ate three of my quarters before giving me any time at all.

Then it was a ticket for not lining up my car properly with the meter on Forbes in Squirrel Hill. REALLY? I paid the meter, but the people in front of me were parked askew of their meters and therefore, my meter was next to my passenger door (gasp!) rather than the hood. The meter lady (and it is indeed a lady; I see her stalking her prey mercilessly) must have been in a spectacularly awesome mood that day.

Dear Pittsburgh Parking Gods: Uncle.

* * *

Bea's vocabulary continues to be... unique. Her latest is "louding." She demands, "Stop loudin' at me!" when she wants us to stop yelling. We overhear a lot of  "I'm gonna loud at you!" when she's displeased with her sister. 

* * *

I think I need this chicken. It will be on my Christmas list. My new year's resolution will be "figure out how that damn chicken sees where it's going."

 

(Thanks to a friend (J) for introducing me to this ridiculous chicken. Picture from the My Pet Chicken website.)

 

Ni Hao... Ow

My brain, it hurts. 

We started Chinese school on Sunday. And by "we" I mean all four of us. It's something we want to do for Bea, John and I both want to learn more Mandarin, and, well, Liv can't stay home by herself for three or fours hours every Sunday afternoon. 

I knew only vaguely what to expect based on various Chinese American friends' comments ("I HATED Chinese school." "Worst way to spend a Sunday, ever.")

Okay, got it. Place parents love to send their kids 'cause it's important, but place kids hate to go. Sounds like the dinner table, the grocery store, and bed. 

(Aside: it's fantastic to live in a city where we have a Chinese school, especially such a large one. I don't know how many different classes there are, but all three floors of Alderdice High School were full of Chinese families shuttling children and grandchildren to language and culture classes.)

As we pulled up to the school, I noticed that every kid had a backpack. Crap. Guess what neither of our kids had? Note duly made for next week: Kids need backpacks.

First up for everyone: Two hours of language class. We deposited little Bea in her classroom, where she sat dubiously in her big honking school desk (those things never change, do they?) wondering what the hell we'd gotten her into. Apparently she declined to participate but also did not run screaming out of the room or sit in a corner throwing things. I call that a win, my friends. 

Liv knew two girls in her language class (neither of them speak Chinese) so she was cool with being dropped off there.

John and I started out as the only people in our class. Awkward. Then a returning student showed up. Then one of the school administrators showed up with three others in tow. Less awkward.

But HARD. OMG, so hard. You might remember that I taught myself some caveman Mandarin (or, more accurately, toddler Mandarin) before we met Bea since she didn't speak any English at all. We've kept up with some of the phrases over the last 18 months, but I know my pronunciation is scary and I'm uncomfortably sure that I've got the tone of Bea's name wrong and am actually calling her a fish (same word, different tone).

So, yeah. I need some real instruction, not just self-study podcasts.

I'd forgotten how hard it was to spend hours struggling to pronounce words correctly, to remember what stuff is called, or to be able to pick out enough familiar words from someone's sentence to piece together a possibly plausible but usually wildly inaccurate meaning. "Oh! I recognized the word for 'three' in there. I bet she was asking if I rode my three zebras to school today!" (Because totally, why wouldn't she ask that?)

Most useful thing I learned today: How to tell Bea to be quiet. Really. When the teacher asked what kind of sentences we wanted to learn, everyone sat there and just stared at her. Before I realized what had happened, I'd blurted out, "How do I tell my kid to be quiet?" That phrase -- ānjìng --  is gonna get a lot of use around here.

Most random thing I learned today: I apparently cannot write normal-sized Chinese characters. They are GINORMOUS. It's embarrassing. I went through about 10 pages in my notebook yesterday because my characters are roughly the size of Texas.

In stark contrast: Bea apparently understood most everything perfectly (she'd do whatever the teacher asked in Chinese). She didn't really speak, and only participated a little bit, but said "I like it!" on the way home. I'm thrilled she still remembers so much; I was afraid she'd forgotten it. Her little mind amazes me.

Seagoggles, seashovels, and lots of sand

The beach is one of my happy places. As long as Olivia hasn't watched Shark Week, it's one of her happy places, too. I wasn't sure about Bea, but I suspected she'd love it because, really, the opportunity to get wet and to dig and to run? How could she NOT love that?

As usual, I was right. (Ahem.)

She braved the waves a few times, but mostly preferred stomping in the foamy, swirling edges. She and the surf had a love/hate relationship that week. She loved it as long as it was lapping gently at her feet or knees, but the occasional in-your-face wave was just plain insulting.

  

Liv also had a love/hate relationship with the water for two reasons:

(1) As luck would have it, it was Shark Week and Liv happened to turn on the TV one morning before the rest of us were downstairs. PSA: Don't let your kids watch Shark Week while at the beach. 

(2) She decided to try bodyboarding. When she hit the wave just right, it was awesome. When she didn't... well, let's say that she learned why rash guards and board shorts exist. She also had a whole lot of unwanted neti-pot-like sinus washes. ;-) 

The week was mostly about digging giant holes in the sand (said Ashley, "That's not a hole, that's a hot tub"), handing out endless squeezy yogurt and applesauce, and watching the kids run like maniacs along the water's edge. Bea? She's FAST. So fast that she and Jack would scare the bejeebers out of me because they were so far ahead of the rest of us. I had to shove aside my hatred of running and sprint after them. 

We spent the mornings and evenings looking for "seashovels" (sea shells) and I taught the kids the fine art of feeding in-flight seagoggles (sea gulls) popcorn and Cheez-Its. Bea learned how to use the outdoor hose to de-sand herself and I suspect she is lamenting the return to regular, indoor bathing now that we are home. 

My super power

Everyone has a super power, though sometimes it's not a very useful super power. Like, say, the ability to catch every illness your kid brings home. Or the ability to lose the same fingernail four times. Those are some super powers I could do without.

Anyway, I realized at 4:26 this morning that my super power has got to be the Mom Arm.

I suspect anyone who has ever been in the front of the car with a mom knows the most common manifestation of this super power. Before the brakes even slam on, the Mom Arm is all the way across the seat because clearly it can do a better job than the seatbelt when it comes to keeping you in your seat and not in the windshield. 

I have that manifestation, definitely. Even though my kids don't yet ride in the front seat, I can't stop my arm from shooting across the car before I stop suddenly. My gym bag and the groceries and the library books are very grateful, I'm sure.

The Mom Arm is also useful when preventing Bea from touching every. single. thing on a table or a counter. I see the gleam in her eye, the slight movement forward... BAM! The Mom Arm is immediately there between her and whatever shiny objects she longs to paw. 

This morning, I realized its best manifestion. When Bea appears at the side of my bed and starts to climb in, I automatically put out my arm to slow her down and protect my eyeballs and kidneys and other sensitive bits. Today, the Mom Arm touched damp pajamas and immediately stiffened and pushed the Pull-Up-free (whoops) child away from the bed before I was even fully awake. 

Mom Arm, I love you. Thanks to your quick reflexes and emergency actions, I only had to wash one set of sheets this morning instead of two.

Too trusting

Olivia beckoned to her little sister. "Hey, Bea, look down in this hole!"

You can see where this is going, right?

Itchy Frog (and the Street People) In the Woods

Although no one can remember how it started (or, uh, wants to claim responsibility for its origins), P-Street camping is an annual event. We pack up our kids, our cars, our coffee, and our potentially bad choices (swinging from the cabin roof, anyone?) and head to Laurel Hill State Park. 

This year marked Bea's and Itchy Frog's first camping adventure. It did not begin auspiciously. Thursday evening:

"Bea, we're going camping tomorrow! We're going to sleep in our sleeping bag in a cabin."

"Camping?! Where?"

"In the woods."

"In the WOODS?? Ewwwwww. I no like the woods."

Luckily, she'd forgotten about her distate for the woods by the time we drove into the park. "I'm inna forest, mama! Itchy Frog inna forest! I like the forest!"

We spent Friday night watching the kids run around like maniacs, practicing our Karate Kid balancing skills on the slackline, and trying to figure out the rules to some crazy card game. I lost, spectacularly. Luckily, an epic meltdown from Bea saved me from further humiliation. "I no wanna go pee inna woods! I no wanna go bed inna woods! I wanna go home!"

