Big Girl

We set up Viv's big bed tonight. She climbed out of her crib last week, so we thought it was finally time.  We put her down an hour and a half ago.  She told us to leave her room and go downstairs, so we said good night and left.  Sitting in his office, Christian heard the thump...thumpthumpthumpthumpTHUMP of her feet hitting the floor and dashing to the door, then excitedly wrenching it open.  He went upstairs to find her naked from the waist down, saying that she wanted to pee on the potty.  He let her, but nothing happened, pee-wise, so he re-diapered her and put her back to bed.  More thumping a few minutes later, this time in ended with her descending the stairs to tell me that she was "nudie-patootie." I brought her back upstairs and let her pee on the potty, this time successfully.  I put her back in bed, laid with her in the dark for a few minutes and told her several times that she was not allowed to get out of bed, and that she could only get up when I came to get her in the morning. I asked her if she understood.  "Mmm-hmm," she assured me.   I asked her to repeat what I said.  "Um, I can get up when it's summer time, but it's not summer time right now because it's dark, but there are stars that will come out in summer time." Well, sure.  So, I repeated what I had said and didn't leave until she repeated it back to me, with only short stream-of-consciousness detours along the way.  However, I was not surprised to hear her door open again.  I went back upstairs and told her that I would not be leaving until she fell asleep.

I laid down on the bed and started to sing, and she reached out her hand to pet my hair comfortingly.  She whispered, "Say 'Daddy'."  "What?" I replied, not understanding.  "Call for Daddy!" She explained.  I told her that Daddy was cleaning the bird cages and that it was time for her to sleep.  This was our conversation over the next few minutes:

V:  I can't sleep.
S:  Are you too excited?
V:  Yes, I'm too excited.
S:  Well, just pretend to sleep.
V (looking surprised): What?
S:  Close your eyes and pretend to sleep.
V:  I can't close my eyes.  They're too little to close.
S:  No, they're just the right size to close.
V (kicking off her blankets):  I don't want any blankets.  They aren't needed.
S:  Fine.  You'll be cold, but go to sleep.
V (waiting five seconds, then covering me with blankets, giggling):  Hide!  I'm hiding you!
S:  I'm going to count to three, and then I'm going to lay you down.  One...two...do you want me to lay you down?
V:  Yes!

This went on for five more minutes, with requests for rocking and another pee break, before I sternly told her that she was absolutely not allowed to get out of bed until I came for her in the morning.  So now she's singing to herself and kicking the wall, but at least her feet aren't on the floor.

Beautiful

In preparation for the next 20 years, I'm reading Cinderella Ate My Daughter, a look at the current aggressively pink girly-girl culture, as the author aptly calls it, and the impact it has on girls, especially very young ones.  The impetus for the book was the author, Peggy Orenstein, having a daughter who flung herself unencouraged into princess fantasies, even while the author attempted to keep the "beauty first" mindset out of her child's developmental life.

The book asks disquieting questions that have been coming to my mind, as well, as Christian and I raise Viv.  We are careful to sparingly use words that would value her appearance over her intellect, which has been far harder than I expected.  She's just so damn cute, and it's the simplest thing in the world to comment on her apparel or hairstyle and not think what, if any, repercussions that will have on what she thinks we value in her later.  To me, being told that I looked pretty or lovely or even just nice was the highest compliment I could ever be paid.  I didn't care if I were smart until after Anne of Green Gables, and that was too late.  I only knew that other girls had the gene that seemed to tell them what to wear, how to be thin, what to say, and I didn't have it, and because of that, no one would ever like me.  I was supposed to wear makeup, Mom did, Tina did, other girls did, but I hated it.  I always felt grubby wearing it, and I couldn't touch my face, which was impossible as I was always trying to hide behind my hands as well as my oversized clothes, as my weight was the albatross following me all my life.

