[I know, I owe a monthly update, and this isn't it. But doesn't it tell you a lot about Chloë's current status?]
I set the girls up to play in the backyard this evening while I worked on dinner. I opened the sandbox and filled the water table, and provided two of the large buckets and fed them an equal number of raspberries. Then I went inside and opened the window. I chopped tomatoes and rolled pita bread, checking the window frequently. I loved having the kids playing outside while I worked without somebody wailing or clinging to my leg.
"I need flowers!" Chloë called to me when I went outside to cut parsley.
"Well, you know where they are," I said, pointing to the garden behind the garage, where there are a couple of marigold bushes that Chloë has picked from plenty of times.
"But those are marigolds, not flowers!" she said.
"Marigolds are flowers."
She said nothing, which surprised but pleased me, and I figured she'd accepted my word on it. I went back inside.
Presently, I saw Maia head toward the garden. I mentioned this to Eric as I finished chopping. "Should one of us head out there?" he said.
"Yeah, I'll go when I finish this." I suited action to word and went outside. But as I did, Maia came back. "Good timing," I told her.
"Mama," Chloë called. "I need help getting flowers. Maia didn't bring me any."
I looked at her, and then at Maia, and then back at her. "Did you send your sister to pick flowers for you?"
"Yes," she said, as Maia nodded vigorously. "So I need you to help me."
I went inside (after walking her to the garden) and reported this to Eric, who said, "She finally actually has her own minion."
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
To the coast and back
And we have survived the plane ride home, with a decent but single nap for Maia and ten minutes of sleep while landing for Chloe, and a ten-thirty bedtime that night and a nine-thirty bedtime last night as we inch ever closer to our regular schedules and Maia struggles with her frustration that she can no longer get out of her bed.
The trip was great. Very relaxed (except for the day of the wedding), low-key, lots of time for talking and playing. Some tidbits:
-The first morning, Chloë woke up at five local time and we went downstairs to get milk and explore. She poked around and peeked through the blinds, and soon reported, "They have a sandbox!" It was a sand/water table, and both girls had a ton of fun in it. They also made a ton of mess. Their sand play always coincided with bathtime.
-When I needed to buy shoes for the wedding, Chloë came along and tried on shoes from the clearance rack. "Look at my grown-up shoes!" she said, sporting a deep-red high-heeled shoe on one foot and a sparkly pink one on the other. "Mama, you should wear grown-up shoes!"
-We visited Mom's work so she could show off her granddaughters. Her coworkers went wild over the girls, cooing and exclaiming and begging for hugs. I expected Chloë to retreat and be shy, but instead she went willingly into people's arms, jumped up and down, accepted their compliments, and even spontaneously offered a hug to a latecomer.
-Afterward, we went to Tully's and got drinks, a raspberry and a blueberry shake. Chloë claimed the blueberry, Maia the raspberry, but they traded sips and each would readily offer Mom, Dad, and me their cup when asked. They circled the table, drinking and clutching their cups, as we sat in comfy chairs around them.
-Eric put Maia down for a nap one day and came downstairs. Not long after, he turned around to see her slithering backwards down the stairs and toddling toward him. "Maia Verity!" he said. "You get back upstairs!" She looked at him a moment and started back up the staircase.
-This happened again. After he sent her back up the second time, he went to check, and found her playing with my phone.
-His keys appeared magically in my purse after the next naptime.
-The next two nights, I put Maia down for sleep and then spent the next half hour saying, "Get back in bed!" After a while I'd poke my head in and she'd immediately climb back in bed.
-At camp, the girls ate through one of those huge plastic containers of blueberries you get at Costco. Then when we got back to Mom and Dad's, they ate all the blueberries off their bushes, maybe a couple of cups' worth. Then they ate a huge bag's worth Mom bought from work. (Admittedly, I helped. And a cup went into some scones. But still.)
-Maia learned to say "Grandpa," "Halmoni," and "Abby" (her cousin we met for the first time while there).
-Coming back from some trip, Chloë asked, "Is Halmoni still there?" When I said yes, she said, "We should tell her what we did. And hug her!"
-As mentioned, we met my niece Abby for the first time (though we'd seen pictures and a web call) during the trip. Chloë seemed a little diffident at first, but then it was "Maybe Abby can play." "Will Abby be there?" She came to a dinner with her new Aunt Amanda the night before the wedding. She didn't want to sit next to Abby, but she spent most of her time watching her (when she wasn't scarfing down tofu).
-Dad taught Maia to say "please" when she wanted ice from his Coke. "Moh (more)," she started out saying. Then, at his prompting, "Bee." After a few times, she said, "Moh. Bee," unprompted.
-At each airport, both girls made a dash for the windows to watch the airplanes (and so Chloë could look for the animals on the tails--we flew Frontier, though she also identified one with "Two As and a bird," which is American). Maia called, "Buh! Buh!" (either bird or bug, I'm not sure which) until I told her they were planes, when she started saying, "Bay! Bay!"
-Except for the stopover on the way back, when she was asleep. I put Chloë's blanket under her head. Chloë promptly said she needed her blanket, so I swapped it out, waking Maia momentarily. Chloë then never touched her blanket.
-She then proceeded to eat two tiny bites of the burger we bought for lunch (McDonald's unfortunately being the best of our limited options). Maia slept through the entire stopover, but when she woke up in the airplane she proceeded to devour half a burger, bun and all.
-When we crossed Lake Michigan, I looked out the window and remarked that all I could see was water. Chloë looked and said, "No, Mama. That is sky."