After a rough night and a "people, what the hell am I doing in the middle of the woods" wakeup the next morning, we set off to collect Liv from her (nearby) sleepaway camp. Good morning, sunshine...

Bea and Itchy Frog had some more good firsts on Saturday. 

(1) First trip to the beach (the park has a lake with a little beach area). Based on Saturday's experience, our family beach trip this month is going to be the best thing to ever happen to Bea. She dug and swam and dug and swam and really did not want to leave. Itchy Frog just relaxed in the chair and kept himself hydrated.

(2) First time roasting marshmallows on a stick. Or, in Bea parlance, snowman. No clue where she got that, but she insisted on "making a snowman" then refused to eat it. No worries, though - Liv and the other big kids selflessly powered through all the roasted snowmen.

Mother Nature sent an awesome deluge our way right as we were all cooking dinner outside. For the record, 14 kids and 11 adults in one little camping cabin is, um, cozy. Also for the record, Bea lost The Quiet Game in the first few seconds. Shocking, I know.

They got a little goofy after that. Bottoms up...

There was a lot of bacon on Sunday morning (and possibly a grease fire or two), a captured frog, and some spontaneous ice cream for second-breakfast on the way home. 

 

Olivia's favorite part was the slackline. Bea's favorite part was sleeping in the cabin. And, according to Bea, Itchy Frog's favorite part was simply sleeping.

Personally, I think he looks like he's enjoying the beach. 

 

 

Hey, Kool-Aid!

It turns out that Kool-Aid is not just an excellent thirst quencher for those poor, parched children at school dances and playgrounds. (If you don't rememember those fantastically creepy ads, scroll down. I can't decide if it's awesome or scary that YouTube exists to preserve all this shit.)

It turns out that Kool-Aid makes an excellent hair dye. 

One Thursday, I got a call from daycamp. "This is the counselor, and the girls are planning to dye their hair with Kool-Aid. Um, is that okay with you?" Honestly, it's hair. I really don't care. (See: permanent red streaks in Liv's hair last winter, thanks to Tom's haircoloring awesomeness.) A tattoo? No. Hair dye? Sure.

That afternoon she came home smelling like grape Kool-Aid, but with the same dark brown hair she'd had in the morning. There was disappointment. There was gnashing of teeth. There was googling. There was an a-ha moment as Liv realized that she needed to boil unsweetened Kool-Aid with a small amount of water in order for it to take. (They used a big canister of already sweetened stuff, mixed with regular amounts of water.)

A few days later, I found my kitchen full of the neighborhood girls and pots of steaming green, red, and blue Kool-Aid concentrate.

Note for next time: More parental intervention might be necessary to ensure that when the girls "do the tips" they don't actually do half of their head. Not that this happened with the green Kool-Aid or anything. 

Oh yeah.

--------------------------

Ah, the Kool-Aid pitcher man. Pretty sure his motto was "Never use a door when there's a wall or ceiling to smash instead!"

 

 

Eleven

Olivia, today you are eleven. ELEVEN. 

That is unreal, not just because it's been a long time and you're becoming so grown up, but also because you have had way more than your fair share of falls from playhouses, whacks to the head with balls/concrete/blunt objects, and random injuries. It was no accident that I picked this particular gift bag for you.

Yet, as much as you are accident-prone in everyday life, you are graceful and elegant on stage when you dance. You've made so much progress this year and I'm proud of how hard you've worked.

You are a fantastic combination of girly-girl and tomboy. You can stare at yourself in the mirror for ages making sure I didn't get any lumps in your pony tail and checking whether your necklace matches your shirt, but then you're off to muck around in the creek and conduct funerals for dead birds. You like spas and climbing walls, maxi dresses and ripped jean shorts, museums and water balloon battles.

Reading is still one of your favorite things to do, and you'll happily re-read books two, three, even four times. You spend your time online goofing around on email and Poptropica and YouTube (I'm pretty sure you've watched that One Direction interview about girls who like carrots no fewer than 942 times), and you've got some crazy obsession with this funky mermaid show filmed in Australia. 

This has been the summer of hanging out on the porch across the street. You all (and this includes the boys, after two summers of avoiding them like the plague) spend hours making up dances, singing, and just talking. 

Like your little sister, you have a lot of silly in you. It's nearly impossible to get a decent picture of you, one that doesn't involve your tongue, a scowl, or some other goofy expression. You love to do and say ridiculous things to make others laugh, and you have a great sense of humor. (Um, as long as your parents aren't the ones making the joke; in that situation, you've perfected the eyeroll and the drawn-out, exasperated "maaaaaahhhhmmmm.")

 

 

It feels strange to not see you on your birthday, but I feel sure you're being appropriately celebrated at camp. I hope you enjoy the freaky owl sleep mask I left for you, and that you use it wisely. Creeping out your cabinmates and counselor is always fun. 

You were so outgoing and confident when I left you this weekend, chattering with your new friends about Kool-Aid hair dye, spiders, and swim tests. I've always admired your ability to dive right in to any social situation and hold your own, and I love that you have the kind of heart that assumes that of course everyone is going to be friends and be nice. Yes, it's caused some tears when you've discovered otherwise, but please, don't ever give up your willingness to assume the best about people. 

At eleven, you are stuck between childhood and adolescence. One minute you're playing Ghost in the Graveyard with the Street Kids, and the next you're squeeing over One Direction and getting phone calls from boys. There have been just as many tears as joyous moments this year as you've started negotiating that ugly terrain called pre-adolescence. 

   

This has been a tough year for you -- for us -- but I want to make sure that you know this: I love you deeply and fiercely and even when we fight, I will never, ever, not once stop loving you. Happy birthday, Livvy-Lu.

 

 

Fantastic, feisty, (almost) fearless four

Happy fourth birthday, Beatrix. I'm not sure you quite understand the concept of birthdays -- and specifically your own birthday -- but you definitely dig the singing and cake and candles at all the birthday parties you've been to. 

You are a strong, beautiful, smart girl with an uninhibited -- and mostly joyful --  approach to just about everything. Playing airplanes, declaring yourself the line leader, burping, launching yourself into the pool, going on field trips, stating your disapproval with bath/bedtime/the consumption of beans... You still have your moments of shyness around strangers or in new situations (see: first dance class debacle), but those are becoming less frequent.

You love Dora (often rolling over in bed and asking in a sleep-husky voice, "I watch Dohrwa?" before saying anything else), trucks, airplanes, blocks, puzzles, and animals. Oh, and eating. Yogurt, cheese, pasta, quinoa (which for some inexplicable reason you call "raisins"), berries, cannAHlope (cantalope), watermelon... Your teachers are often amazed at the amount of food you consume for lunch. You think you like ice cream, but I'm not convinced you really do. More research needed, I think.

Playing ball is still one of your favorite things to do, and you're pretty darn good at dribbling, catching, throwing, and kicking. You're not bad with a bat and ball, either, even if the bat was a play broom and the ball was a Ni Hao Kai-Lan doll (Ni-Hao Ball, John called it). 

If you came with a volume control, I haven't found it yet. I have no idea how so much sound can come from such a small human. In particular, playing airplanes apparently requires top volume the entire time you zoom your plane full of pigs, Dora, whales, and Little People around the house. (See?  Pigs DO fly.)

You did come with an awesome sense of humor, though. You laugh often and I hear a lot of, "You funny, mama. You a silly goose!" Finally, someone who appreciates my humor. You love being silly or watching someone else be silly. Making funny faces, concocting spectacular crashes, putting Itchy Frog in weird poses, hearing we're eating elephants and spiders for dinner... all of these things make you giggle. 

  

Trying to pry information out of you requires CIA-like skills. For example, the other night I asked you about your field trip to Phipp's Conservatory.  

"Bea, what did you see on your field trip today?"

"I ride bus, in the back! With Rikki. See sidewalk."

"Really? The sidewalk. Did you see anything else?"

"Nope."

"What about maybe some flowers and butterflies?"

"I ride the bus. It fun!"

"Oh, I bet you saw some croccodiles and peanut butter, though."

"NO! That's SILLY! I see butterflies!"

In all fairness, you have gotten much better at sharing what you've done during the day and at answering questions, though we still have a hard time parsing some of what you say. 

