Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting

16 candles

Happy 16th birthday to my smart, funny, exasperating, goofy, tall-as-I-am Olivia. Honestly? I'm not sure how we've kept her alive this long. It's kind of a miracle.

First she wouldn't stay in and there was interminable bed rest. Five months of it. 

Then she wouldn't come out.

Then she wouldn't eat or gain weight.

Then she had every childhood illness and injury possible, sometimes several at once. (Luckily I was traveling for work when she had the puking kind. Sorry, John. I still owe you for that one.)

And still, today, she injures herself on a regular basis. Sometimes on something as ephemeral as air. You think I'm exaggerating, but I am not. She could literally walk through an empty room and yell, "OW! My shoulder|back|toe|knee|ear REALLY HURTS all of a sudden!" She's just as likely to trip over a piece of lint. In all fairness, though, she gets that trait from me. Apologies, my friend. And don't forget to always watch where you walk. 

So, yeah. Not sure how she's survived to sixteen. But I'm glad she has, 'cause she's kind of awesome. She is interested in 16-year-old things, like shopping and music and hanging out with her friends and watching Netflix until her eyes bleed. But she can also have an insightful conversation about politics or history, and she is currently way into medicine, with plans to be an anesthesiologist. We'll see how that works out, but she went through 10 days of a fairly intense medical leadership program and loved every minute of it, even the knee reconstruction surgery and learning how to insert an IV and how to do sutures.  

Oh, one other thing I should mention about Olivia. She's gullible as hell. Her big present this year is a trip to the jeweler to pick out a significant piece of jewelry. (I did not pick it out myself because she is -- as I've mentioned -- THE pickiest person I know.) I made a little note and put it in the container that Bea's fidget spinner came in, then inside the fidget spinner box. I cackled to John, "this is going to be perfect! She's gonna be SO MAD that we got her a fidget spinner!" He was dubious that she'd fall for it. I was like, "do you KNOW our daughter?"

She unwrapped the box and the look of horror was evident as she read "fidget spinner" on the box label. I could barely contain myself...

Olivia looked at me. "No. NO. You did NOT get me a fidget spinner! NO. Seriously? Mom? Dad? Come ON. You guys?! I can't believe you would do this to me. WHY??? What am I going to do with a FIDGET SPINNER? REALLY?????"

"Olivia, just open the damn box."

She grudgingly opened the box and pulled out the metal case. She peered suspiciously inside the (oddly) uterus-shaped window and found... NOT A FIDGET SPINNER.

She was clearly shocked and just as clearly relieved. 

Sucker. :)

 

 

Nine by Nine

Today, Bea is 9. Today, like every day, she is full of energy, making as much out of life as she can, whether it means trying to sneak in some TV time before breakfast, playing -- at top volume -- T.rex vs. Barbie vs. plastic horse, or somehow managing to find her way across the street and into her friend's house without me realizing it, right before the camp bus is due to arrive. (Great timing, kid.)

She is fiercely independent when she wants to be. Seriously, we could leave this kid with a pantry of snacks and the television and she'd probably be fine for, like, a month. (Not that we would, but she is quite capable of entertaining and feeding herself.) She likes taking care of business by herself, unless it involves taking a shower, reading, or going to bed. There, she draws the line. She does not want to do any of those three things, ever. Not by herself, not with anyone, not at all, thankyouverymuch.

The irony about the shower? Once she gets in, she never gets out. She stays in there and plays for ages.

Her current obsessions: Pokemon (that is still a thing?!), anything with a screen (she might have downloaded 14 animal simulators on John's tablet and four on mine and ended up owing John a lot of money), animals, and making as much noise as humanly possible. 

Happy birthday, kiddo. I love you and I love the awesome crazy fun you bring to our lives.

 

 

 

Existential crisis

  Olivia is off to UCLA for a 10-day youth leadership thing in medicine. For now, her plan is to become an anesthesiologist. This course won't teach her anything relevant to that, but it's her chance at independence, peer leadership, learning basic medical skills (suturing, taking patient history, etc.), and trashing a dorm room. 

I'm proud of her. 

However, to say the packing list caused angst is an understatement.

"Mom, I have days where I have to dress professionally and days where I have to dress casual professional. I don't even know what that means. It says professional is suits and dresses and blouses and skirts and slacks. But it says the casual professional stuff is dresses and pants and blouses and skirts. I DON'T UNDERSTAND."

Frankly, neither did I. But hell if I was buying this kid a suit for her to wear when I was like 99.9% positive that no other kid there was going to be wearing one either.

 We went shopping. For hours. And hours. And hours. (Or maybe it was days. It felt like days.) I told Hope that Olivia was the pickiest person alive, pickier even than me. She just laughed. I probably deserved that.

"I just don't LIKE these kinds of clothes, Mom."

Well, yeah. Pretty sure no almost-16-year-old does, kid. I don't even like most of them, and I'm almost, um, crap... how old am I? Whatever. 

We finally came home with dresses, shirts and pants deemed both professional and casual professional.

As she was packing, she tried them on, along with a few other shirts we'd purchased at the last minute. Olivia stood in my office in a pair of cute black pants with a not-terrible collared shirt. Silent.

Slouched.

Moping.

FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES.

Finally, I turned away from my work laptop. "WHAT?!"

"I don't even look like myself. I don't recognize myself in these clothes. I hate these clothes. I don't look like me. The only people I see wearing these clothes are people YOUR age."

[For the record, I was wearing a pair of Anthropologie gray crops and a blue/white print cotton tank.]