The trip was great. Very relaxed (except for the day of the wedding), low-key, lots of time for talking and playing. Some tidbits:
-The first morning, Chloë woke up at five local time and we went downstairs to get milk and explore. She poked around and peeked through the blinds, and soon reported, "They have a sandbox!" It was a sand/water table, and both girls had a ton of fun in it. They also made a ton of mess. Their sand play always coincided with bathtime.
-When I needed to buy shoes for the wedding, Chloë came along and tried on shoes from the clearance rack. "Look at my grown-up shoes!" she said, sporting a deep-red high-heeled shoe on one foot and a sparkly pink one on the other. "Mama, you should wear grown-up shoes!"
-We visited Mom's work so she could show off her granddaughters. Her coworkers went wild over the girls, cooing and exclaiming and begging for hugs. I expected Chloë to retreat and be shy, but instead she went willingly into people's arms, jumped up and down, accepted their compliments, and even spontaneously offered a hug to a latecomer.
-Afterward, we went to Tully's and got drinks, a raspberry and a blueberry shake. Chloë claimed the blueberry, Maia the raspberry, but they traded sips and each would readily offer Mom, Dad, and me their cup when asked. They circled the table, drinking and clutching their cups, as we sat in comfy chairs around them.
-Eric put Maia down for a nap one day and came downstairs. Not long after, he turned around to see her slithering backwards down the stairs and toddling toward him. "Maia Verity!" he said. "You get back upstairs!" She looked at him a moment and started back up the staircase.
-This happened again. After he sent her back up the second time, he went to check, and found her playing with my phone.
-His keys appeared magically in my purse after the next naptime.
-The next two nights, I put Maia down for sleep and then spent the next half hour saying, "Get back in bed!" After a while I'd poke my head in and she'd immediately climb back in bed.
-At camp, the girls ate through one of those huge plastic containers of blueberries you get at Costco. Then when we got back to Mom and Dad's, they ate all the blueberries off their bushes, maybe a couple of cups' worth. Then they ate a huge bag's worth Mom bought from work. (Admittedly, I helped. And a cup went into some scones. But still.)
-Maia learned to say "Grandpa," "Halmoni," and "Abby" (her cousin we met for the first time while there).
-Coming back from some trip, Chloë asked, "Is Halmoni still there?" When I said yes, she said, "We should tell her what we did. And hug her!"
-As mentioned, we met my niece Abby for the first time (though we'd seen pictures and a web call) during the trip. Chloë seemed a little diffident at first, but then it was "Maybe Abby can play." "Will Abby be there?" She came to a dinner with her new Aunt Amanda the night before the wedding. She didn't want to sit next to Abby, but she spent most of her time watching her (when she wasn't scarfing down tofu).
-Dad taught Maia to say "please" when she wanted ice from his Coke. "Moh (more)," she started out saying. Then, at his prompting, "Bee." After a few times, she said, "Moh. Bee," unprompted.
-At each airport, both girls made a dash for the windows to watch the airplanes (and so Chloë could look for the animals on the tails--we flew Frontier, though she also identified one with "Two As and a bird," which is American). Maia called, "Buh! Buh!" (either bird or bug, I'm not sure which) until I told her they were planes, when she started saying, "Bay! Bay!"
-Except for the stopover on the way back, when she was asleep. I put Chloë's blanket under her head. Chloë promptly said she needed her blanket, so I swapped it out, waking Maia momentarily. Chloë then never touched her blanket.
-She then proceeded to eat two tiny bites of the burger we bought for lunch (McDonald's unfortunately being the best of our limited options). Maia slept through the entire stopover, but when she woke up in the airplane she proceeded to devour half a burger, bun and all.
-When we crossed Lake Michigan, I looked out the window and remarked that all I could see was water. Chloë looked and said, "No, Mama. That is sky."
Monday, August 13, 2012
Family Camp
We're out in Seattle now, having just come back from Shafer Family Camp. It's a yearly event that we've never been to until now. But since Chloë says, "I want to go camping again! For a long long long long time!" it will probably not be our last time.
The girls did really well, even with the time change (in fact, that probably helped them sleep a little better than they might have otherwise). They took to the strange beds in the trailer, enjoyed eating outside, visited with family they'd never seen or barely remembered, didn't get too near the campfire, and had fun in the lake. If it had been a little warmer, or the ground not so rocky, it would have been better; but we still waded and threw pebbles to see the splash, and saw baby fish (and "sharks," which were slightly bigger baby fish) and watched the waves from speedboats rock the shore.
Saturday we had a surprise wedding shower for Amanda, and had the family potluck. That night Eric and I, and James and Amanda, watched the meteor shower. The girls played with their cousins and ate pounds of fruit and were generally spoiled all around, and we all had a good time.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Status report: Maia, month 15
So Miss Maia the Mischievous is fifteen months old. She had her checkup yesterday, and was pronounced fit and healthy and linguistically advanced. She's at 75th percentile for weight and 90th for height. She's starting to talk, walking competently, understanding a lot...so funny and so happy and so capable.
Her vocabulary stands at...well, let's see. Mama, Dada, more, milk ("mohhhh"), bath ("BA!"), bye-bye ("ba-ba"), cheese ("tzchse"), shoes ("tzchsu"), star ("da"), moon ("moo"). Yes, she also learned "moon" before she learned, say, "cow." (Though she can tell you what a cow says: "Boo.") What can I say? We like science more than farming. She says "down," but more often "downdown," especially when we're talking about going downstairs, and plenty of "yahyah" and "nanana." And, just barely, the sweetest hesitant "baby" you ever heard.