You can spell Bea (although sometimes you like to believe there are two Es and an H in there) and can recognize your full name when it's written down, either together or just first/last name. You know all your letters and their sounds, and we're starting to work on putting some of them together. You can count well, though you still refuse to acknowledge the existence of 14, 15, 16, and 17. 

Itchy Frog is still your erstwhile companion, and you had no problem eating him on your birthday cake. Neither did anyone else, apparently. The kids lined up patiently as I cut your cake; "I'm waiting for a piece of Itchy Frog, please." "Me, too!" "Can I have the eyeball?"

Speaking of cake, we celebrating your birthday with the traditional donuts for breakfast. Since Liv is going to be at camp for her birthday, she had her birthday donut, too.

Later, we had the awesome Street People come for pizza, cake, and ice cream. You had so much fun sneaking into Liv's top bunk with the other little ones, eating something like 8 pieces of pizza, and running in a pack between the playroom and the yard. It makes my heart happy to see you having so much fun.

Happy fourth birthday, my sweet girl. I am so lucky that I get to be part of your life and watch you grow.

Crash

Bea carefully lined up the Cozy Coupe across the middle of the sidewalk, picking a spot at the bottom of the gentle slope.

Then, she trotted back up the sidewalk, climbed on her bike, and started pedaling.

At first, it looked innocent enough: a girl, riding her bike down the sidewalk. As she got closer to the Cozy Coupe and began to pick up speed, I realized something: This was a girl with a mission, and that mission was to crash spectacularly into the car.

 

The trial run yielded some good data... notice that on her subsequent runs, she removed her feet from the pedals before T-boning the car. Apparently it makes for a less painful impact and a way funner crash. 

 

Bea spent the rest of the evening staging elaborate crashes, giggling more after each one. When I showed her the video later on, she laughed herself silly. "I crash! That funny!"

Ah, my sweet, delicate daughter...

Jeepers, creepers...

...where'd you get those peepers? (Not to mention, that nose...)

 

No one here will ever get scurvy

Sorry, mom, for that outburst of "holy crap!" while I was on the phone with you. I was looking at the giant freaking box of lemons and limes that Jeff hauled into my kitchen, looking at my little juicer, then looking back at that giant box.

And yes, there are exactly as many lemons and limes in that box as you imagine. Probably even more. It took me an hour and I'm still not through.

Hey, guess what? We're having margaritas tomorrow night. And the night after that. And the night after THAT. And, judging by the containers of sours mix overflowing my fridge, every night until Christmas. Mmmmmm... margaritas. I ask you: Is there any better way to prevent scurvy and get the RDA of vitamin C? 

 

 

Some kids dream of their own room. My kid dreams of her own fire truck.

When I was a kid, we had a block party every summer. Food, bike parades, water balloons, and the never-ending bingo game with the old-school ball tumbler and not a dauber in sight. 

Yes, very late 70s, early 80s. There was a lot of avocado-colored Tupperware on the potluck table and a lot of crepe streamers on the bikes' banana seats.

Good times. So good, in fact, that we have sporadically tried to do a block party here on P Street. This year, it really worked, thanks to a certain corner neighbor and her initiative to get the street closed off and circulate flyers.

The kids, who have spent their entire lives being told, "DO NOT GO IN THE STREET!" were completely baffled at first. "What do you mean, I can lay in the middle of the street like a speed bump? WHOOOOO!!! ALL RIGHT!"

Even better than being allowed to sprawl in the middle of the street? The firetruck that showed up, thanks to a neighbor's genius idea.

(Did you know you can call and order a fire truck for an event like this? Yeah. Neither did I.)

For two hours a gaggle of super nice fireman made friends with dozens of our kids and answered their eleventy billion questions and lifted them in and out of the truck and let them try on coats and masks and air tanks. There was no staying back 500 feet.

Beatrix found nirvana. That child climbed into the truck and would. not. leave. She figured out how to seat-belt herself in. She refused to budge as other kids clambered up and over her. She left only to inspect the hoses and tires, then it was back into the cab to sit happily and quietly. Honestly, I think she spent 100 of the 120 minutes in that truck. She was ready to pack her bags and move in.

And Olivia? She was just as enthralled. She impressed the firemen by being able to click out and lift the oxygen tanks and paraphernalia. She and the boys spent a good 40 minutes doing this:

   

Unsurprisingly, she was a tiny bit exhausted by the time the truck had to go...

Aside: Looks like she's ready for her first diving trip, don't you think? Mwahahahahahahaha.  

 

The flower that ate Olivia's head

I'm not kidding. See for yourself.

I can live with this. It's the only costume-y thing that the younger girls wear during the annual spring performance, and that makes my life (and my basement playroom) a lot less crazy.

This year's performance was downtown at the Byham. Liv's case of nerves ("the stage is SO big!") was soothed by the fact that they had actual dressing rooms ("they were SO cool, mom"), and she danced beautifully.

I'm so proud of her and the effort she's put forth the last 18 months. The improvement is remarkable. *mwah* to my awesome, graceful daughter. Lord knows she didn't get that grace from me, though I'm pretty sure the awesome was all my doing.

After her performance, we traipsed over to Eleven for dessert (or, in the case of Liv, dessert AND pretzels with cheddar beer sauce). 

Papa came for the weekend so he could see the performance and spend time with the girls. It was an excellent visit and it's safe to say that both girls are big fans of Papa Weekends. And not just because he convinced me to let them have their breakfast (yogurt and berries) in a waffle bowl.

He pushed Bea endlessly in the cozy coupe and played ball with her. He listened to Olivia's crazy stories about school and friends. He fed them dinner and bathed Bea and made them "movie 'nacks" (popcorn).

They loved having  some 1:1 time with him. I think it might be the first time Bea's had that (or have I once again forgotten some crucial detail of that crazy part of 2011?) and she's hooked. She fell asleep on the way to drop Papa at the airport; when she woke up, her first words were a very indignant, "Hey, where Papa?" She was not pleased with my answer.

 

Attending, Itchy Frog in a block, and mashed ants (or, random Beatrix stuff)

On any given school day, this conversation happens:

Me: "Bea, how was school today?"

Bea: "Good. I play friends. I gellah [get a] time out. No listen."

I know she's contrary at home, but now the teachers are asking if we have any suggestions for making her listen and behave. Oy.

I have finally thrown in the towel and picked up a copy of Parenting the Strong-Willed Child. Please, please, please let it help. You all, she out-stubborns ME. (Dear parents of mine, stop laughing.)

The book suggests a five-week approach to working with her; the first week is all about attending -- basically, being a blow-by-blow narrator of your child's activities. (EM, does this remind you of your dad and Daisy?) Do you KNOW how hard it is to spend 10 straight minutes without asking a question or issuing an instruction to a preschooler? Holy moly.

People, I am a question asker. "Oh, what are you doing?" "Are you swimming in the tub?" "Do you want to add another block to the tower?" "Why is Itchy Frog in a concrete block?!" 

Last night was the first attending session. It was not easy, but she really responded to it. She was so happy when we sat on the porch to play blocks and I focused on only what she was doing. "Oh, look, you put the kitty on top of the tower!" "Your blocks crashed aaalllll over the place!" She laughed and chattered and built a Duplo zoo where the lion, seal, giraffe, whale, shark, and warthog (but not the octopus) all lived together in harmony. No circle of life going on there.

So. We'll see. Fingers -- and eyes -- crossed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bea had her third cardiologist visit this week... status quo, which I can be happy about. The most interesting thing to come out of that appointment? Bea grew more than NINE INCHES over the last 14 months. No wonder all her shirts are too short.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Somewhere, the child has picked up a flair for the dramatic and an evil laugh. She hid something in her playhouse then gleefully cackled, "OH NO, we never find the tunnel NOW! Mwa ha ha ha ha ha."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

We don't have a kitchen. Instead, we have a chicken. This might be one of my favorite malapropisms.

"Mama, Itchy Frog on the chicken counter!"

"Olivia in the chicken, eatin'." 

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bea learned a rough lesson the other day. After she insisted on putting on her rainboots, she took her fashionable self out to the front porch. 

"AHHH! A ANT! I get him!"

*smash* went the water bottle on the poor little ant scurrying across the porch. "I GOT HIM! I mash a ant with-ah my water bolluh!"