"Do people even WEAR SHIRTS WITH COLLARS? DO THEY TUCK THEM IN????" I'M ONLY SIXTEEN! I AM NOT SUPPOSED TO DRESS LIKE THIS."

"Dude. For the money we paid for this program, you are wearing what they tell you to wear. Pack your stuff and pull yourself the fuck together." (This last part might have been mumbled under my breath or said in a gchat to John.)

So... she made it to UCLA. She unpacked. She trashed her dorm room in record time. The very first morning, she texted me a picture of her dress with this question: "Is this professional?" 

You mean the dress I told you was professional when you picked it up from the rack?

The dress I told you was professional when you tried it on at the store?

The dress I told you was professional when you tried it on at home?

The dress I told you was professional when you packed it?

"No."

[Just kidding. I WANTED to say no. But I didn't want to have to pay for therapy. So I just sighed deeply and said "yes." Again.]

 

 

 

 

Chewbacca is bad for your hair

Bea is a huge fan of Chewbacca. When we went to Disney in December, I may have accidentally purchased a ridiculously overpriced Chewbacca backpack because she loved it and -- who am I kidding -- it was pretty damn cool. Even if the pouch is only big enough to hold, like, one Fig Newton and a juice box. 

Because his storage is so compromised, she uses him as a toy rather than a carry-things-arounder. Here she is playing a fierce round of dinosaur Go Fish with him. (Somehow, he won.)

Aaaaannyway, fast forward to Christmas, when I found a pair of creepy looking Chewbacca pajamas at Target. I knew Bea would love them, so into the basket they went.

Sure enough, those suckers were a hit. 

They were also a sweat factory. 

That has not stopped her from wearing them, even now, in June. 

There's one more thing about those Chewbacca pajamas... They are murder on her hair. I am pretty sure Chewbacca comes alive at night and actually gnaws on the ends of her hair because in the morning? I cannot get a brush through it even with almost a whole bottle of detangler. 

This morning I tried to brush her hair and hit a serious knot. We'd been out the night before so I had no idea she'd worn those jammies. I hit a second knot.  "Sorry," I said.

Without raising her head, she simply said, "Chewbacca."  I reached for the detangler and set to work...

 

 

Goldilocks and the hot yoga class

Okay, so she's definitely not got a head of golden curls, but I feel like I'm in that story lately. Olivia and I have been going to hot yoga on Sundays as a mom-daughter thing. (What could be more bonding than sweating together while trying -- and , for me, failing --  to balance your body weight on your forearms in crow pose, I ask you?)

The first class she declared "ok." 

The next class she declared "too hard."

The class we took last week she declared "too hot."

Note that the first class was taught by a sub and it was the easiest class I've ever taken at this particular studio. The second class was great and not too hard at all. The third class was just as great and at the temperature a heated yoga studio is supposed to be.

I'm waiting for what she says about the next class. It'll probably be "too stretchy."

 

"Why is there so much nature here?" asked Bea

"We should go on a hike this weekend before it starts raining, Noah's-ark-style, for the next two weeks," I said to John. 

We knew Bea would be up for it; she's always up for anything, especially if snacks can be involved and she gets mom and dad time. We were a little less sure about how Liv would feel. "There will be a stop at Rita's Italian Ice at the end," we told her. And just like that, she was in, too. (Truly, nothing like bribing your children with food...)

The hike started off well, though Liv did eat all the salami I packed and then stuffed the empty plastic bag into Bea's pocket for her to carry before we even got past the pond and neither of the girls remembered to bring their water bottles from the car. At least everyone was in a good mood.

   

(click any picture to embiggen)

Liv decided she wanted to be the leader while Bea and I lollygagged behind. She fearlessly led us down the trail and then completely off the trail and on course for some random stranger's house, rather than the farmhouse we needed to return to.

 She also hiked as fast as she could because dammit, she was determined to get that Rita's. What she failed to consider was that no matter how fast SHE went, she was only as fast as the slowest member (Bea). She spent a lot of time waiting in various poses of (perhaps fake?) exasperation for us to catch up to her. She also spent a lot of time yelping about the mud on the path. Which, to be fair, the mud was a little gross. I half expected something swamp-monsterish to reach out and grab my ankle. But hey, it's nature. Mud lives there, so, whatever.

(Lest it sound like she had a bad attitude, she did not - she was remarkably good natured about the whole thing and mock-bickered with John over who chose the path with the most mud. It was amusing to listen to.)

She and Bea were funny to listen to, too, and graciously posed for pictures when I asked. They even acted as if they liked each other. Sometimes. 

Bea wanted to know why Olivia was "so... so... I don't know what. So something." We spent a good long while supplying adjectives. "Goofy?" "Worried about getting mud on her shoes?" "Anxious to get ice cream?" "Loud?" Finally Bea said, "No! Why is Olivia so FAST?" I want to be the leader, too!" Alas, Bea was just too slow - I suspect it was the constant consumption of snacks that kept her from leading the pack. She ate her way through all the cheese sticks and crackers I brought. I was worried we were going to have to move on to the Wisp toothbrushes I had tucked away in a pocket of my backpack.

As I handed her the last snack I had, I told her it was the final one. "Eat it wisely," I said, "I don't have anymore." "Oooh, so this is the last one, and we don't have any more if Olivia gets us lost again and we have to stay here in the woods for like the next few days or the next year?" "ExACTly," John and I said.

Other snippets of conversation:

Liv: "Want to hear the song we're doing for part of our spring performance?"

John: "No. I want to just hear nature. I don't want to hear music on your phone."

Liv: "Well, I am part of nature."

John: "A loud part."