She can point to various body parts, and likes to touch our noses and hear the different sounds they make, and investigate what new people's noses sound like. (Be warned if you come to our house.) She's gotten quite good at manipulating small objects--she often hands hairs or detritus to me to dispose of, though she'll also put things in the garbage if asked. She's taken to putting raspberries and olives and anything else that will fit over her fingers as she eats them.
She's still majorly into putting things into her mouth, which is to be expected but is annoying since Chloë's into toys with small parts. Nursing is getting more troublesome, partly because she seems to be using her teeth a bit when latching on (though not so much I can call it a bite) and partly because now that she's mastered shaking and nodding her head, she likes to do it all the time, including when she's got a mouthful of R.I.N.D.S. I want to try weaning her, but it's so hard to say no when every day I come home from work to her squealing "Mama! Mama!" and toddling toward me as fast as her legs will take her, and as soon as I pick her up demanding, "Mohhhh!" with a finger stuck into the R.I.N.D.S. "You want juice?" I asked her this evening. "Cheese?" She just looked stridently at me until I behaved. She'll make a great mom one day.
She and Chloë (or, as she prefers to be known these days, Sarah) still get along very well together. They play together, sort of, and enjoy being in the new sandbox together and poking around in the garden (though Maia tends to stand in the path and block Chloë and me in until I maneuver around to bodily move her). She's still stealing Chloë's sippies, but she'll give them back when asked, and if Chloë says something like "I want to try Maia's popsicle" she'll be right there, offering her popsicle by trying to stick it down Chloë's throat. Chloë just grins and accepts it.
She has to be coaxed or distracted into diaper changes, but the coaxing can include having her get the wipe, or doing her new favorite RollerCoasterMommy move, hoisting her up so her legs are around my neck and then letting her fall backwards until she's horizontal and I catch her in my arms (well) before she hits the ground. She likes being naked, and continues to love her baths. She keeps trying to climb in while I'm still getting the water going. Afterwards, she struggles to be put down while I struggle to dry her, and then I call "Naked baby alert!" and she toddles out to find her daddy while I finish with Chloë.
She's become quite the ham lately. The other day we harvested some food from the garden, including a monster zucchini that I have yet to turn into zucchini bread. When I wasn't looking, she grabbed it and started gnawing at it. When I went for the camera, she did this:
She's still waking up in the night, more recently a couple of times a night, which I've got to train myself to train her out of. Ugh. I suspect weaning will help.
She gets picky about the funniest things--she won't accept broken crackers, for instance, though half a cookie is perfectly fine. When we brush her teeth, she then wants the toothbrush so she can try herself, but she must be on the floor for it, not in my arms. Chloë wanted to play dress-up once with swim diapers (among other things), and now she picks them up and puts them on one leg and toddles around with a blue blob stuck to her leg all around the house. She's such a funny girl. She thinks we're funny, too. She laughs a lot. Her baby laugh is one of the best sounds this house will ever hear.
Her vocabulary stands at...well, let's see. Mama, Dada, more, milk ("mohhhh"), bath ("BA!"), bye-bye ("ba-ba"), cheese ("tzchse"), shoes ("tzchsu"), star ("da"), moon ("moo"). Yes, she also learned "moon" before she learned, say, "cow." (Though she can tell you what a cow says: "Boo.") What can I say? We like science more than farming. She says "down," but more often "downdown," especially when we're talking about going downstairs, and plenty of "yahyah" and "nanana." And, just barely, the sweetest hesitant "baby" you ever heard.
She can point to various body parts, and likes to touch our noses and hear the different sounds they make, and investigate what new people's noses sound like. (Be warned if you come to our house.) She's gotten quite good at manipulating small objects--she often hands hairs or detritus to me to dispose of, though she'll also put things in the garbage if asked. She's taken to putting raspberries and olives and anything else that will fit over her fingers as she eats them.
She's still majorly into putting things into her mouth, which is to be expected but is annoying since Chloë's into toys with small parts. Nursing is getting more troublesome, partly because she seems to be using her teeth a bit when latching on (though not so much I can call it a bite) and partly because now that she's mastered shaking and nodding her head, she likes to do it all the time, including when she's got a mouthful of R.I.N.D.S. I want to try weaning her, but it's so hard to say no when every day I come home from work to her squealing "Mama! Mama!" and toddling toward me as fast as her legs will take her, and as soon as I pick her up demanding, "Mohhhh!" with a finger stuck into the R.I.N.D.S. "You want juice?" I asked her this evening. "Cheese?" She just looked stridently at me until I behaved. She'll make a great mom one day.
She and Chloë (or, as she prefers to be known these days, Sarah) still get along very well together. They play together, sort of, and enjoy being in the new sandbox together and poking around in the garden (though Maia tends to stand in the path and block Chloë and me in until I maneuver around to bodily move her). She's still stealing Chloë's sippies, but she'll give them back when asked, and if Chloë says something like "I want to try Maia's popsicle" she'll be right there, offering her popsicle by trying to stick it down Chloë's throat. Chloë just grins and accepts it.
She has to be coaxed or distracted into diaper changes, but the coaxing can include having her get the wipe, or doing her new favorite RollerCoasterMommy move, hoisting her up so her legs are around my neck and then letting her fall backwards until she's horizontal and I catch her in my arms (well) before she hits the ground. She likes being naked, and continues to love her baths. She keeps trying to climb in while I'm still getting the water going. Afterwards, she struggles to be put down while I struggle to dry her, and then I call "Naked baby alert!" and she toddles out to find her daddy while I finish with Chloë.