She lifted up her water bottle and noticed the crumpled ant clinging to the bottom. "Mama, a ant on my bolluh. Get off, please." 

Shockingly, she did not enjoy my response of "too bad, I'm not touching that dead ant" and my subsequent picture taking. 

The lesson here: Clean your own dead ant off your water bottle.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Bea and I were sitting outside Coffee Tree Roasters in Squirrel Hill this weekend, waiting for Liv's ballet class to end. I had my latte, she had a container of yogurt (yo-lurt), and all was good. Until she finished the yogurt and wanted more. I didn't want to give up our awesome table in the sun, nor did I want to drag in my 87 pounds of library books and 10,000 Villages stuff just to snag another yogurt. "Do you think you can order it yourself?" "YES!"

I gave her a five and sent her in. She marched right up to the counter and handed over the money. I heard her say "Please have yo-lurt?" and point to the case where it was. Then I saw some back and forth between her and the barista as they figured out which flavor. Then she marched out with my change and "my raspberry yo-lurt, mama!" She was very proud of herself, and with good reason. I could not imagine this day even six months ago. Her ability to make herself understood is improving so much. 

Naps and waterfalls and curds, oh my!

This year has been particularly grueling. Work has been stressful. Teaching two classes instead of one, on top of that full-time job? Also stressful. And no matter how much I love my family, this transition kicked my butt. I know it's shocking, but Bea has a completely different personality than Olivia, and requires a completely different level of patience and parenting.

So, even when I take an hour here and there to read a book or go to the gym, I never really relax during that time. I'm always thinking about what needs to be done. Emails. Grading. Lecture prep. Vacuuming up the rhinoceros-sized birddust bunnies under Folly's cage. Dealing with the load of laundry that I meant to switch from the washer to the dryer four days ago and now have to wash again because OMG does it smell.

On one particularly horrendous day, I had an idea. "Self," I said, "you need a long weekend at a spa."

Two hours later, I had Memorial Day weekend booked at Kohler Waters Spa and I was daydreaming about not talking to anyone for an entire day. 

"You're going to a spa for four days? BY YOURSELF?" <-- The incredulous (and sometimes horrified) response I got from some. 

HELL YES. 

And people, it was the best thing I've done for myself in a long, long time. I have never (NEVER) felt that relaxed. My heart stopped doing its weird palpitating. My shoulders parted company from my ears. My brain only processed thoughts like, "I should take a nap now" and "I think I want some more cheese" and "oh, my toes are all pretty and sparkly."

First of all, the place itself was wonderful. I was greeted on Friday with a fluffy robe and a glass of champagne.  Everything I wanted or needed was either right there or just a simple request away. The people were kind and down to earth. The food... OMG, the food. Particularly the cheese and the fruit and the creme brulée french toast and the little cookies at turndown every night. 

The spa was lovely, and since it was in the same building as my room, I never had to get dressed. I seriously spent 80% of my time in my robe and slippers. Breakfast in the little nook outside the spa? Robe and slippers. Cocktail hour in the little nook outside the spa? Robe and slippers, baby. In fact, on Saturday night I cancelled my dinner reservation because I was too relaxed to put on real clothes. I ate cocktail-hour cheese and veggies and fell asleep IN THE MIDDLE OF MY KING-SIZED BED at 8:30 pm. 

I scheduled four treatments: craniosacral therapy, the body balancer, a hot stone massage, and the foot/leg treatment with pedi. The first two were nirvana. I felt like I was floating during the craniosacral treatment and promptly took a nap next to the waterfall pool after it was over. The body balancer included exfoliation, a bath, a mud wrap, and a Vichy shower and was possibly the most wonderful thing I've ever experienced in a spa. (Marred only by the promised-but-didn't-happen scalp massage.) I actually fell asleep during the foot and leg treatment (Sarah: "You didn't have a jimmy leg, did you?" Me, to self: OMG, what if I kicked the pedicure lady in the head?!).

There's a cute little village a few blocks from the spa with a cafe specializing in scrumptious chocolates and coffee, with outdoor tables next to a little lake. I had my pre-brunch coffee there on Sunday morning, and might have purchased a lot of chocolate to take home. 

 It was amazing, fabulous, peaceful, and exactly what I needed. I'm already plotting a return trip. 

5: Number of naps I took (this is miraculous -- I'm not a napper and can never relax enough to fall asleep)

1: Number of naps that involved snoring (as far as I know)

2: Number of times I doused the bathroom because I turned on the whirlpool jets before the water was high enough in the tub (some people learn from their mistakes; I am not one of those people)

14: Approximate number of pounds of cheese I ate

2: Number of friends who made me laugh til it hurt, made sure I had all the best custard and coffee and JesusMobile sightings Milwaukee offered, and schlepped out to brunch, spa, and dine with me on Sunday

 

 

It came from the deep

One way to guarantee Bea sleeps and Olivia showers: swimming. An hour in the pool and the short one can barely keep her eyes open. It's like kiddie Ambien.

Pedal pusher

My mom saved my tricycle; it's red and metal and heavy and awesome. Olivia used it, and now Bea can reach the pedals, too.

In my continuing quest to Wear Her Out For Bedtime, I took her for the first spin of the season. We went "'roun' a block" and up to the park.  

 

For those of you who saw me pushing/scootering Bea and her trike up the hill -- one foot on the back, the other foot pushing off  -- well, I apologize. I know it was a sight. However, it might have been the best quad and glute workout I've ever had.

She is such a grateful child. "Mama, thank you for bike! Thank you, mama, for Bea bike!" I love how happy something like this makes her.

 

Happy Bea-Day to us

It has been a year. Three hundred and sixty six days. (Thanks, leap year.)

 Sometimes I think, "I can't believe it's already been a year." Other times, I wonder how it's ONLY BEEN A YEAR. It feels like this kid has been part of our family forever. Try as I might, I can remember only the vaguest glimpses of life pre-Beatrix Nan Yu, much like I have trouble remembering life pre-Olivia. 

So much has happened since we first met fierce, beautiful, amazing Long Nan Yu in that government office, since she sobbed and peed on John and eventually discovered the joy of chucking batteries across the room for her new jie jie to fetch. 

When I stop and think about what we did... oh, man. We brought a 2.5-year-old kid to a completely unfamiliar place. We told her we were her mama, baba, and jie jie. We took her away from her foster mom and her ayis and from all the sights and sounds and smells she knew. She had to listen to me bust out my caveman Mandarin and probably thought, "WTH is that woman saying? Why does she want me to stop eating an aardvark? I just wanted some damn raisins." 

Things could have been SO BAD. And sometimes, frankly, they were. 

Despite any rumors to the contrary, adding a toddler to your family is not a piece of cake. I expected some difficulty, of course. What I did not expect, however, is for my 10-year-old daughter to be the major source of this difficulty. Between the OMG HORMONES angst and the upheaval, Olivia had a harder time adjusting than the rest of us. 

At times, I honestly wasn't sure who was the toddler. My lap had to become a no-sit zone because if one of them wanted to sit with me, the other did, too, and then there were all kinds of shennanigans (see: Bea licking Olivia's arm) to unseat each other. That picture over there? That was my life for months.

I'm happy to report that they now act like sisters. There are times when they are so sweet to each other, and then, well...  "Moooom, she's looking at me! She took my chair!" "Mama, Ohluhvee touch Itchy Frog! No touch!" The other night they were actually engaged in a fierce bout of tug-o-war over a stupid pink Terrible Towel. 

Parts of the attachment process have been hard, too. For months, if I dared to walk down the stairs and didn't wait to hold Bea's hand or carry her, she collapsed into a heap of snot and sobs for a good twenty minutes. It made ferrying the laundry up and down the stairs super fun, let me tell you. Even more fun that it normally is. 

I often think about how scary this transition must have been for her, and it breaks my heart. Every time she'd wake up sobbing in the night and was simply unconsolable, I cried, too. There were mornings where she wouldn't utter a word, wouldn't eat, wouldn't use the bathroom. It was like she just checked out; she withdrew into her shell to try to deal with all that change and confusion and grief. 

I selfishly love this incredible child, but I uprooted her in order to do so. I suspect I'll struggle with this for the rest of my days. 