Liv: "Well, but you still have to listen to me. So, we're doing our dance to this song by X Ambassadors and when our instructor lined us up in height order, I wasn't the shortest one! There was one person who was shorter than me. But, she might have been like 12 or something. But I wasn't the shortest one! Did I tell you that my new pointe shoes are almost dead already? I'm glad because I don't like these ones as much as the other ones. When mom took me to The Tight Spot I don't think they gave me the right pair so I'm just waiting for these ones to be done so I can go back to the ones I really like. The box on these is really long for people with long toes and I don't have long toes so they aren't as comfortable. [...]"

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

Liv: "Ow, Bea, you just let that branch snap back on me."

Bea: [halfheartedly] "Sorry"

Liv" "A little sincerity would be nice."

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

Bea: "Oliva, do you want the last cracker before I eat it?" 

Liv: [turns around just as Bea starts to put last cracker in her mouth] "Uh... "

Me: "BEA! Geez. Olivia, that actually was nice of her to offer, so could you say thanks, even though she started biting it?"

Liv: [halfheartedly] "Thanks."

Me: "A little sincerity would be nice."

We also had a little cartwheel showdown on the road that connected two of the trails. Liv has some, um, difficulty with cartwheels. Always has, despite the gymnastics lessons when she was younger and all the dance she does. I was trying to explain to her what one should look like and she just wasn't getting it. You know what they say about a picture, right? Yeah. I stripped off my fleece, my backpack, and my camera, handed them to John, said a "please don't let me crack my head open on the cement" prayer, and did my first (and hopefully last) cartwheel in mumblemumble years to show Olivia what it was supposed to look like. I'm not sure I actually accomplished that, but I DID accomplish not cracking my head open. I consider that a win.

All in all, it was a pretty awesome hike with my family. We slogged through mud, saw purple bushes, narrowly avoided deer poop, almost got lost, climbed over a jillion mossy trees, and had some excellent conversations. No one complained (much, or seriously), no one got hurt, and we ended up with ice cream as a treat. Not a bad way to spend a late Saturday afternoon, if you ask me.

 

In which I explain shanking to my kid

I called Olivia the other day during a break from a weekend workshop in Denver. John and I were sitting in Jamba Juice, sucking down smoothies. His was some chunky green concoction which I'm sure tasted quite lovely although it looked quite unholy; I stuck with the tried-and-true mango/pineapple/orange combo which was a lovely, smoothie-appropriate orange color.

Me: "What are you doing, Liv?"

Liv: "I'm shanking my pointe shoe. Do we have any pliers?"

Me: "Um. You'll have to ask dad where the pliers are. But what do you mean, 'shanking your pointe shoe', exactly?"

Liv: "I'm cutting the shank so that my foot arches more and it's more comfortable."

Me: "You know that shanking is what you do to someone in prison, right? You stab them with a shank."

Liv: "What?"

Me: "A shank. A homemade sharp object. You shank them when you want to kill them. It sounds weird when you say you're shanking your pointe shoe."

Liv: [silence, in which she's either thinking "My god, my parents are strange" or "I have just learned a very valuable lesson and I hope to never go to prison" or "FINALLY! I know how to deal with the mean girl at the lunch table!" Probably the former, sadly.]

We hung up and I turned to John. "In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have explained that to our fourteen-year old, huh?" (And probably not in the middle of a Jamba Juice...) Oh well. Better she learns it from me than on the street, right? 

Pickle Car vs. Gator Car and other things you'd expect in a city

The other day I had to take Bea to the doctor, so I grabbed something to entertain her. Into my bag went one of those sketchpads where only part of the picture is drawn in, along with a mishmosh Ziploc of half-dried out markers, ink pens, colored pencils that may or may not have had a point, and a random plastic horse. (Honestly, you can find a random plastic animal in just about any location in our house.)

While we waited for the doctor, and then waited some more for strep and flu test results, I started to color in the original picture while Bea gleefully added to it. 

What started as a cute little town ended up as, well, this:

It began with the addition of the pickle car and the gator car (props to Richard Scarry for the idea). Of course they had to race, and of course they had to have supporters. And what race is complete without a scoreboard and a medal for the winner AND loser? The pickle car got a medal that said "PYL" (short for "Pickle, you lose"), which doesn't seem very gracious to me, but whatever. The gator car got the winning pink medal, along with what appears to be our family represented as rodents.

It couldn't stop there, though. Oh, no. What city could be considered civilized without a dinosaur stompdown? Longneck versus T.rex got added to the melee. Shockingly, T.rex was the loser. Must've been the arms. 

I should note that the entire time this was going on -- and it went on for at least 50 minutes -- Bea narrated what she was doing. I'm pretty sure she didn't even pause for her coughing fits. That kid, she can talk. An excerpt:

And now we need some birds. I'm going to draw an eagle here. These lines, these show how it's flying, see? It's flying this way, toward the pickle car. Remember the pickle car lost the race? But the long neck, the apatosaurus, he won for the dinosaurs. What kind of bird should I draw now? Oh, wait, I know! I'm going to draw a peregrine falcon. I loooove peregrine falcons. This one is going to go down to this building because maybe there's food there or something. And we need a pigeon, too. Good thing there aren't any buses since pigeons can't drive buses, right, mom? giggle

Allow me to present the peregrine, which I think is actually about to eat the entire building. Or crack its skull open.  (Also, you can really see the poor T.rex's loser medal in this shot. I feel kinda bad for him and his short little arms...)