She's become quite the ham lately. The other day we harvested some food from the garden, including a monster zucchini that I have yet to turn into zucchini bread. When I wasn't looking, she grabbed it and started gnawing at it. When I went for the camera, she did this:
She's still waking up in the night, more recently a couple of times a night, which I've got to train myself to train her out of. Ugh. I suspect weaning will help.
She gets picky about the funniest things--she won't accept broken crackers, for instance, though half a cookie is perfectly fine. When we brush her teeth, she then wants the toothbrush so she can try herself, but she must be on the floor for it, not in my arms. Chloë wanted to play dress-up once with swim diapers (among other things), and now she picks them up and puts them on one leg and toddles around with a blue blob stuck to her leg all around the house. She's such a funny girl. She thinks we're funny, too. She laughs a lot. Her baby laugh is one of the best sounds this house will ever hear.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Dear Chloë, year three
Dear Chloë,
A couple of days ago you told me, “I am Sarah, and I am three.” Sarah, as far as we can tell, was the waitress at the Ruby Tuesday we went to the day before. Neither your dad nor I remember this, but that's what you tell us. Sarah made appearances all day and occasionally thereafter, including tonight. I don't think she's going to be your first imaginary friend, but she's the first time you've claimed to be someone else. Normally, when we say “What are you?” all you ever say is “I am Cwoë.” You still don't have Ss or Ff, and I love your lisp. You say “tinger” instead of “finger” and “miley pate” instead of “smiley face,” and I sometimes wish I could preserve this aspect of you forever. (Though I suppose it wouldn't be very helpful in your college interviews.)
Freshly three-year-old you amazes me every day. You don't look at all like a baby anymore. I marvel daily at your long legs and arms, your face that comes into sharper focus each week. You speak so well, count so high, understand so much. You were aware of and interested in your birthday party this year: decorating, picking out the cake (“What kind of cake do you want?” I'd ask. “Moon cake!” You'd say. “Yes, but what flavor?” I'd reply), blowing up balloons, tabulating who would be there. You're constantly asking questions that make me pause and try to figure out how I know what I know—and if I know it. You pretend all day long, making the office your school where paint pictures and take naps, a cube of Legos a multi-flavored birthday cake (complete with pretend frosting), and yourself an astronaut or a dancer or a princess—which is the same as a dancer, just with more jewelry. We've tried to keep you from getting immersed in the insidious Disney Princess culture of girls your age, and so far we've succeeded pretty well, I think. People keep talking to you about princesses, and so you call yourself one, but you don't seem to know what to do after that. (Maybe because those princesses don't do anything themselves.) I think that's fine. I like the dancer, the teacher, the birthday girl. I can't wait to see what you play as you learn more.
You've been potty-trained for about a month—huzzah! It took a lot of time and effort to get here. But now that you are, you're so proud of yourself. Along with the potty-training has come, of course, pretty new underwear, and you've taken to putting it on yourself...and also your pants, and sometimes your shirt. You need someone to orient them correctly, but otherwise you, as you say with your arms outstretched and a glowing smile on your face, do it “all by myself!” More often you say “I can't do it,” so it makes me especially happy to see you so willing to try, so proud, so accomplished. A couple of days ago we talked about putting the top of the convertible potty seat on top of the toilet. Not only did you agree, but you proudly used it and then, to my surprise, suggested trying to use the toilet without the potty seat at all. It didn't work, as you're still not that big, but I was so surprised and impressed that you were willing to try it. You're not a terribly adventurous girl. Very cautious, and pretty clingy and whiny these days. I think that's the age, but you're definitely not as independent and fearless as, say, your cousin Addie. I'm okay with that. That's who you are, and it keeps you from doing things like dashing into the street and asking strangers to hug you, which is fine with me. But every once in a while you surprise me. I love when you do that.
You're so much your own person now. You have your definite likes and dislikes, and your own ways of doing things—of defying, of denying, of being tired, of being happy, of being unhappy. You still love green, though you're starting to get into pink a bit too. You refuse to do anything without your socks except bathe. I bought you some sandals, blue with green flowers, that I thought you'd love. And you like them, but only if you're wearing socks under them. On the other hand, you adore the sparkly, light-up sneakers your halmoni got for you. I'm so pleased that you're remembering your family and responding to them with affection. You're mature enough to play with your cousins and same-age peers now—really play, not just quietly follow along when they give you orders. You tell them what you want to play and what you don't, you contribute your own ideas. You haven't gotten to the point of compromising in order to play together, but you will.
You still love to read, which makes me very happy. We've gotten into longer books now, Olivia and Berenstain Bears and such, and I want to work on teaching you your lower-case letters, which we've neglected (in our defense, it's really easy to do so with the alphabets available for toddlers), because you're going to love being able to read for yourself. I mentioned that to you not long ago, and you hesitated, so I added, “But I'll still want to read to you,” and you relaxed. I want to read with you as long as you'll let me. And I'll keep making up bedtime stories and ridiculous songs for you as long as you want them.
You've gotten more physically active over the past year, doing a lot of jumping and dancing and running up and down in the hall--especially in the last month when you've been out of diapers or Pull-Ups. You're not as into naked time as you used to be, but you still indulge sometimes (though always with socks). “Do you see my butt?” naked you will ask if you're especially punch-drunk from tiredness. I'll say “I see your butt!” and you'll dash off, giggling, to run up and down the hall, and then repeat. You have a love-fear relationship with slides, and a simple dislike for swings, but you like going for walks, and pulling your sister in the wagon, and playing in the water table and the sprinkler and any pool you can find. You love to climb on me, or clamber over your daddy when he's trying to comb your hair. You love your daddy, and it makes me so happy to see it. Though the “Where is my daddy?” gets kind of old when I've told you “He's sleeping” or “He's at work” four times already.