But you know what? The good stuff completely, absolutely outweighs the difficulties and the pangs of guilt. I remember us saying to ourselves last year, "HOW did we get so lucky?" When I'm not refereeing a sibling squabble or putting out the 12th APB for Itchy Frog because ohmygod she will not go to sleep without him but she has no idea where she left him, I still feel that way.

Beatrix is so many kinds of awesome. She is a whirlwind, a chatterbox, a tomboy, a lover of pizza and yogurt and chock-it [chocolate]. She is brave and willfull (perhaps too much) and awfully smart. She recognizes all of her letters and numbers and knows exactly which buttons to push when she wants to annoy someone. Bea loves her some potty humor ("Mama, sing 'papa got Bea's toilet on his head!'") and is a tooting, burping machine. Honestly, it's unreal: She'll burp in the middle of a word and just keep on going like nothing happened. When she doesn't want to do something, you know it. "Bea, time for bed." "NO WAY."

Bea has no fear of heights, speed, or farm animals. 

She is curious and incredibly active. The one word people use to describe her? Busy. "My, she's... busy, isn't she?" And man, she is. I thought Olivia was active, but this child could probably pogo from here to Antarctica without stopping. Spring soccer season can't come soon enough. Parenting a preschooler at 40 is way harder than parenting one at 32. She exhausts me in ways I didn't know I could be exhausted.

                

 

Bea is also affectionate and snuggly. She told us "I love you" for the first time at Christmas and says it often now. She demands hugs and kisses, which I'm only too happy to give.  When she wakes up in the morning (which could be, y'know, 2:55 am), she gathers up her armful of animals and scurries into our room to jump into bed and cuddle. She makes sure Itchy Frog is well fed and that he always has his turn playing Leapster or reading books.

She is beautiful, strong, happy. She sings off key and at the top of her lungs. She tries to make everything into a game. She is silly, loud, and full of joy. I love her like crazy and feel like the luckiest person in the world to have both her and Olivia in my life. 

We got another daughter. Olivia got a sister. Poor Bea got way more crazy family than she ever bargained for. 

 

What passes for naptime

Live-blogging “nap” time because if I don't find the humor in this situation, I might start weeping.

1:09: Bea climbs into bed with Itchy Frog and that horrible blue dolphin Pillow Pet.

1:10: “Boat! Boat on wahlah! Get on! Hurry!” She has managed to build a “boat” out of pillows and is urging Itchy Frog to save himself from certain disaster. (Irony: Frogs like water.)

1:12: Bea is under the quilt Linda made for her, still yelling about the boat on the water.

1:14: I look up and see that every single pillow, animal, and blanket has been shoved into the cubby between her bed and bookshelf. “Bea, GO. TO. SLEEP.” “NO! ‘Dis Bea house!” She climbs into the nest of bedding. “Beatrix Nan Yu, get up here and lay down RIGHT NOW.”

1:16 Bea lays down. Hrm. Maybe she’ll actually sleep.

1:18: Are you kidding me? She just started stripping the sheet off the bed. The sheet was the only bedding left after she built her house. “Cut it out; leave that sheet on.” She stares at me through the bars of the headboard, but doesn’t peel back the sheet any further. 

1:19: Awesome. She just popped up, ripped off the sheet, and looked over at me with a triumphant “ha ha, Mama” gleam in her eye.

1:22: She is methodically transferring every blanket, pillow, and animal from the cubby to the head of the bed. Itchy Frog is staring at me in a creepy way, but I’m honestly not sure how much he can see given the size of that cataract on his eye.

1:23: Grunts come from the bed as she rearranges the dolphin and the frog, pulls up the covers, and flops down.

1:23:30: Dammit. She’s back up again. She’s in the cubby area, getting… something. Oh, of course! A picture that Liv taped up there for her. Why WOULDN’T she need that to take a nap? Duh.

1:29: “I lay down. Lay down, Itchy! Lay down, dolphin!” She is patting them to sleep, for definitions of patting that equal “smacking the crap out of them.” PAT PAT PAT PAT PAT PAT PAT PAT PAT PATPATPATPATPATPAT. 

1:33: Patting is over. Bea is out of sight at the end of the bed (stupid blue dolphin blocking my view), but I hear ripping paper. “Beatrix… “ I say in a warning tone. The ripping immediately stops. It’s quiet.

1:37: Well, she's still quiet, but she's sitting up and intently poking dolphin in his eyeball. 

1:38: "Maaama, love you. Papa, love you, Maaaaahm Maaaaahm Maaaahm I love you. Do do doodooodooo, mouse a mouse a mouse, 'sank you, mommy dolphin lay down, 'kay? 'Kay." Bea lays down and I think maybe, just maybe, she's tired and going to pass out. Alas, I see Itchy Frog rising up over the headboard. "Bounce bounce bounce bounce FUN WHEEEEEEEEE." 

1:42: Oh, look. Time to take out the braid in the hair. The hair tie comes flying over the headboard. "Allllll done!" 

1:43: The lack of hair doo-dad is apparently freeing. Too freeing. It's inspired a mashup. "Twinken twinken LIL STAAAAARRRR, like die-nah inna SKYYYYYY, one two fwee fouah, five, sixseleneight, nine, ten, eleben, twelve, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, thirteen, twenty two, twenty four, WHEEL ON BUS RAHND AH RAHND, open and shut, ABCDEFG [yawn] HIJKlemenopeeeee, cue RSTUVWXYZ, twinken twinken, how wonder what are, ant go out street get out rain, walk walk walk, ant go walk walk walk, go grass, go out, get rain, get Itchy Frog, dooo doooooododododododooooo."

1:53: I see no frog feet flailing in the air. I see no Bea feet or arms flailing in the air. I hear no singing... only the lovely (yet gross) noise of thumb sucking. 

1:58: Noooooooo. Itchy Frog is being dangled over the bed rail. "Heeeellllp meeeeee, heeeeellllppp meeeeee, no fall on floor, Itchy Frog! Uh oh, help me! Itchy Frog, no flyyyyyin' on floor, Itchy Frog, sleepin', sleepin'."

2:02: She is staring at me over the headboard. "Mama, all done bed." Bwa. Ha. Ha. I shake my head and turn back to my laptop. Must not engage.

2:10: Why is she chanting about cauliflower? And how did an elephant that needed medicine get into her bed? 

2:15: I hear an odd rustling and peer up. She's sitting there with a piece of scotch tape on her forehead and an expression somewhere in between "what? I meant to do this" and "oh, crap, I'm busted" on her face.

2:37: Victory, it is mine. And hell, it only took what...? 88 minutes? Piece of cake.

I'm on to you

Dear child,

If you and your friend really want to hone your parental manipulation skills and score yourself a sleepover, don't ask me to put your covert plans in my purse as we leave the restaurant.

Sometimes it's best to carry your crap yourself, even if your hands are cold.

Also: parent to parent? I can't tell if that's supposed to be a great idea, or one of those avoid-at-all-costs situations. Can you let me know so I can be prepared next time?

Love, mom

P.S. You're wrong. It's way easier to get me to say yes when we're out in a restaurant and I'm happy and full.

 

The lexicon

Listening to Bea sometimes requires a babel fish. She has her own style of mangling pronouncing words, which cracks me up on a regular basis. I loved this stage with Liv, too.

Chicken = kitchen. ("Bea no sit on chicken coun'ner.")

OH-lurree = Olivia

Granna Jim = Grandma Jan, or, uh, the gym ("mom, I go kid's room at Granna Jim.")

juke = juice ("Bea's juke!")

Mainey = Maisy ("Watch Mainey. Take nap, 'den watch Mainey.")

foam = phone ("foam, foam ring, annal [animal] in truhluh [trouble]" courtesy of Wonder Pets)

lellah = letter

ah-wanAH = around ("Up, ah-wanUH, ah-wanUH, make lellah B!")

 

Grahlah grahlah = gobble gobble

scruhlah = scrub ("Watch me scrulah scruhlah scruhlah with soap!")

rillet rillet = ribbit ribbit ("Itchy Frog, rillet rillet.")

sell-ah = seven ("One, two, free, fowah, five, sis, sell-ah day a week.")

killy cat = kitty cat

twinken = twinkle ("twinken twinken LIL STAHHHH")

I also enjoy the fact that she says "school" just like Megamind ("Bea go shuuuuul, play friend, no play ahPAR"). Less enjoyable:  the fact that she and "ahPAR" have to be separated because they make bad choices when they hang out together. I need to figure out a way to glue her listening ears to her head.