 

Zzzziiiiipppp

After a refreshing four hours of sleep on Thursday night, we were all up and ready for morning zip lining adventures. Bea claimed she was going to be scared, but I was pretty sure all four of us were going to love it. (Shocker: I was right.)

 The longest (and most fun) line was 1800 feet long and 150 feet off the ground, and required passing through the Pay Attention Pines (as in, "you are about to land your ass on the upcoming platform, so pay attention"). Some of the lines were much shorter and much faster; also fun, but I didn't have nearly as much time to look around and go "holy mother of bacon, I am 150 feet off the ground on a wire and this is SO COOL as long as I don't die."

Bea thought the whole thing was awesome and smiled like a crazy woman the entire time. She got to ride with our guide all day since she didn't weigh enough to propel herself across each line. I, on the other hand, had no problem there...

Dude. It was SO much fun. I now want to zip line everywhere. Considering that I live on top of a big hill and that most of the places we go are at the bottom of the hill, this might work out... (Until I had to get back home, anyway, and then I guess I'll just have to call Lyft or Uber, which is probably equally as fun because hello? Cars with pink mustaches on them?)  

Just another day

Wake up and realize it's Friday - thank the sweet baby Jesus. Look around for Bea and don't see her; assume she's gotten up already and run off to find her Kindle. Stretch, flop hands down on covers, hear "aaahhhhhouhhhchhhhhh" and realize that Bea is actually buried underneath them. Whoops.

Neither child is excited to be awake; lots of groaning and pterodactyl-like noises indicate their displeasure. Dudes, it's WATER DAY at camp. Wake up and be excited. Oh, and let me sunscreen you 'til your skin is about three shades lighter than it normally is. Bea is goofy - she loves to have her "back neck" sunscreened because it feels good. She's going to grow up to spend a lot of money on massages.

Bea has left her listening ears somewhere. I lose count of the number of times I tell her to brush her teeth and put on her shoes. There is a lot of sobbing (not from me), and then the awesome yellow camp bus pulls up to the house and makes the lack of listening ears someone else's problem for the day.

Iced coffee and cherries for breakfast while dealing with today's work agenda. These cherries are awesome. My morning calendar is not. Why are there so many meetings on a Friday morning?

A short break between calls means I can firm up tomorrow's plans to make and consume some boozy popsicles. Damn you, Buzzfeed, for your list of delicious recipes. 

Since I skipped spin class last night, I'll do my own at the gym during lunch. I end up doing this pretty frequently, mostly 'cause I know that the music during my own spin class won't have any Hall & Oates and that Bill Who Is At Every Class won't have already claimed the good bike under the fan.

This afternoon it's time to finally delve into the online Java class I've registered for. We're required to do 40 hours of education each year, and this is what I want to learn. Yay, free MIT classes online. Oh internet, is there anything you can't do for me?

Tonight I'm looking forward to parking my butt on the porch and reading. Had to put down the novel I started yesterday before I was ready, thanks to Bea's penchant for discarding her shoes + bees hovering around on the clover in the front yard.  Also, I was sort of distracted by the crowd of kids on my front porch playing My Little Pony. (Please note that none of these children were Bea or her friends. Nor were they all girls.)

I've got a stack of books I've been plowing through this summer; I love being able to read something that doesn't involve software engineering and user assistance, and that does not require grading. Although, I sort of wish I could give a big, fat F to John Warley for his ridiculously trite and poorly edited "A Southern Girl." I kind of need to give myself an F, too, for continuing to read every one of its 392 annoying pages.

Snippets

I find it amazing that my kids continue to grow and reach milestones while I never age. I'm still 30. Even my dad agrees, as he lopped a few years off my age earlier this month when he said he'd been a parent for 40 years. Love that man - he knows how to give a great gift to his oldest kid. :)

Milestone: Kindergarten graduation

Despite the "Leopards don't wear unnerwears" incident at Halloween, Bea graduated from kindergarten this spring. 

She can read (when she feels like it, usually when it involves an Elephant and Piggie book), do simple math, draw some humans with exceptionally bird-like feet, and ask "why" like nobody's business. 

 

Milestone: High school planning

We need to think about where Liv is going to go to high school. We need to apply for those places this fall. We started the process with an open house at Oakland Catholic yesterday. It's an all-girls school, and has a fantastic mix of academics and extra circulars. She and John both loved it. I really liked it, too, despite the Catholic end of things.

(Aside: It's really weird to be thinking about kindergarten/first grade and high school at the same time.)

 

Milestone: First summer camp

Bea embarked on the Summer Camp Rollercoaster this year. Her first camp, ever, was Zoo Camp. She was pretty damn dubious at first, but by the middle of the week when they got to see the polar bear poop IN the water (it sinks, just in case you wondered) and touch an armadillo, she was pretty gung-ho. By the time it was Pizza Friday, she was ready to take up permanent residence there.

So far, Camp Deer Creek is a winner, too. (I may have mentioned before how much I love this camp; the bus picks up the kids in front of the house at 8:10 am, lets them swim and run and play in the creek and feeds them lunch, then drops them off -- dirty and exhausted -- at the house by 4:15.) 

She needs to work on her food identification skills, though. "Today we had a hot dog and chips and salsa for lunch. I didn't like the hot dog so I just ate the chips and salsa." I thought this was suspicious, so I checked the online menu. Yeah, that wasn't a hot dog. It was a beef soft taco. Dude, really? 

Milestone: First solo-ish part in the spring performance

Liv navigates through life with a random selection of dance moves. Just last night, she did a leap and double piqué turn down the sidewalk on her way to the car. As she gets older and stronger, she has more control over her body and muscles, and is showing good improvement year after year. 