This issue of weight and body image is the most resonating for me in the book.  Ms. Orenstein discusses how a friend has a chubby daughter, who has always been chubby and probably always will be.  A healthy kid, but one whose parents have to control her portions and ignore her constant pleas for food.   As a fat person, I find that I feel towards Viv the author's gratitude over her own child's current slender size.  This relief, however temporary, makes me worry, as it does the author, that we are already valuing this slenderness in our children too much.  Is it that we don't want our children to be teased in preschool, or is it that we want to look with pride at our children who are more attractive than we are ourselves?  I can take no genetic pride in my child's looks, and she doesn't like to eat, despite having two parents who love it, so it simply is who she is.  She's actually too thin for her height, and that should be a bad thing.  But it isn't, if I go by the comments I get from strangers about her "adorable" skinniness.  I keep hoping that maybe her attitude towards food is a healthy one, that she can instinctively control her portions, unlike me as a child, and that this is her way of getting enough nutrition without using food as comfort, as I did.

I realize that she's only two and her eating habits will likely change dramatically and often, so I am stunned by the amount of time I spend thinking about her eating.  I'm very aware of my own issues towards food and weight, so have begun to be extremely careful in the language I use in front of her.  I never use words to describe body size other than comparatively (ie., our hands are big because we're adults) and I never refer to myself in terms that could influence her ideas of worth according to BMI.  I have taken the lead from my friend Jen, the mother of two girls, and use the word "healthy" when discussing what we can and can't eat.  We have actually started to eat much better since we now all sit down for dinner together.  I'm trying to replace my old, terrible food habits now that I have someone watching me to set an example.  But I still have this desperate wish that she'll stay small, as I'm illogically convinced that it will eliminate an enormous amount of problems she might face down the road if she ends up like me.

There are so many aspects of raising a girl, especially an African American girl, that we are trying to tackle effectively.  We want her to love her hair and accept it as it is, so we tell her how much we love her curls and how soft they are.  We want her to love books and reading, so we praise her interest in memorizing her stories.  We want her to form her own opinions of what is for her, to shirk gender roles and avoid being put in a girl's only corner, so we tell her that men wear dresses sometimes and buy her dinosaur flash cards.  We compliment her for trying to achieve instead of only achieving.  It's okay if the tower of blocks falls down, it's supposed to when they're all piled on top of each other.  But it's not enough.  She has to be empowered but not in a way that places value on her appeal to others.  She has to be tough but kind, smart, resilient to the incredibly damaging array of images that affect especially black girls and know and respect herself well enough that she demands the same from others.  And this is while everyone is telling her something different, opposite from what we're saying.  It's a good thing that I'm loud, I might be able to drown out some of the noise, but she'll have to learn to how to shout for herself, all too soon.

I'm now an advocate for leashes.

Viv got drinking fountain blocked today.  She knows that she can reach the button on the kid-height fountain in the Zoomazium with the aid of the stepstool that the zoo leaves out so kids can climb the elephant sculpture, so she carried the stool from its usual spot on the left side of the statue and centered it underneath the fountain's button.  As she put one foot on the stool and started to step up, a horrid little beast of a four year old ran over, stepped on the stool, elbowed Viv in the ribs and started drinking.  I put my hand between the two of them, gently pulled the little boy off of my kid and told him, rather sternly, that he needed to wait his turn.  Viv managed to squeeze in a sip before he open palmed me, shoved Viv again and kept drinking, paying not a modicum of attention to my raised voice telling him that he was behaving very rudely.  His mother then came over, smiled at me as though her flailing sprog hadn't just shoved my tiny snowflake, and blandly told her son that it was polite to wait his turn. She even him continue to drink while Viv was standing there asking me if it was her turn yet.  If Viv had behaved in that manner, she would have never had a chance to put her feet back on the ground before her little hiney was back in the carseat.  We walked away, and I told Viv that we would have to come back later when he was done.  However, he continued to drink and play in the fountain for a long while, so we did not get a chance to try again.  I did notice his mother earlier, sitting with the boy's father, both of them engrossed in their phones, although I didn't realize that the boy running through the play area, screaming and throwing things, prompting the other children to tell him to "stop scaring them," was theirs until she claimed him from the fountain.

I find the school of "oh, well," free range parenting infuriating.   I don't allow Viv to run through crowded indoor play areas and she is always required to share, wait her turn and put away any toys she uses.  I find that I dislike going indoor places where parents congregate on rainy days as they somehow seem to feel that being indoors allows them to not supervise their children.  She's been drinking fountain blocked, slide blocked, tunnel blocked, bobbly animal blocked, everything you can imagine blocked by free range kids.  Damn those bland parents and their unwillingness to make their kids dislike them.