You draw real things now: snakes and suns and flowers and circles with blobs in them that look like eggs or eyes or maps of islands. They're rudimentary, and you still enjoy simple color scribbling, but it's a definite sign of advancement. I love your pictures, and how proud and possessive you are of them. “Maia didn't color that,” you told me when Maia held up a picture of yours that she'd scribbled a line or two on and I'd praised it (because Maia is also quite proud of her scribbles). “I colored that.”
I continue to be proud of how good a big sister you are. I'm not saying you're perfect; you certainly have your jealousy and your moments of pique, where you push Maia away or yell at her because she's innocently taken something that you wanted. And your own streak of bossiness comes out when you repeat the things we've told her-- “No Maia! No buttons!” or “Don't touch!” But you're so unendingly patient with the way she steals your drink—whatever it is; all she wants is whatever you have—and sometimes refuses to tell you good-night or give you a kiss when she's giving them to your daddy and me. You'll readily keep her company or try to entertain her if I ask you to. You share your food with her without anyone asking you to. You try to get her to play with you in the tunnel or with your Duplos or in the sandbox. When she won't kiss you, sometimes you kiss her, on her hand or her leg or her belly. When I chant “So sweet—such a treat—baby feet” you tickle her toes and say “Baby peet! Toh tweet!” and you seem to mean it. When I tell you I'm taking you somewhere, your first question is always “Can Maia come?” You're such a sweet girl. My favorite sound is the two of you laughing together, especially when, as it often is, it's because Maia thought something you did was funny and you kept doing it so she'd keep laughing.
You are my beloved big girl, growing up in so many ways, unfolding like a flower bursting into bloom. You're going through a whiny and defiant stage, which is sometimes annoying and sometimes hilarious (“Never—pretend—to bite me—ever—again!”), but I know it's what you need to be doing, and I'm doing my best to be patient with it. It's the clinginess that gets me most, actually. But a small part of me revels in it, because in my own way I want to cling to you, too. It's my job as the parent not to, but sometimes I can't help catching hold of you and hugging you tight, loving everything you are and everything I see you becoming but wishing I could keep it all from happening because right now is so perfect and right. But that's selfish and short-sighted, and so I keep watching your beautiful self become ever more complex, more funny and smart and thoughtful. And I try to hold you just tight enough to keep us both feeling safe but giving you the room you need to grow.
Love,
Mama
A couple of days ago you told me, “I am Sarah, and I am three.” Sarah, as far as we can tell, was the waitress at the Ruby Tuesday we went to the day before. Neither your dad nor I remember this, but that's what you tell us. Sarah made appearances all day and occasionally thereafter, including tonight. I don't think she's going to be your first imaginary friend, but she's the first time you've claimed to be someone else. Normally, when we say “What are you?” all you ever say is “I am Cwoë.” You still don't have Ss or Ff, and I love your lisp. You say “tinger” instead of “finger” and “miley pate” instead of “smiley face,” and I sometimes wish I could preserve this aspect of you forever. (Though I suppose it wouldn't be very helpful in your college interviews.)
Freshly three-year-old you amazes me every day. You don't look at all like a baby anymore. I marvel daily at your long legs and arms, your face that comes into sharper focus each week. You speak so well, count so high, understand so much. You were aware of and interested in your birthday party this year: decorating, picking out the cake (“What kind of cake do you want?” I'd ask. “Moon cake!” You'd say. “Yes, but what flavor?” I'd reply), blowing up balloons, tabulating who would be there. You're constantly asking questions that make me pause and try to figure out how I know what I know—and if I know it. You pretend all day long, making the office your school where paint pictures and take naps, a cube of Legos a multi-flavored birthday cake (complete with pretend frosting), and yourself an astronaut or a dancer or a princess—which is the same as a dancer, just with more jewelry. We've tried to keep you from getting immersed in the insidious Disney Princess culture of girls your age, and so far we've succeeded pretty well, I think. People keep talking to you about princesses, and so you call yourself one, but you don't seem to know what to do after that. (Maybe because those princesses don't do anything themselves.) I think that's fine. I like the dancer, the teacher, the birthday girl. I can't wait to see what you play as you learn more.
You've been potty-trained for about a month—huzzah! It took a lot of time and effort to get here. But now that you are, you're so proud of yourself. Along with the potty-training has come, of course, pretty new underwear, and you've taken to putting it on yourself...and also your pants, and sometimes your shirt. You need someone to orient them correctly, but otherwise you, as you say with your arms outstretched and a glowing smile on your face, do it “all by myself!” More often you say “I can't do it,” so it makes me especially happy to see you so willing to try, so proud, so accomplished. A couple of days ago we talked about putting the top of the convertible potty seat on top of the toilet. Not only did you agree, but you proudly used it and then, to my surprise, suggested trying to use the toilet without the potty seat at all. It didn't work, as you're still not that big, but I was so surprised and impressed that you were willing to try it. You're not a terribly adventurous girl. Very cautious, and pretty clingy and whiny these days. I think that's the age, but you're definitely not as independent and fearless as, say, your cousin Addie. I'm okay with that. That's who you are, and it keeps you from doing things like dashing into the street and asking strangers to hug you, which is fine with me. But every once in a while you surprise me. I love when you do that.