 

For this year's spring performance, she had four pieces to do. One of them (the jazz number) featured her in a small solo. She was so nervous, but I'm proud of how well she did. In all three ballet pieces, she smiled beautifully and had a great presence on stage. It was great to see her up there, and great to have Grammie fly in for the day to watch, as well). Bea was thrilled. "That's my sister up there!" she stage "whispered" each time.

(I purchased the next two pics, so please ignore the watermark 'til I can scan in the actual prints)

 

Milestone: Kung Fu and yoga class

Bea started martial arts this summer in a class that is horribly called Kung Fu Panda. Yes, really. The studio itself is good (they run the classes at Chinese School, and we've watched the amazing performances), and at this level they really do animal-named poses, but still... I can't say the class name with a straight face. Bea's favorites are the tiger and the snake, and John says she's doing well. She seems to really enjoy it, and I'm just waiting for her to bust out some moves so I can see what's she's been doing.

Liv and I, meanwhile, are not punching or kicking anything. Instead, we are contorting ourselves into wheels, pigeons, and plows at a Sunday night yoga class. For a dancer, she lacks flexibility in some critical areas, so I thought yoga might help. She LOVED the first class and can't wait to go back this week. I loved it, too, and am excited that she's able to go with me. It's been years since I've done yoga and I missed it. 

Little Habitat of Horrors

It started innocently enough. The four girls found a gaziilion baby frogs in the muddy ruts of the Beechwood Farms trail and three of them spent ages catching some. (Shockingly, Bea did not want to get her hands dirty. Huh?)

At one point, R had 10 frogs in her hand and was working on 11 and 12.

"Hey, is anyone hungry for strawberries?" one of the girls asked. A moment of silent hesitation, and then she continued. "You know, so we could eat them, and then I could use the container for my frogs?"

You've never seen strawberries eaten so quickly.

Into the container went the 10 frogs, some muddy ground, and some water.

We continued on our hike. A few minutes in and the container had been handed off to Bea so the older girls could use both hands to eat some CheezIts and scale a natural tree trunk bridge. Now, you know Bea. You know she doesn't walk when she can run, doesn't step over something when she can do a kangaroo hop, and is generally windmilling her arms around wildly in order to make as much of a ruckus as possible.

Now, imagine that while holding onto a container of little bitty frogs. Yeah.

I made Olivia take the container back. In the span of five minutes, she managed to drop it off a treetop lookout (John, I hope there wasn't poison ivy down in that ravine) and -- my favorite -- trip over a root and send the circular container flying like a frisbee... right into a wooden trail marker.

Grace, right there.

A bit further on, M found a cricket and carefully added that (amid much girl shrieking) to the habitat.

By the time we ended our hike, the habitat of horrors looked like this:

"I don't see anything moving? Do you?"

"Maybe they didn't survive the drop..."

"Maybe it was when they got flung into the signpost..."

"Hey, did anyone put any air in here?"

As it turned out -- through careful investigation with a plastic spoon that had been licked clean of post-hike ice cream -- two frogs and one cricket survived the little habitat of horrors. "I hope mom lets us keep these!," said M. "The garden snake can eat the cricket!"

I whipped out my phone and texted their mom:

Dear P, we are on our way home with some amphibians and insects in tow. I owe you some takeout containers. I'm sorry.

Also, I'm sorry, little froggies. I had no idea you'd be subject to such, um, jostling at the the hands of my two kids. Next time, I will carry the habitat. I promise I won't trip, windmill you, or drop you into a ravine.

 

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The rest of the day was pretty awesome. The girls learned how to eat honeysuckle, do a delicate two-step to avoid thorns, and build a crazy dam out of sand. They chattered about school, sports, friends, and random junk. They got dirty and itchy and scratched ("Do you have any bandaids? Because I have some places where I could put them...") and ate ice cream for dinner. It was, for me, a fantastic summer day. I'm thankful for my friend P, who let us borrow her two girls for the adventure. 

 

Three

Bea has been home with us for three years now. THREE. YEARS.

Our family might be a little louder and crazier now, but it's pretty damn awesome. 

To celebrate, we had donuts this morning. (Well, some of us had donuts. Olivia decided to eat Bea's head instead.) 

And when I said our house is louder and crazier, I meant it. I was trying to get a picture of Bea minus her two front teeth. She wouldn't stop talking or making weird faces. 

 

 

Waiting for Santa

It's almost like Waiting for Godot, but with more whining children. 

At first, Bea was excited and was entertained by the train. People, it was not just a train... it was a train that had DINOSAURS hidden in the scenery. Bonanza for this kid.

Then the novelty wore off. Luckily, there was a T.Rex puppet hanging around. Bea spent a good five minutes trying to make its arms reach its mouth. Shockingly, no success.

 

Then there was great hunger.

And great thirst.

 

And then she no longer wanted to see Santa.

 

Until she did. And then? She asked him for an alligator. Sigh.

School days

While this has been a hard fall for me (I picked up an unexpected class at CMU, plus my other class, plus my job, plus Chinese school), it's been fantastic for the girls. I wanted to remember how well they've been doing.

Liv tranferred to a new school (an environmental charter school) this fall. Now, call me crazy, but switching schools in 7th grade seems like a terrifying prospect to me. This kid has flourished. We had our first parent/teacher conference this week, and it was rave reviews all the way around. No concerns academically or socially, and she's great to have in class. Straight As on her report card. A solid group of friends who go shopping together, braid each other's hair, and wear matching bows, necklaces, and scarves. (It's like Heathers 2013. If they start playing croquet I'm gonna hide the drain cleaner.)