Man Plans...

There are days and weeks where I feel that the swift hand of fate has come to bitch slap me back into my proper frame of mind.  Feeling good about having gone out to the opera in a nice outfit like a damn adult?  Here, have a child with a 104.8 degree fever and vomiting at 11 pm when you get home to make you feel like the worst parent on earth for leaving her.  Ready to tackle those house projects and finish the kitchen?  Have two inches of standing water in the basement, submerging electrical cords and power tools left there after the cabinets were installed.  Ready to start rehearsing again after a long hiatus?  Here, have persistent laryngitis for a month.

On the other hand, we do have the first three seasons of The Muppet Show to keep us occupied today, so it might be a wash.

Birthday the Second!

Hello, my angel!  It's your second birthday today.  We celebrated with the family yesterday in Spokane, and it was a wonderful time.  Thankfully, the stomach virus that caused you to throw up last night and then in the car on the way home waited until after the party.  That chocolate cake was probably better the first time, for which I apologize.  You'll hopefully be able to keep another chocolate cake down when we get together with all your favorite Seattle people on Tuesday.

So, every middle class parent thinks their kid is gifted.  You'll find this out as soon as you start preschool.  However, I believe I'm right in thinking that you're rather brilliant.  Because you're so bright, though, I tend to think that you're older in wisdom than you are, so I expect a great deal of you that is probably a little unfair to expect of someone who's only two. I need to reevaluate my expectations, I think.

In most other ways, you're a pretty typical toddler.  You hate to eat at times that we designate, you collapse to the floor when we even slightly furrow our brows at you, you draw on the walls and you throw books when you're tired. However, that's pretty much the extent of your misbehavior.  You're a wonderfully even-tempered child who is also pretty self-aware.  I can leave you alone while I shower, as long as Sesame Street is on, and I know that you won't swallow a nail or climb the cabinets while I'm gone.  That's been an unexpected perk.  I'm waiting for the really bad behavior to begin.  It'll be spectacular, I'm sure.

Viv, I love you. I say it all the time, I kiss you constantly, I ask for hugs more often than you would like, but I do it because I know the time is coming soon when you won't let me.  So, I'm taking it now when I can, because I want to make sure you know that you are my sun and moon, that you are my life, and I love you.

The first, surprisingly non-traumatic, haircut.

About six months ago, Viv's sparsely populated head suddenly exploded and she, seemingly overnight, grew a fro.  We let it go, wanting to see how it would grow and fill in.  Recently, though, she started to get crazy ends to her curls that would stick out in all directions and catch on clothes and rings and fingers and break off, so we decided it was time to get a trim.  As she despises anyone touching her hair (usually), I was dreading taking her to a salon, fearing a screaming fit in front of the very posh women who shop at U Village.  Imagine my surprise when she not only allowed the stylist to drape her in a cape but mist her hair and TOUCH HER HEAD:

We had rallied the support team (Shelly and Angie) to come with us, to witness the big event as well as provide distraction, but the phone provided enough entertainment to keep her occupied when the cutting started:

The stylist must be considerably more gentle than I am with a comb, so I took notes on her technique to give my kid some relief as well as prevent CPS from coming to our door during our comb-outs.  The screaming, oh God, the screaming.  Anyway, she seemed the find the end result satisfactory, as she wanted us all to see how she looked in the mirror, especially as the stylist had dusted her with pink glitter.  

To reward her for surpassing my very low expectations, we got her a chocolate cupcake, which she ate very sparingly, in her usual dainty fashion.  I mean, how many kids leave cupcake for later?   

I'm sure next time will be just as successful and easy.

And a well done to you, madam.