You're so much your own person now. You have your definite likes and dislikes, and your own ways of doing things—of defying, of denying, of being tired, of being happy, of being unhappy. You still love green, though you're starting to get into pink a bit too. You refuse to do anything without your socks except bathe. I bought you some sandals, blue with green flowers, that I thought you'd love. And you like them, but only if you're wearing socks under them. On the other hand, you adore the sparkly, light-up sneakers your halmoni got for you. I'm so pleased that you're remembering your family and responding to them with affection. You're mature enough to play with your cousins and same-age peers now—really play, not just quietly follow along when they give you orders. You tell them what you want to play and what you don't, you contribute your own ideas. You haven't gotten to the point of compromising in order to play together, but you will.
You still love to read, which makes me very happy. We've gotten into longer books now, Olivia and Berenstain Bears and such, and I want to work on teaching you your lower-case letters, which we've neglected (in our defense, it's really easy to do so with the alphabets available for toddlers), because you're going to love being able to read for yourself. I mentioned that to you not long ago, and you hesitated, so I added, “But I'll still want to read to you,” and you relaxed. I want to read with you as long as you'll let me. And I'll keep making up bedtime stories and ridiculous songs for you as long as you want them.
You've gotten more physically active over the past year, doing a lot of jumping and dancing and running up and down in the hall--especially in the last month when you've been out of diapers or Pull-Ups. You're not as into naked time as you used to be, but you still indulge sometimes (though always with socks). “Do you see my butt?” naked you will ask if you're especially punch-drunk from tiredness. I'll say “I see your butt!” and you'll dash off, giggling, to run up and down the hall, and then repeat. You have a love-fear relationship with slides, and a simple dislike for swings, but you like going for walks, and pulling your sister in the wagon, and playing in the water table and the sprinkler and any pool you can find. You love to climb on me, or clamber over your daddy when he's trying to comb your hair. You love your daddy, and it makes me so happy to see it. Though the “Where is my daddy?” gets kind of old when I've told you “He's sleeping” or “He's at work” four times already.
You draw real things now: snakes and suns and flowers and circles with blobs in them that look like eggs or eyes or maps of islands. They're rudimentary, and you still enjoy simple color scribbling, but it's a definite sign of advancement. I love your pictures, and how proud and possessive you are of them. “Maia didn't color that,” you told me when Maia held up a picture of yours that she'd scribbled a line or two on and I'd praised it (because Maia is also quite proud of her scribbles). “I colored that.”
I continue to be proud of how good a big sister you are. I'm not saying you're perfect; you certainly have your jealousy and your moments of pique, where you push Maia away or yell at her because she's innocently taken something that you wanted. And your own streak of bossiness comes out when you repeat the things we've told her-- “No Maia! No buttons!” or “Don't touch!” But you're so unendingly patient with the way she steals your drink—whatever it is; all she wants is whatever you have—and sometimes refuses to tell you good-night or give you a kiss when she's giving them to your daddy and me. You'll readily keep her company or try to entertain her if I ask you to. You share your food with her without anyone asking you to. You try to get her to play with you in the tunnel or with your Duplos or in the sandbox. When she won't kiss you, sometimes you kiss her, on her hand or her leg or her belly. When I chant “So sweet—such a treat—baby feet” you tickle her toes and say “Baby peet! Toh tweet!” and you seem to mean it. When I tell you I'm taking you somewhere, your first question is always “Can Maia come?” You're such a sweet girl. My favorite sound is the two of you laughing together, especially when, as it often is, it's because Maia thought something you did was funny and you kept doing it so she'd keep laughing.
You are my beloved big girl, growing up in so many ways, unfolding like a flower bursting into bloom. You're going through a whiny and defiant stage, which is sometimes annoying and sometimes hilarious (“Never—pretend—to bite me—ever—again!”), but I know it's what you need to be doing, and I'm doing my best to be patient with it. It's the clinginess that gets me most, actually. But a small part of me revels in it, because in my own way I want to cling to you, too. It's my job as the parent not to, but sometimes I can't help catching hold of you and hugging you tight, loving everything you are and everything I see you becoming but wishing I could keep it all from happening because right now is so perfect and right. But that's selfish and short-sighted, and so I keep watching your beautiful self become ever more complex, more funny and smart and thoughtful. And I try to hold you just tight enough to keep us both feeling safe but giving you the room you need to grow.
Love,
Mama
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Daytona
And the verdict is: Daytona (now dubbed Second Vacation by Chloë) Was Good. We stayed in a huge house that Eric's cousin had rented (borrowed? I'm not clear on this), across the road from the intracoastal waterway, with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandmas and so on. The beach proper wasn't far, and Chloë won't go near the surf, but Maia loved it. They both loved the sand and the pool. Chloë was proud of being able to float around by herself in a floatie and kick around the pool a little. Maia loved being jumped in and out of the water and standing on one of the steps, up to her chest, considering taking the next step down but never quite doing it . When we got out of the pool once, we walked around to dry a little and Maia headed back toward the edge. Eric and I both said "No, baby!" but she just sat down at the pool's rim to dabble her feet in the pool and kick, wistfully, at the water.
Chloë had a reasonably good time, it looked like, playing with her older cousins (they did get pretty bossy and probably didn't realize when she didn't actually want to play their games, since she didn't say so unless I asked her) and did a lot of coloring and playing with blocks and taking walks and swimming and running around. Maia was clingy, as we expected in a house full of so many strangers, but she had some fun too, especially with the puppy an aunt brought along. Eric and I swam and took the girls to the pool and gave series of two-girl baths (the older cousins wanted in on the big fancy tub) and played games in the evening.
One night we walked on the beach together. We passed a man fishing in the dark, shining a flashlight on his pole. As we passed he called, "Hey, do you have a flashlight?" I said I was afraid not, puzzled why he needed a second light, and he walked toward us and held out his flashlight, saying, "Here, have this one. Where are you from?" We said Toledo, and he said, "Welcome to Florida."