Standoff on Beeler Street

Yesterday was not off to an auspicious start. I sat on Beeler Street -- my destination in plain sight -- as a gang of turkeys staged a very long, very disorganized roadblock. They strutted. They stood. They displayed their feathers. They looked ornery. "Just try to make us move. We don't have anywhere we need to be. GRAHLAH GRAHLAH, suckers."

(That last bit is what Bea says when she sees a turkey (um, minus the "suckers" bit). I think it's supposed to be "gobble gobble.")

Those turkeys were lucky it wasn't November...

(Aside: I had to google the term for a bunch of turkeys and came across this fabulous list and now I'm going to spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to work "a shiver of sharks" or "a bloat of hippopotamuses" into conversation.)

I survived the first day of classes this semester. That was not a given, considering how nervous I felt and the fact that I'm  usually in bed by 9:20pm, not talking to a room full of students about the software development lifecycle.

A few highlights and absurdities:

(1) One of my students from China gave me a lovely bookmark for the lunar new year. I smile every time I think of it.

(2) We made the software engineers do impromptu speeches on a topic they picked from a bag, which they just looooooved. I might have somehow said that they could put us on the spot next week. Crap. WHAT was I thinking?

(3) Speaking of impromptu things: This was on the white board when we walked into class yesterday. WTH? Doubly puzzling since this room is used only for software engineering classes. That said, I kinda wish I could have observed that particular class. 

(4) NO ONE FELL ASLEEP in my software doc class. I mean, it's such a scintillating subject to begin with, and when it's from 6:30 - 9:20 pm in a small, windowless conference room, well... I count that as a minor miracle.

(5) I watched someone plug in a hot pot/electric kettle thing and cook noodles. "So what?" you ask... It was in the middle of the freaking floor in the student center. She walked in, plugged the pot into the outlet on the floor, and cooked her lunch. Do you know how many people nearly walked into or onto that pot? Yeah, I don't either because I was too lazy to count, but trust me... it was a lot.

awwwww yeah

Three things:

(1) My kid has a bright future as a traffic cop, or one of those guide-the-planes-with-flashlights people on the tarmac. She is very good at indicating exactly which way something should go. TOO good.

(2) Did she just yell at me to get out of the street?

(3) I have no idea where she learned "aaaaawwww, yeah" but it is cracking me up.

 

Oh, and one more thing: Whenever she finally stopped talking, I could hear her snow pants make that awesome shwip shwip shwip shwip sound as she scurried down the sidewalk. I love that noise. It's the sound of snow days and childhood.

Brave, brave Legume

When you hear "family night" and "restaurant" together, what do you think of? 

Yeah. Me, too. *shudder*

But when Legume  (one of my favorite restaurants) quietly advertised its first family night, I was intrigued. We've always taken Liv there; though there is no kid menu and many items are a little too adventurous for her, she always managed to find something. Plus, the mix-your-own fresh lemonade more than made up for any "mom, I'm not sure I want to eat veal cheeks" moments she had. 

Bea has changed our dining-out habits. And, um, not for the better. Whereas Liv was a restaurant superstar and spent many a dinner at nicer places like Eleven or Soba or Legume, Bea is... well, she's not quite there. When everyone you pass says "Wow, she's really BUSY, isn't she?" then you know it's asking for trouble to plop her at a table in a quiet place for a prolonged meal. That's not to say we don't try -- after all, how else will she learn? -- but the dinner ends up being somewhat stressful.

I digress. Back to Legume.

Family night at Legume was a way for me to inhale the amazing sweet potato ravioli with fermented beets and sauteed mushrooms while not having to worry about Bea disturbing the other diners. It was genius (mostly).

When we came in, the kids were given brown sacks with crayons, stickers, and a coloring book made from old menu pages (ironically, these were the beer and wine lists). One of the enclosed dining areas was set up as a craft room, with a young woman in there to supervise and help. 

The kids came in, decided what they wanted to eat, then scurried off to the craft room. They spent the better part of our two hour dinner gluing all manner of dried grains to paper and doing drive-bys of the table for appetizers and dinner. John and I had a drink, ate our meals, and talked. 

I was amused by the juxtaposition of my salad (warm fresh ricotta, farro, endive, apple, pomegranate, and date-infused honey) with Bea's plate of carrot and apple slices:

 

And here's where I had my only nitpick: The kids' menu. The snacks were decent: slices of good farmhouse cheddar (which Liv ordered but Bea ate because Liv was too busy with the glue and the lentils), homemade applesauce, ants on a log, etc.

But the main course? I was seriously disappointed. Liv was, too.  There were only two offerings: chicken fingers with fries, or buttered noodles. Really? In a restaurant that specializes in local, seasonal cooking, THIS is what's on the kids' menu? Granted, the quality of both was great, but come on, Legume -- you can't come up with something more inspired than that? I mean, fine... play it safe with one or two menu items, but I'd love to see something a bit more interesting. Not every kid eats only chicken fingers or plain pasta. How about a grilled or broiled fish? Or some homemade pierogi? Or a good pasta with something other than just butter? 

Aside from that, the whole experience was great. I applaud Legume for doing this, and hope they continue to do so. I also hope the trend catches on with other local restaurants. It's a win-win situation as far as I can tell: parents are happy, kids are happy, restaurant is full. It's a great way to give someone like Bea more practice in good restaurant behavior without causing me or John to rip out our hair or worry about what everyone else is thinking.

Which reminds me: All of the kids (and there were a lot) were well behaved. There was no running, no shouting, no throwing of food. Aside from the steady stream of kids to/from the craft room and the presence of plastic cups on some of the tables, it didn't seem that different from any other night at Legume.

Take THAT, you crotchety table of old people who came in, looked around, and grimaced when they saw all the kids. I heard one of the women mutter in a disgusted voice, "Is it *always* like this?" Pbttthhh on you.

 

 

In which Pinchy's deep, dark secret is revealed

All this talk of Itchy Frog has reminded me of Pinchy, Liv's beloved stuffed lobster. Pinchy was a little more well-traveled than the frog. Alas, his wanderlust did him in; he met his untimely demise on the Eiffel Tower. (For the full story:  Pinchy did Paris, until Paris did in Pinchy).

Because Liv was so young and gullible, I was able to order a new Pinchy and convince her it was the original one. 

Surely by age 10 she knew that there was no way that stuffed lobster  "wrapped hisself up and he came home," right?  RIGHT?

Yeah. I don't know what she believed, but she had no clue until recently that I was responsible for the whole thing. Bea had unearthed Pinchy II and Liv started reminiscing about his trip to Paris. I tossed out some comment like, "You were so sad when you lost him - trying to find a replacement was really hard." 

Silence. Complete silence.

Then, this: "Wait... WHAT?"

More silence. Wheels turning. Innocence shattering.

"You mean that's not the same Pinchy that I lost on the Eiffel Tower?" 

Whoops. Sorry, kid. 

"You know, I always DID wonder how Pinchy got back here..."

 

The continuing adventures of Itchy Frog

It was a special day for Itchy Frog. He went to school with Bea and hung out in her cubby, being all frog-like and itchy.

He went to dinner at Mad Mex, where he ate a soft taco, carrot sticks and dip, and chocolate cake (as evidenced by three new splotches on his face that are still there despite the vigorous wiping Bea gave him), all while cutting quite the rug to the hip-hop soundtrack.

For the record, frogs look funny when they dance.

But the best was yet to come. At bedtime, Itchy Frog got his very own (very feminine) pajamas. They fit him perfectly... much better than the munkin and mon-sker jammies Bea was trying to put on him.  

The kid was insistent that Itchy Frog wear jammies, and wouldn't put on hers until he had his. And of course, last night was the night that she decided to get really freaking frustrated when her jammies were too big for the frog and his little dangly arms (legs?) wouldn't go all the way through the sleeves.

And as everyone knows, when the kid is frustrated, the mama is frustrated. Especially when it's 8:30 and it's way past bedtime and there is wailing and gnashing of teeth over the ridiculous pajama situation. 