I don't buy a lot of things for myself, especially jewelry.  I'm really cheap and nice jewelry isn't.  However, when Viv was born, I very much wanted a pendant with her initial on it, and, because I'm apparently a huge snob, I got it at Tiffany.  I liked it so much that when my nephew A was born, I bought one for my sister.  However, the chain that came with the pendant was ridiculously fragile, and one tug from Viv broke it in two places.  As the same thing happened to Tina's necklace, I took both back to Tiffany to see if they could repair or replace the chain.  They took the jewelry and gave me a work order and told me to expect the necklaces in six weeks.  Months went by and I almost forgot about it, but the other day, I suddenly missed the necklace.  I found the receipt and called Tiffany's repair number and was told, very nicely, that they didn't seem to have any record of the repair order.  When I called the store where we took the jewelry, the manager was sweetly and genuinely upset.  She promised to fix the problem, called me back shortly and, in a very apologetic manner, told me that the necklaces had been lost somewhere between Seattle and New York. She assured me that she would make it right, even though she knew that the sentiment couldn't be replaced.  Still, I was surprised when I received a box today from Belinda, the manager, with three boxes inside, our two pendants and a gift.  Behold:

That's some unexpectedly remarkable customer service.

Day Twenty-Seven

Where did all of the other days go?  I have no idea.  Not a lot was done in the intervening days but the foundation.  However, the framers are here, and man, they don't let any grass grow under them.

 They had to take off a lot of siding and, well, other house-holding-up-stuff to add the supports for the new addition.

Holy crap, this is our new kitchen floor!  Well, it will be.  It's starting to seem like we're adding something and not just making our already trashy backyard worse.

Day Five

The inspection is done, so today, the concrete trucks arrived...

...to pour the supports for the addition's basement floor:

And there goes the back door. The rebar on the concrete marks the center of the new walls.  Small addition, but huge to us.  And the stupid overhang?  Still waiting to be filled.

Day Four

The foundation crew arrived yesterday in the deluge to pound in rebar and lay forms.  And today, they removed the basement door to allow them to fill it before cutting a new door in the foundation.  

That will be the door that leads to the new area of the basement once the addition is complete.  We couldn't keep the existing door as it falls outside the new footprint.  Notice the left corner of the house?  Why in the name of all that is holy would the original foundation have been poured in this manner?  What is the purpose?  There's a little shelf in the basement, but that could not possibly have been the reason for this absurd little overhang.  So, the workers are drilling in for rebar installation and then they'll fill to stabilize the area.  Fortunately, when the mudroom was removed, the outlet remained, so the powertools can be plugged in outside without having to run cords through the windows:

I'm hopeful that the foundation will be done by the time we leave for Panama so we can get the structure up when we get back.  Well, by "we" I mean the construction team.  You know, the capitalist "we".

Laying the foundation for my dreams.

It has begun!  Years of wishing, months of planning, it all came to noisy, filthy fruition this morning.  The excavation has begun, the mudroom...

...is gone!
  

The hole is almost dug for the foundation for the addition and the bees infesting the foundation have almost given up the fight.  

The wood from the house and all of the concrete will be cleared away by tomorrow, and the foundation will be poured before we go to Panama.  I'm not quite sure how we're going to get into the hole to access the basement to do laundry, but Christian will enjoy the challenge.  He'll probably practice high jumping.

Speaking of Christian, honey, here's a picture of the concrete piled on the lawn:

My dreams, they might come true.  I'm still expecting something to go horribly awry, but for now, I'm hopeful.

Standards in America

I really wonder if we've ruined marriage in America.  Do romantic comedies and porn make it impossible to have a successful, realistic marriage that isn't expected to be a non-stop, sex-filled travelogue with few money problems and, occasionally, perfect, rosy-cheeked children?  According to some recent threads I've read on two very disparate websites, in which women were basically reviled as money-grubbing, duplicitous, lazy opportunists who want nothing more than to be validated by men who they then try to trap into marriages of misery and failure, the only type of happy man is one who is living the life seen only in those two kinds of movies.  The wife is supposed to be a fit, cheerful, sports-loving, sex-crazed executive who only needs the perfect average Joe to make her life complete.  There's no responsibility on the part of the man to elevate himself to the perfection of this mythological woman.  She's supposed to be merely grateful for his attention.  And, on the other end of the spectrum, girls who were raised in environments where they were denigrated in value because of their gender, given fewer opportunities than their brothers and taught that their only asset was their ability to put out, are treated as disposable commodities, not worthy of respect or consideration because feminism has supposedly given them the opportunity to choose this type of self-destructive behavior.