One of her twice-weekly activities is field games. Said her teacher, "She might not have the best Knock-out skills, but she plays hard and has a great time." 

I'm beyond impressed at how well Olivia has handled this. This school has a distinctly different approach to education than her previous school; the number of students in her grade is easily three times what she was used to; she has a longer day and a longer school year. She plunged right in and embraced it all. She has a great relationship with her teachers, and her teachers are the kind who send you an email when your kid does well on a math test she was dreading AND let your kid call you from class to tell you her good news.

And Bea... To be honest, I had some serious concerns about how she'd do in Kindergarten. Turns out she loves it and is thriving in the classroom. She pays attention (though, her teacher said, she DOES try to touch everything during circle time), does her work, and comes home either passed out asleep or eager to do her homework. She's learning to read, she's a giant fan of Messy Monday (art day), and is always ready to tell you when you are wrong because "that's not what my teacher says."

Her teacher does a sweet thing where she makes a construction paper heart, strings it on yarn to make a necklace, and writes on there things like, "You really warmed my heart today when you were helping your classmates clean up the mess from the block corner" or "You really warmed my heart with your good manners and kindness today." The first time Bea got a heart, she refused to take it off and fell asleep with it clutched to her chest. She now has 10 hearts, and will tell you that 87 times a day, just in case you might have forgotten.

I'm just amazed by the progress she's made -- emotionally, socially, academically -- in the last three months. 

So proud of both of my girls. They are awesome. 

Leopards don't wear clothes

This year, Bea decided to be a leopard. Mainly, I suspect, because it gave her a legitimate excuse to growl nonstop. (This scene unfolds at least once a day: Bea growls, I yell at her to stop making that gross hairball noise, she continues, I lose my mind and flee the room.)

She did a little school activity about it, complete with invented spelling (the first we'd seen from her). She also drew a picture of herself in the leopard costume.

It bears a striking resemblance to the Angry Beavers.

Despite my best Nancy Reagan intentions, I just could not say no when the teacher asked for a parent volunteer for the class party. 

Before I got to the school, the kids had changed into their costumes and paraded around the campus. When Bea returned, I noticed that she wasn't wearing any socks. Now, I knew I sent her to school in socks. Also in leggings and a shirt that would be easy to wear under the leopard costume. I was positive. 

"Bea, where are your socks?"

"Oh, they're in my backpack."

Thinking it was strange but not any stranger than the other stuff she does (uses her pillowcase as a sleeping bag, for example), I shrugged my shoulders and turned back to passing out the craft supplies.

The teacher, having overheard this exchange, walked over.

"She insisted on taking her clothes off before putting on her costume. When I realized what she was doing, I had her go change in the bathroom."

"Um, ALL of them?" (thinking just socks, shirt, pants)

"I'm afraid so."

And so the party continued and the ghost lollipops were made and the snacks were consumed and then it was time to take off the costumes.

Bea the leopard retrieved her clothes from her backpack and strode into the bathroom. After a few minutes, I knocked on the door. She opened it, half-dressed.

"Mom, I losted my unnerwear. And I can't find a sock."

Dude. 

When she went off to another costumed school event the next day, we had to have a small chat about how we do not get completely undressed to wear our costumes and how leopards really do wear socks and unnerwears. And pants. And a shirt.

 

Five and jaded

 Somewhere in the craziness of this whole having-a-second-kid thing, I suspect we forgot to tell Bea about certain important things. Like losing teeth. And the Tooth Fairy.

 Last week she informed me -- rather dolefully -- that she had a squiggly tooth and that it was going to come out and bleed everywhere.

Sure enough, her front tooth was loose. 

I tried to tell her that this was exciting. "The Tooth Fairy will come and leave you money for your tooth!" 

The look she gave me suggested I had four heads and maybe some monkeys flying out of my butt.

"The TOOTH FAIRY?" she asked. "MONEY?"

Hands on my hips, head cocked, I replied, "Would I lie to you?"

After a hasty and half-assed explanation, I sent her off to school where I can only imagine she told her teacher "My mom is crazy and says that a tooth fairy is going to take my tooth and leave me money. Can you BELIEVE that?" 

This week she came home with her teeny tiny front tooth in a Ziploc bag. It fell out at 'stended day (Extended Day - aftercare at school). My doubting daughter wanted to throw it away. Seems she is not motivated by money or fairies.

We put the tooth in the pillow and hung the pillow on the door. The next morning I woke Bea for school. I thought perhaps the lure of finding treasure in the pillow would actually get her vertical. And it did, for the time it took to cross the room, look in the pillow, and walk right back to bed. "It's just money," she said as she curled back up. 

Well, then. I'll just take those quarters and buy myself something cool from the gumball machines.

 

So long and thanks for all the sharks

Every year, Liv goes to a two-week sleepaway camp. Every year, we concoct ridiculous stories about what's happening in her room during her absence. 

The first year was lame... something we couldn't prove with photographic evidence. I don't even remember what it was.

Last year, it was llamas. John emailed Liv, "Sorry to inform you that we've rented out your room to a farmer who needed room for his llamas." We tormented her with several other emails about what the llamas were doing to her stuff, and included a nicely Photoshopped shot of a bunch of llamas lounging and grazing in her room.

This year, a sharknado mysteriously struck only Olivia's bedroom. (Thank you, Facebook, for introducing John to the existence of sharknado.) It started out innocently enough in an email he wrote to her on the second day of camp:

In some bad news, with this weird weather and rain there was a sharknado that hit your room. So now it's full of sharks. I think mom may have some pictures. 