So we came home richer by a flashlight (also some books, because there was a used bookstore in town and, well, you can't spend all your time swimming). Chloë came home richer by a set of beach toys and a pretty good tan, and Maia poorer by a set of goggles (not that she used them anyway). It was a good vacation. The girls were great travelers; Chloë got antsy, and Maia upset when she wanted milk and wasn't getting it, but there was no major whining or complaining, and mostly they played or watched movies or ate or slept.
I actually came back a couple of days early, to save vacation days, and while they were gone I cleaned most of the house (I ended up forgetting to dust one wall, and I didn't sweep the basement) and marveled at the way things would, when I put them away, still be put away two hours later. I baked and did laundry without interruption, and went shopping without needing to stop for potty breaks or snacks or naps or whininess or bedtime. And I still had time to relax and goof off. It was marvelous. I even slept ten hours in a row on Saturday and lounged in bed for half an hour when I woke, just because I could.
But when I went to the bookstore I picked up "Biscuit's First Beach Day" because I thought it would be a nice reminder of their time at the beach and Maia is in love with dogs. When I went clothes shopping I picked up a bigger (4T) bathing suit for Chloë because her two beloved ones from last year are really too small. I changed Chloë's sheets and turned down her bed, so we could lay her right in it when they got home late Saturday, and put Maia's stuffed animals in the corners of the crib so she'd have room to lie down. Eric called a little after one on Sunday morning to say they were close, and I sat up in the living room until I heard them pull in and could go out and lift Chloë out of her seat and into the house, and then take Maia for a big hug. It was good to get them back.
In the meantime, Chloë said to me this morning, "Soon it will be summer." I said, "Silly, it's summer now." She said, "No, I mean real summer. When my pool that is not too big is out." I guess Eric needs to mow so we can set up the kiddie pool in the backyard.
Chloë had a reasonably good time, it looked like, playing with her older cousins (they did get pretty bossy and probably didn't realize when she didn't actually want to play their games, since she didn't say so unless I asked her) and did a lot of coloring and playing with blocks and taking walks and swimming and running around. Maia was clingy, as we expected in a house full of so many strangers, but she had some fun too, especially with the puppy an aunt brought along. Eric and I swam and took the girls to the pool and gave series of two-girl baths (the older cousins wanted in on the big fancy tub) and played games in the evening.
One night we walked on the beach together. We passed a man fishing in the dark, shining a flashlight on his pole. As we passed he called, "Hey, do you have a flashlight?" I said I was afraid not, puzzled why he needed a second light, and he walked toward us and held out his flashlight, saying, "Here, have this one. Where are you from?" We said Toledo, and he said, "Welcome to Florida."
So we came home richer by a flashlight (also some books, because there was a used bookstore in town and, well, you can't spend all your time swimming). Chloë came home richer by a set of beach toys and a pretty good tan, and Maia poorer by a set of goggles (not that she used them anyway). It was a good vacation. The girls were great travelers; Chloë got antsy, and Maia upset when she wanted milk and wasn't getting it, but there was no major whining or complaining, and mostly they played or watched movies or ate or slept.
I actually came back a couple of days early, to save vacation days, and while they were gone I cleaned most of the house (I ended up forgetting to dust one wall, and I didn't sweep the basement) and marveled at the way things would, when I put them away, still be put away two hours later. I baked and did laundry without interruption, and went shopping without needing to stop for potty breaks or snacks or naps or whininess or bedtime. And I still had time to relax and goof off. It was marvelous. I even slept ten hours in a row on Saturday and lounged in bed for half an hour when I woke, just because I could.
But when I went to the bookstore I picked up "Biscuit's First Beach Day" because I thought it would be a nice reminder of their time at the beach and Maia is in love with dogs. When I went clothes shopping I picked up a bigger (4T) bathing suit for Chloë because her two beloved ones from last year are really too small. I changed Chloë's sheets and turned down her bed, so we could lay her right in it when they got home late Saturday, and put Maia's stuffed animals in the corners of the crib so she'd have room to lie down. Eric called a little after one on Sunday morning to say they were close, and I sat up in the living room until I heard them pull in and could go out and lift Chloë out of her seat and into the house, and then take Maia for a big hug. It was good to get them back.
In the meantime, Chloë said to me this morning, "Soon it will be summer." I said, "Silly, it's summer now." She said, "No, I mean real summer. When my pool that is not too big is out." I guess Eric needs to mow so we can set up the kiddie pool in the backyard.
Friday, July 6, 2012
On the road
We're off to vacation at Daytona Beach today. We're driving...for twenty hours each way...which has me shaking in my sneakers. But the girls were very good on the way to South Haven for our Easter break (or "Bacation" as Chloë still refers to it), and we're hoping to do a big chunk of the driving while they're sleeping...and we're going in Memaw's van which is equipped with DVD player, so I'm in hopes it won't be too bad.
Chloë eagerly helped pack last night. She picked two bed toys (Elmo and Frog) and a small blanket (the warmest one she has, which I vetoed; then she picked the most garish one she has, but it's light so I let it pass). She selected one set of pajamas, one pair of underwear, six shirts, three shorts, and two bathing suits. (I edited appropriately.) She would have packed all the socks, except they were still being washed. She's got a thing about her socks. She used to glory in naked time before pajamas, but ever since she got into underwear she's been refusing naked time, and she never wants her feet uncovered. I insisted yesterday that we wait until her feet de-wrinkled from her bath before putting socks on her and she was visibly agitated, asking me every few minutes if her feet were dry enough yet. Bath time continues to be an issue with her...the past few baths she's been reluctant because, we think, she has a scratch on her leg that she says hurts when it's in the water. Possibly the real trouble is that we put a Band-Aid on it for the first couple of days and then insisted on taking it off for her baths, which of course hurt a bit. As the scratch has healed she's been less recalcitrant, though she's still not as enthusiastic about baths as she used to.