Awareness is a tricky thing, self-awareness even more so.  How do you teach people what is realistic and what is not?  I read an article recently in the NY Times that discusses how the current culture of non-criticism has left an entire generation without the ability to recognize their own limitations.  So, now, we have marriages that are expected to follow a profoundly unrealistic blueprint that doesn't allow for personal difficulties or preferences to muddle the perfect construct or be deemed a failure coupled with a generation who has been taught that everything they do or want is what should be.  And it's apparent to me that, at least regarding the people who read the types of sites listed above and comment on them and who seem to be of this no-fault generation, that those who don't fit in that construct must have chosen to do so without any cultural or familial influences on their decisions.  It's the laughable idea that anyone is truly free to make their own decisions, free from the influence of their society and upbringing that I see trumpeted in these threads.  My favorite comment from both was "Sluts will slut."  Such absolute knowledge from someone who most likely was taught that everything they did was perfect and worthy of praise and who never wanted for approval or validation.  So little sympathy, so little understanding, so little hope.

Channelling Mom

After we got home from our trying and fatiguing nearly five hour trip back from Portland, Christian went out to get pho and I made Viv her dinner.  I sat with her as she attempted to scoop beans out of her bowl with a too-small spoon, the only clean one in the kitchen.  She suddenly stopped scooping, looked at me and said, "Don't worry, Mama."  I thought I must not have heard her correctly, as she's never said anything close to that before, so I asked her, "What did you say, baby?"  She replied, "Don't worry, Mama," very seriously.  I paused for a second to let what she just said ruminate, and asked her, "Don't worry about what?"  She thought for a second and said, "I don't know," and started eating again.  Smart enough to relay the message, too young to comprehend, maybe.  Got it, Mom.

Stats

Viv had her 18 month appointment today. Her stats are:

Height: 32 inches (75th percentile)

Head circumference: 18.75 inches

Weight: 21 lbs 12 oz (15th percentile)

Teeth: 6

Apparently, she needs some fattening up. Still, she seems pretty happy:

She's perfect to me.

So far ahead...

Viv, you're 18 months old today. It's one of those baby measuring milestones that we stop celebrating once you hit two. No one gets excited over halves ever again, but 18 months is a big one. There are special shots still, and that always signifies a big day.

You're a toddler now, although you run a lot more than you toddle. You also dance and kind of jump, you spin in circles until you fall over and you can walk backwards all while telling us you're doing so, because kid, you're really, really smart. You're the kind of smart that makes other parents of toddlers disbelieving, as they simply cannot understand that you just said, "Airplane is in the sky!" or, "Thank you and you're welcome!" But you did, and you can say a great deal more. You have a truly incredible vocabulary, but the best thing about your mad verbalosity is that you actually speak in context. You're also able to form new sentences using the words you already know, which is especially impressive. I'm awfully proud, even though I can't take credit for your genetic predilections. Still, I've read Hop on Pop to you so many times that I can take SOME credit for your development, as I think Dr. Seuss is guaranteed to improve your rhyming abilities, at least, so maybe you'll become a rapper. That would make Stephanie happy.

You know, though, butterbean, while I love that you can communicate with us so well, it's not your talking that makes you the greatest kid on Earth. It's not that or your mean dancing moves or the way you stroke my hair when you're tired. You're just so WONDERFUL. All around. You're funny and sweet and perfect and lovely. I just love to hold you so some of the overburdening love I feel for you can maybe be shared by osmosis. As clingy as this makes me sound, I just despise being away from you because I miss the way you change the air in a room just by your presence. You make it that much more worth breathing. You have brought a grace to our lives, a fulfillment, and I hope you can see this in the way we tell you we love you, which is a lot. Thank you, my sweetest monkey pants, for being our daughter.

And I'm sorry I mess with your hair so much. I know you hate it. I won't stop, but, you know, sorry.

I love you, love you, love you.

Now, WHO could have taught her that?

And, while watching this video, she commented, "booyah, baby!"