Try not to worry about the sharks too much. We closed the door so maybe they will just go away. Otherwise we will need to Google for some shark traps. 

Love you, 
Daddy

I briefly mentioned it in my next email to her ("Daddy told me not to open your bedroom door; do you know what THAT's all about?).

Our friend (whose daughter -- one of Liv's BFFS -- is also at camp) emailed her kid:

Olivia's whole family had to have a sleepover here last night because all the sharks got out of Liv's room!

 

In the first letter from Olivia, she says:

Dear Mom, Dad, Bea, and Folly. I'm having a great time at camp so far. [...] P.S. TELL THE SHARKS THEY BETTER NOT EAT MY POSTERS OR ELSE.....  >:-|

 

I had no choice but to respond with a Photoshopped picture of the sharks emerging from the sharknado in her room, and targeting the One Direction posters all over her wall. (Thank you to L & R for the fantastic job!) I added a bit of commentary: 

Who knew? Sharks really like One Direction. Niall apparently tastes especially delicious. There was a lot of chomping and a few giant, contented belches coming from behind your door. It looks like they managed not to mess up your bed, though. Apparently they are pretty tidy sharks. If they were at camp, they might win cabin clean up. 

I think they are getting bored and hungry. Your new Tiger Beat came in the mail today and they are begging me to slide it under the door.

Love, mom.

Now that Liv's return is imminent, I needed a quick way to dispose of the sharks. Tonight's trip to the playground? Pay dirt. Tomorrow's email to Liv:

Dear Liv,

You know how your sister is about animals... she really, REALLY wanted to play with the sharks. Somehow they talked her into a trip to the playground. I have no idea how she managed to stuff them into the car without me knowing.

I *think* she might have forgotten to bring them back home. Your room seems suspiciously quiet and empty. 

Love, mom.

 

12 x 12

In case you were wondering, a dozen middle schoolers make a lot of noise. Like, more than I thought possible. They are also hilariously bad at Charades.

And shockingly, they were willing to get dressed up for Liv's Hollywood-themed 12th birthday party. EVEN THE BOYS. (Well, most of them.)

We rolled out the red carpet, literally. Thank you, Party City. We had a little backdrop where each guest could pose for a picture. We had glasses of champagne (sparkling lemonade) for everyone as they arrived. There were mocktails, bowls of candy, and little red-and-white striped boxes of popcorn. 

 

Liv wanted to have an awards ceremony, so there were little statuettes and the kids competed for things like "Best Actor, Romantic Drama" and "Best Silent Actor." They played "Honey I love you; won't you please just smile?" and Charades and Ghost in the Graveyard and "I never have ever" and generally cracked themselves up.

Getting them all together for a picture was harder than I imagined. Isn't this supposed to get easier as they get older and can understand "STAND STILL SQUISH OVER SMILE NO YOU CAN'T PEE RIGHT NOW"? 

    

 The backdrop and patch of red carpet saw far more action than I thought it would. This might be the only time some of these kids -- incuding my own -- have voluntarily asked to have their pictures taken. They started off with their best red carpet poses, but then things... devolved. As they will, with 12 tweens/teens. 

 

  

Liv declared that this was the best birthday party, ever. It seemed like everyone had a good time, and there was even an afterparty (yes, really. HOW do they know about afterparties?) where a handful of them blasted music and danced crazily all around the dining room until the last of the mess was cleaned up and we booted them out. I count this as a success. I also count this as the last time I agree to host a red-carpet event on a weeknight. *yawn*

 

 

And now we are five

Every morning this week, Bea has rolled over in bed and groggily asked, "I'm still five?"

Indeed she is. She is a whole handful (in both senses). She's been with us almost as long as she was without us. Crazy, that.

At five, she's excited for kindergarten, though I suspect it will be a rude awakening when she's expected to actually sit at a desk and focus. At least she quit sucking her thumb and rubbing her shirt before we sent her off. Such a relief.

She is still obsessed with animals of all kinds, dinosaurs, trucks, trains, and planes. Oh, and Diego. I can't complain too much about that last one 'cause she has a scary amount of animal knowledge. Instead, I will offer thanks to the little dude and his rescue pack.

Her lastest obsession? "Inja Turtles." (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for those not fluent in Bea-ese.) I walked into the living room this weekend to find Bea and John doing Inja Turtle moves, complete with "HIIII YAAAAAA" sound effects. I had to leave the room so I could laugh without making her self-conscious.  I have no idea where she learned it, but I'm guessing it has something to do with her BFFs being boys.

Speaking of Bea-ese... She cracks us up all the time with her own interpretation of words and syntax. She is constantly misusing words or making up her own. And, um, everything apparently happened "yesterday." "Bea, when did you go to the beach?" "Yesterday!" A few Bea-isms:

• "Mom, tomorrow is St. Patrick's day. That is when the lepers go to the rainbow and find a pot of gold." Personally, I think lepers are more likely to find a pile of noses and limbs and such, but I let her roll with her (misguided) belief.

• "Unicorners have one horn on their head. Not antleaders. Just a horn. Reindeer have antleaders. They pull Santa and so they need antleaders."

• "Hey! That's a macaroni penguin! Macaroni penguins have big mac-and-cheese on their heads. I learned it on Diego."

• "Can I wear my fluffly pants? I love them because they are sooooo fluffly." Fluffly pants are fleece pants. (FYI: This question was asked on one of the hottest days of summer. No, you cannot wear your fluffly pants.) I must confess: We have all taken to using fluffly instead of boring old fluffy.