So I did what any mom would do: I stripped the baby doll and put her jammies on the frog. (What? You would TOTALLY do that, too.)

Now we have one nekkid baby doll, but one warm and snug Itchy Frog. 

 

Itchy Frog

It's bizarre, the way kids pick an object to love beyond any other and it's never the object you THINK it should be. Not the soft lovey blanket or the stuffed duck you sent to your kid while she was in China. Not even the awesome purple cat that was briefly carted around everywhere.

Nope. My kid loves a stuffed frog above all else. And not just a frog... it's apparently a frog with some sort of skin condition.

I wish I knew how he got his name. I think it morphed from the itchy iguanas we giggled over in a Boynton book... perhaps since the frog was green, too, he had to be itchy?

Regardless of how he got his name, Bea and Itchy Frog are inseparable... 

Itchy Frog gets zipped up into Bea's coat whenever he has to go outside.

He watches Maisy with her.

He eats her channa masala.

He gets covered up with "blankens" (which are actually my clean dish towels; thanks, kid).

He drives Barbie's Corvette. And not well.

He bravely stands on the train tracks and causes fiery collisions between the trains.

He sleeps with Bea.

He wears Bea's pajamas, pants, socks, and shirts.

He listens carefully to Eric Carle books. His favorite is Panda Bear, Panda Bear, apparently.

He goes on walks. At the end of one particular walk to Miss Erin's house, Itchy Frog ran off with the dog (or perhaps it was the other way around). Poor Bea stood there in disbelief. "Dog! Itchy Frog! Dog chomp Itchy Frog!" 

    

  

   

Basically, if you know where Bea is, you know where Itchy Frog is. And if he's NOT there, well... Last night I was sure she was asleep, but she suddenly bolted upright and moaned "iiiiiitcheeeee froooooogggg" because she realized he was still down on the couch, paying bills with John.

This morning she very dilligently put socks on Itchy Frog (aside: I'm pretty sure his feet are nowhere near a size 3T sock; these went up to his eyebrows) so he could go to school with her. "Itchy Frog go school. Sit in cubby!" Poor, poor frog. 

Related: I went to school last week to pick up Bea and Itchy Frog. While I was there, one little boy came bounding over. "Mrs. Bea's Mom! What's that frog's name?!" I told him. He looked perplexed, and a little disappointed. It seems that he refused to believe Bea when she told him it was Itchy Frog. Understandable. Completely.

As you might suspect, this frog is a little dirty by now. His once cream-colored belly is dotted with remnants of ice cream and pasta and perhaps even some Mad Mex pico burrito. I think it's time for Mr. Toad's Itchy Frog's Wild Ride in the washing machine.

 

 

Mostly sunny with a chance of an afternoon A

We asked Bea to draw pictures for her teachers. After she completed each one, John asked her what it was and created the appropriate label on the back.

On a related note: That kid loves to draw, and loves to have people draw FOR her. "Mama, draw elephant. Elephant in car." As soon as I draw (an awesome, if I say so myself) elephant in a car, she takes the crayon and adds "a big woad [road]."

The big roads aren't needed just for elephants in cars. Nope. They are necessary for elephants on foot, alligators, fish, giraffes, and owls. We're on a road to nowhere... </Talking Heads>

You all, I had to buy an Ed Emberley book on animal drawing just to keep up with her demands. (Yes, Ed Emberley is completely my speed, and I am okay with that.) 

The best gift

Last night, Bea and I (and Mama Elephant) were sprawled on the living room floor watching her trains go around and around and around and around. You all, I have never  seen her voluntarily lay down and be still for this long. Those trains, they are magic.

At one point, she turned her face toward me, made full eye contact, and said. "I love you mama."

I am stunned that it took only nine months. Sometimes, I cannot believe how lucky we are.

(And other times, I cannot believe that Beatrix keeps getting her train stuck in her hair. It's a fine balance between the awesome and the absurd  here in this household.)

Hot elephants, kidnapping elves, and munkin feet

This morning, as I had my head buried in a cabinet, I heard Beatrix nattering on about "hot elephant... elephant really hot." Then I heard Liv giggle. "MOM! She's carrying around her stuffed elephant with pot holders, saying it's really hot!"

And sure enough, she was. 

That kid, she is crazy. I remember now why I loved this age with Olivia. The cute and funny sometimes outweigh the cranky and ornery.

Speaking of crazy... how is it possible that Christmas is less than a week away? Not. Ready. Not at all. Olivia, on the other hand, has been ready for about 360 days. She's positively vibrating. And, actually, so am I, thanks to the constant stream of cookies and candy coming through the front door and the eleven jillion cups of coffee I have been consuming daily.

George, our Elf on the Shelf, has been in rare form this year. He has duck-napped Fluffernutter (you may remember Fluffernutter from our care package to Bea this past January) and the two of them have been getting into all kinds of trouble. The other night they had an unauthorized tea party in the kitchen. I love listening to Olivia laugh when she finds George (and Fluffernutter) every morning. 

Aside: WHY doesn't George have any feet? Those nubs are a little creepy. 

We weren't sure what Bea would think about Christmas, but so far, she's rolling with it. I feel certain there was a moment of "WHAT are these crazy people doing, putting a TREE IN THE HOUSE?" but she quickly pronounced it "cute" and hasn't paid any attention to it since. 

She shocked us all by agreeing to sit on Santa's lap. She was clearly dubious, but willing to go along with big sister Oh-LAH. 

We're mixing things up this year: Friends here for Christmas Eve's fish-stravaganza, and John's parents here on Christmas Day for roast beast. I'm looking forward to it, and to seeing the girls' reactions to their gifts.  I'm pretty sure Liv is going to be thrilled by the computer. (I'm thrilled, too, because it means she won't be using mine any more.) I'm betting Bea will be most thrilled with the footed jammies that have frog feet and pig feet and elephant feet. She has a pair of monkey ones now and insists on wearing "munkin feet" every night. In the morning, when we take off the jammies, she says "bye, munkin feet! See you soon!" It's sickeningly cute. 

 

Hitched

The short one has no butt.

Really. Even with the adjustable-waist pants, the kid cannot keep her pants from dropping without imitating that scary 1990s "cinch it!" trend.

And now, even clothes that used to fit her are falling down... She's gotten longer since we brought her home, and suddenly this skirt -- which fit perfectly in China -- caused her to stop and adjust approximately 9,230 times during our visit to the park.

I present, in pictures, Bea's solution to this problem.

Step one: hitch.

 

Step 2: hitch higher. Note that she shed her coat so she could acheive more hitch-age.

Step 3: hitch so high that your skirt becomes a poncho.

And yes. I'm pretty sure I let her walk all the way home from the park like that. One more thing for her to bring up in therapy...

Who needs 7, right?

People kept saying, "just wait... Bea's language is going to explode one day." Yeah yeah yeah, blah blah blah, I just want to understand her NOW.

Well, it's NOW.

Within just the last week, the kid has started stringing together sentences of three, four, and five words. She repeats everything you say to her. (Note to self: do not make the same "dammit" mistake you made with Olivia.) She "reads" books to herself, copying the intonation and key words she remembers from each page. The Eric Carle books, in particular, are big favorites. "Braaaahn bear, braaaaaahn bear, what see? RED BUUUHHHD [bird]!"

What shocked me even more? She knows all of her letters and can count to ten. Well, unless you expect to hear seven, in which case you're SOL because she refuses to acknolwedge its existence.

One week ago, the kid couldn't (or wouldn't?) count past two, and even then she only counted when she wanted me to stop doing something. Hrm, where did she learn THAT? She also knew the letters A, B, and O. 

On Monday she spontaneously counted to five, then yesterday to ten. She recognizes all of the letters by sight, as I discovered while we were in the longest grocery line EVER last night. I was trying to keep her from leveling destruction on the impulse purchase area of the checkout -- I handed her one of our Whole Foods bags and asked to her find an A. Instead, she pointed at the slogan and recited "O - R - G-  A - N - I - C  -T - O - O - U - R - R - O - O - T - S without missing a single one.

Go, Bea!