Back to socks: I mentioned that she wouldn't be wearing socks a lot at the beach, and she said, "But I can wear socks with my sandals." I just know she's going to ask to go swimming in her socks. We have water shoes for her and I'm hoping they'll be good enough substitutes. She's started to put on her own underwear and pants sometimes, with orientation assistance, and the last day or two has attempted to put on her own socks as well, probably to be independent of her parents' faulty understanding of how vital it is to cover one's feet at every moment.
Maia, of course, doesn't understand we're going on a trip, but if she did I bet she'd be the more excited of the two...though Chloë is excited, especially when we tell her it'll be like Bacation and she'll get to not only play with Addie and Rae-Rae a lot but see her distant cousin Marlee as well. Maia is much more mercurial than Chloë, I'm noticing. When she's upset she has real fits, throwing things and squalling, with sobs so intense that she stops breathing for several seconds as her face gets redder and her eyes squinch shut, mouth open in wordless fury. When she's happy she's so happy. The other day I held her while she played with the light switch. I said "on" in a squeaky voice when she turned it on, and "off" in a low boom when she turned it off, and before long she was giggling like a mad thing, so hard she woke Eric up (and Eric doesn't wake easily). She adores sliding and swinging and being tossed around in our arms, and squeals with happiness...and sometimes she likes to make us laugh, too. "Maia is being funny," Chloë said this morning when Maia poked her finger into my nose on purpose after I told her "don't put your finger in your nose," and she was right, and I was so delighted by the both of them. Though I did use my stern voice to tell Maia to knock it off with the nose-picking.
So this post isn't really about the trip, of course, but doing the planning for a family trip makes me think about my family and how nice it really is to be going somewhere together, even if I think it's a little soon for this long a trip (travel-wise, I mean). It's a very grown-up but very real pleasure to be able to shepherd our family into the kind of vacation I went on when I was a child. I hope I can give my kids the kind of experiences I had...or at least ones that are as good. There were no DVD players on our trip to Disneyland when I was eight, but there was music and snacks and cousins and my parents providing distraction and conversation and the opportunity for a great time, and I had it, and I hope Chloë and Maia do too.
Chloë eagerly helped pack last night. She picked two bed toys (Elmo and Frog) and a small blanket (the warmest one she has, which I vetoed; then she picked the most garish one she has, but it's light so I let it pass). She selected one set of pajamas, one pair of underwear, six shirts, three shorts, and two bathing suits. (I edited appropriately.) She would have packed all the socks, except they were still being washed. She's got a thing about her socks. She used to glory in naked time before pajamas, but ever since she got into underwear she's been refusing naked time, and she never wants her feet uncovered. I insisted yesterday that we wait until her feet de-wrinkled from her bath before putting socks on her and she was visibly agitated, asking me every few minutes if her feet were dry enough yet. Bath time continues to be an issue with her...the past few baths she's been reluctant because, we think, she has a scratch on her leg that she says hurts when it's in the water. Possibly the real trouble is that we put a Band-Aid on it for the first couple of days and then insisted on taking it off for her baths, which of course hurt a bit. As the scratch has healed she's been less recalcitrant, though she's still not as enthusiastic about baths as she used to.
Back to socks: I mentioned that she wouldn't be wearing socks a lot at the beach, and she said, "But I can wear socks with my sandals." I just know she's going to ask to go swimming in her socks. We have water shoes for her and I'm hoping they'll be good enough substitutes. She's started to put on her own underwear and pants sometimes, with orientation assistance, and the last day or two has attempted to put on her own socks as well, probably to be independent of her parents' faulty understanding of how vital it is to cover one's feet at every moment.
Maia, of course, doesn't understand we're going on a trip, but if she did I bet she'd be the more excited of the two...though Chloë is excited, especially when we tell her it'll be like Bacation and she'll get to not only play with Addie and Rae-Rae a lot but see her distant cousin Marlee as well. Maia is much more mercurial than Chloë, I'm noticing. When she's upset she has real fits, throwing things and squalling, with sobs so intense that she stops breathing for several seconds as her face gets redder and her eyes squinch shut, mouth open in wordless fury. When she's happy she's so happy. The other day I held her while she played with the light switch. I said "on" in a squeaky voice when she turned it on, and "off" in a low boom when she turned it off, and before long she was giggling like a mad thing, so hard she woke Eric up (and Eric doesn't wake easily). She adores sliding and swinging and being tossed around in our arms, and squeals with happiness...and sometimes she likes to make us laugh, too. "Maia is being funny," Chloë said this morning when Maia poked her finger into my nose on purpose after I told her "don't put your finger in your nose," and she was right, and I was so delighted by the both of them. Though I did use my stern voice to tell Maia to knock it off with the nose-picking.
So this post isn't really about the trip, of course, but doing the planning for a family trip makes me think about my family and how nice it really is to be going somewhere together, even if I think it's a little soon for this long a trip (travel-wise, I mean). It's a very grown-up but very real pleasure to be able to shepherd our family into the kind of vacation I went on when I was a child. I hope I can give my kids the kind of experiences I had...or at least ones that are as good. There were no DVD players on our trip to Disneyland when I was eight, but there was music and snacks and cousins and my parents providing distraction and conversation and the opportunity for a great time, and I had it, and I hope Chloë and Maia do too.
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