We felt slightly guilty that we hadn't ever done a big hoop-de-doo party for Bea's birthday; we fixed that by doing a party at the zoo -- her favorite place besides Panera. (Yes, really. Panera.) 

Unsurprisingly, Bea chose Diego invites, thank you notes, and party hats. She dutifully put her Diego field journal invites into the "cantaloupes" ("mom, cantaloupes and em-belopes are the same thing.") though her envelope-licking-and-sealing skills leave a bit to be desired. 

She had a fantastic time. When I asked her what her favorite part was, she yelled "EVERYTHING!" My favorite part? The zoo did every last little thing. We pretty much showed up, partied, and left. They provided the drinks, the cake, the food, the games, the favors, the setup/cleanup. 

As part of the party, the kids got to learn about and touch a bunch of different animals. Dude, I want a tenrec for a pet now. 

  

As it turns out, the Diego party hats were a big hit among all of the kids, regardless of age. While some wore them atop their heads as intended, others found more... creative uses. Like unicorn horns. And a quadraceratops. 

 

Revenge, little sister style

Last summer, Olivia tricked Bea into sticking her face into a fountain.

Bea might not remember what she did at school today, or whether she put on unnerwears, but she hasn't forgotten that incident. It appears she's just been biding her time, waiting for the perfect revenge opportunity to stroll along.

 

This might be the last time Olivia asks her little sister to come play in a fountain. 

Bea (and Olivia) Season

(Apologies to Myla Goldberg.)

Nothing much happening here. Except the upper school musical. Preschool graduation. Random weekend trips to see giant squid and rocketships. An afternoon at the water steps, looking at too much of Pittsburgh humanity while Olivia figured out how to use her sister as a human dam. Chickensitting. Off-the-record Chinese class. An Olivia-and-Bea milestone.

 

We've managed to pack in a lot over the last 6 weeks. Too bad I've been too lazy to blog about it. Let's see if I can fix that. 

File this under "I can't really believe it worked"

Olivia has been wanting to make some money. We have been wanting to escape the house without a four-year old barnacle and a slightly moody preteen and the capricious schedules of babysitters.  When Olivia begged to babysit Bea, I thought "Sweet fancy moses, this can only end badly." But she persisted. And I relented.

We went around the block for a drink. We watched our phones. We marveled at the lack of a call and wondered if that meant all was well, or that the only one who knew how to use the phone was dead or maimed. We walked back to find Olivia reading every single library book to Bea, while Bea cozied up next to her. My jaw, it dropped. There was no crying. No yelling. No throwing of Itchy Frog or slamming of doors. You guys, I can taste freedom, and it tastes a lot like a $2 an hour babysitting rate. 

Bea really likes her protein

It feels kind of... twisted to laugh at these two incidents. Yet I do.

• We agreed to chicken sit (okay, who am I kidding... I begged to do it) a gaggle of chicks. John retrieved Bea from school and told her they were going to pick up Miss Sarah's chickens. "YUM. I *like* chicken." 

 

• Our hotel in DC provides a goldfish upon request. We requested. They delivered. I told Bea the goldfish was in our room. Her eyes lit up and she yelped, "Can I eat it?" We kept a very close eye on that fish for the rest of the weekend. I'm glad to report that we returned it in one -- uneaten -- piece.

The hills are alive... with the sound of music

To our surprise, Liv declared she wanted to audition for the upper school musical. She managed to get cast as Gretl, the youngest child in The Sound of Music. (I suspect in no small part because she is the tiniest person in the upper school. But to be fair, she was really good in the performance.)

We survived two months of daily play practice after school. We survived two months of random bursts of "So long, farewell..." and "Edelweiss." Most importantly, we survived three hours in the auditorium watching the upper school musical.

I'm super proud of Liv for wanting to do this, for putting a huge amount of effort into it, and for agreeing to wear that horrible curtain costume. I'm not sure I'd have that much chutzpah.

(BTW, you're welcome for the earworms.)

Nobody puts Baby in a corner

Speaking of being proud of Liv: She moved up to level 3 in ballet, and she rocked her spring performance at the Byham. She was waitlisted at CAPA for the dance program -- did I mention she spent a month with the Bodiography director choreographing and practicing an original dance for her audition? I'm not sure if I want her to get in (Yay, free public school with lots of arty cool people) or not (OMG, giant public school downtown with a lot of people I don't know). The decision is out of my hands; if there's a vacancy in the 7th grade dance program, she's in. If not... oh well.

Pink dresses aren't sad enough for breakups

Milestone: First middle school semi-formal dance. 

Related milestone: First breakup with a boyfriend at a school dance.

Yeah. So. Olivia was dating (for definitions of dating that equal eating lunch together and holding hands at the school ice skating party) a boy, much to John's chagrin. (My argument of "this is what happened when *I* was in 6th grade didn't particularly sway him.) We'll call him Webster.

Before their first semi-formal, Liv decided she wanted to break up with him. Webster wasn't paying her enough attention, and he tried to squirm his way out of the dance. 

Hope and I took Liv shopping for a beautiful dress and some strappy silver (but modestly low heeled!) sandals. She went to a friend's house to get ready, then went back to the friend's house to spend the night. When I picked her up the next morning, she had the pink dress and a black dress I'd never seen before. 

"Mom, I tossed Webster to the curb. But the pink dress wasn't sad enough. So H. gave me a black dress. I changed into that, and told Webster that it seems like our feelings have changed and we should break up. Then, after I broke up with him, I put the pink dress back on and danced with all the 8th graders."

Ooookay, then.

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.

 

 

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...)

 

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. 

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.