An interesting aside: Some of her Mandarin has re-emerged. We hear the phrase she uses for "there is" (phonetically, it sounds like JayLUH, but I have no idea how to spell it in pinyan) all the time now, after not hearing it for months. Same for the words she's using for "come here" and "enough/bless you" whenever John sneezes. And, thank you is still xie xie. The child, she is an enigma. An awfully cute one, but an enigma nonetheless.

In which they snarf seaweed snacks, battle saggy pants, and show off their hacking cough/bossiness/new words

You know you're behind in your blogging when your mother scolds you about it. Sorry, mom. 

More words later, but for now, here are some short videos from two Saturdays ago. John was in Vegas so the girls and I went on approximately 287 walks around the neighborhood.

Beatrix had her usual problem with her pants falling down:

 

 

Liv packed a snack for the girls to eat at EyeBROWlah Bridge (the structure they made out of random rocks and named after Bea's chanting "eyeBROWlah eyeBROWlah eyeBROWlah" as she walked over it). I promise you, they normally have better table manners. And yes, I cleaned up the rogue bits of seaweed snacks. Somehow, I don't think the local squirrels would have enjoyed it very much. They didn't even touch the prosciutto Liv left out one day...

 

 

Bea's new words include stop, go, and run. Watch her boss us around.

 

Watch Olivia take Bea's panda hostage and cause angst and drama and look like she's just about to poke Bea with the stick-on-a-string she was carrying, all while hacking up her spleen or lung or something. 

 

That was one of the better Saturdays I've had lately. Everyone got along. Everyone giggled. No one (except me) got injured.

A clean break (and subsequent coping mechanisms)

Last weekend we dropped Miss O off for a week at camp -- the same camp my brother and I went to as kids. The camp is almost exactly the same, except for the fact that the cabins now have screens on the windows and doors that close. After Skunkapalooza 1983 and InsectFest 1984, I do not begrudge today's campers the luxury of a mostly-sealed environment for sleeping.

But I digress. O lives for this week every summer -- a week of running feral, standing on the benches during dinner to sing, eating dessert first, and possibly never changing clothes.

This year she arrived early enough to score the coveted top bunk and happily installed herself and her stuffed hedgehog and her roll of tape (this becomes important later). We kissed her goodbye and went off for a week of single-kid parenting.

Or so we thought. Turns out that the kid fell after dinner the first night and broke her wrist. I blame karma, because right before it happened they were playing a break-the-ice game of "I never." "I never broke a bone," said Olivia. 

Jinxed. Olivia learned a valuable life lesson that night: NEVER jinx yourself by saying something like "I was never struck by lightening" or "I never got eaten by a tiger at the zoo."

I picked her up and took her back to the city so we could spend some quality time in the Children's Hospital ER. (Aside: You see ALL KINDS of crazy there. Whoa.)

On the way out of camp, she was sobbing pitifully. "I didn't *sniff* *hiccup* even get *sob* to USE MY ROLL OF TAPE. I didn't have time *sniff* to get any emails or letters."

She left the ER with a blue cast and a note okaying her return to camp (oh, the relief at being able to use her tape!). A mere 5 hours later, John packed her, some trashbags and waterproof tape, and a handful of Sharpies into the car and drove her all the way back to camp at the crack of dawn.

I knew she'd have a hard time this last week -- she couldn't swim or play a lot of the games or go caving. But, being there in any capacity was better than not being there at all. She and her counselor had a lot of time to bond, and she somehow managed to eat Nerds Ropes and drink Orange Crush at the Hub with only one hand. Oh, the humanity.

When we got home, we realized that she could not get into her own bed. It's a top bunk with a straight vertical ladder (as opposed to the slanted steps in the camp cabin) and a high lip-- no way to climb in and out without using both arms. Her solution? 

This is a relic from her toddlerhood - there was a time when that tent lived in our living room and contained actual strata from all the hoarding and squirreling away she did in there. I'm pretty sure that most of her possessions (and a full 25% of our household stuff, like silverware and towels) were buried in that tent by the time we took it down.

She has apparently not moved past that phase. All of the detritus you see here (hedgehog beanbag, books, flashlight, notepads, pillows, blankets, pajamas, iPod, etc.) was shoved in during the first 12 hours. 

(Also, I suspect Bea has been visiting the tent when she should have been shua ya'ing. I was wondering where that stupid toothbrush went...)

This morning, Bea hopped out of bed, unzipped the tent, stuck her head in and yelled HELLOOOO. She then zipped it back up and spent the next several minutes hurling herself at the tent because that is all kinds of fun when you are three.

"Mom. I've solved that problem. I turned the tent around so the zipper part is against the wall. She can't unzip it and wake me up anymore." Hah. Good luck with that.

Digits

Someone, please, tell me: WHERE HAS SUMMER GONE? And what have I done with it, other than eat every breakfast on the porch, cover said porch with Play-doh (aside: who knew Play-doh and concrete loved each other so much they could never ever be separated?), drink awesome iced chocolate coffee, work half time, and stay up late watching the kids tear up and down the street in pursuit of fireflies and the top speed in a Cozy Coupe.

In many ways this has been a fabulous summer. Working 20 hours a week means I have 2.5 days to spend hanging out with Bea and Liv. We’ve seen a lot of elephant poop and playgrounds and Sesame Street episodes. Some of us have also seen a lot of Wizards of Waverly Place (hint: it’s not me).

In other ways, it’s been the roughest summer since the one Miss O arrived. You all, adding a three-year old to our family has been so many kinds of wonderful, but also incredibly challenging. For one thing, I AM OLD. And cranky. My patience is pretty much nonexistent and if I have to ask “do you have to go potty” or say “do not touch mama’s phone/computer/eyeball” one more time I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

Also, the two girls are still at that frenemy stage – they like each other fine for about 10 minutes every day, then someone dares to touch me or ask me to brush her hair or read her a story and the other one is suddenly sulking or tantruming or plotting how to kill me in my sleep.

Baby steps, right? This stuff just takes time. (And if it never gets better, please don’t tell me or I might be the one sulking and tantruming.)

The fall scares the bejeebers out of me. We have to find something to do with Bea. I have to go back to work full time. AND, to make things more interesting, I will be teaching another course at my alma mater.  A required course for one of the graduate programs. WHAT THE HECK WAS I THINKING WHEN I SAID YES? Okay, okay. I was thinking “this is a fabulous opportunity that I might never get again and if I turn it down I am 87 kinds of stupid.” However, I am freaking right the hell out over the amount of prep to get this course imprinted on my brain and to make it work. Nervous would be an understatement.

Also… Miss O? She will be in fifth grade. That is unpossible. I cannot even wrap my brain around that fact. I remember fifth grade clearly: new bras (and boys to snap the bra straps), Trapper Keepers with horses and orchids on them, illicit eye shadow application in the school bathroom (Maybelline frosted blue FTW), and serious crushes on boys. Which reminds me: this summer contained a milestone I was not really ready for… Miss O came home from camp with two boys’ numbers. Luckily she has a good head on her shoulders and discerning taste in men and quickly dropped the numbers into the trash. ;-)

 

Broccoli... it's what's for dinner

Or, in the case of Bea, it's *all* that's for dinner. (In her dreams.) We found this on her plate at dinner the other night.

The best way to eat the broccoli is to pick it out of the garden and just gnaw on it.

Or, um, sing to it, dance it around, smash it into your baby's face, and then place it gently outside for the broccoli fairy to come get.

 

 

I (sorta) see you

When we first met Beatrix, she had some combination of a bowl cut and a mullet. It was... interesting.

Over the months, it's grown. A lot. And because I am determined to ditch the bangs, I haven't gotten it cut yet.  This works out fine when she leaves in her bow or barrette or pointy tails (awesome term stolen from Trina's daughter).

When she doesn't? Sheepdog city, baby. She tilts her head back and squints down her nose to try to look around her hair.

When she REALLY wants to see something, she'll try the "peer under the bangs and over the nose" method, then she gets frustrated and very dramatically sweeps her hair off her face with both hands.  We see a lot of Bea in this pose.

 

Then and now

It's crazy to look at pictures of Beatrix from March and then look at her now. She seems so different to me. I love to see how much bigger and happier her smile is.

 

  

And boyhowdy, am I glad the bowl cut is finally growing out, even if she does look like a sheepdog now.