Starting Blocks

I've never, ever started anything new, be it role, hobby or lifestyle, without being utterly and implacably convinced that I was too stupid to do it properly or even at all. Knitting, singing, gardening, cooking, parenting, etc, I've always been sure that whatever I undertake will be a monumental failure. Why? No idea. Mom and Dad always believed that all of us kids could do anything, so it must be inborn. I also hate starting new things because the learning curve is so incredibly frustrating, which is why I make myself learn new things. I'm trying to cultivate patience, but I still suck at it. I hate not instantaneously understanding all related components to whatever it is I'm learning, and, even though I have yet to give up on a hobby I've started (as an adult-I mean, I only took figure skating for two weeks when I was twelve), nothing can ever convince me that the next thing I learn won't be the one that licks me.

Enter these socks. Socks, you say, incredulously? Feh. How can they be so difficult? Do you see that little window of color? That's not one yarn that is dyed to stripe or pool. That's a different strand of yarn for each single stitch. That's a bitch. I'm knitting these socks as a gift to Julie, and her PhD is almost finished, so I need to get off my dimply backside and get going. Failure is imminent, I just know it.

Geography Lessons

Viv calls every woman who looks even vaguely like my sister (and many people who absolutely do not) "Tina". She does this many, many times a day, and my usual response is, "Where's Tina?" She'll then point to whatever woman she thought looked like T at that moment, be she 80 or Asian. However, as we were leaving the house today, Viv looked over my shoulder and said the name. I asked the usual question, expecting her to point to someone walking her dog or to our crazy neighbor possibly up on her roof, but instead, she replied, "Spokane." I think she needed to prove that she really does, in fact, know who and where Tina is.

Whatever happened to Baby Vivienne Jane?

Christian has been telling me for months that Viv is a toddler now and not a baby, but I've been resisting the title change as her baby months went by too quickly, and I wanted to extend them. He's right, however, even though I'm still not able to say those words aloud.

Today, while standing dripping in the bathtub after all the water had been drained out, she adamantly refused to put her final toy back in the net hanging from the side of the tub after she had put away all of its mates. If I tried to hand her the toy, a little green car, she would hit it and back away. If I tried to put it in front of her, she'd turn around. She would rather have frozen to death (in the 80 degree bathroom) than put that toy away. It was our first true battle of wills. I mean, we've crossed spoons over certain foods, but she'd always eventually eat enough to satisfy us both. However, I have never asked her to do something that she then utterly refused to do, and she's never thrown a tantrum to prove to me how steadfastly she holds her opinion of my request. She's usually so good about bringing me whatever object she's illicitly purloined, like as tissues from the trash or the remote. I merely have to ask her for the object and then look at anything other than her and she'll bring it right over. In the tub, though, she discovered that she has a say in what she does. Or she THINKS she has a say. I finally resorted, after 10 eternal minutes, to putting the toy in her hand, holding her hand shut and putting her hand and the toy in the net. I even dried her off and put on her lotion and diaper, all while she was standing irritably on the rubber mat on the bottom of the tub, with suds swirling around her toes.

We knew the tantrums would be coming, though, as she's started doing a little ritual of annoyance, usually when she's in a car seat, shopping cart or high chair, that will escalate to a tiny eruption. First, she'll whine loudly. Then, she'll ask for a cracker,which we'll refuse to provide. She'll then clench her fists, stiffen her body, stick out her legs, grimace and howl through clenched gums. It's actually a pretty funny little display, but laughter annoys her even further. We're trying to respond to these moments with calm and rational conversations about using words and being patient, but I think we're forgetting that, despite her ability to speak in complete sentences, she might not actually understand the request to breathe deeply.

I miss my baby already.

Interesting Sartorial Observations

I started cleaning out Mom's closet today, just the one in the bedroom, as the clothes are getting dusty and seeing them hang there makes it impossible to not burst into tears every time I go into the master bedroom to answer the phone. I noticed something interesting. Well, interesting to me, anyway. Mom had conservative and practical fashion tastes, which I knew already, but what I didn't know what that she had started to purchase attractive, stylistically appropriate designer clothing. She had always shopped at Penny's and The Bon (nee Macy's), but everything she purchased was on the 70% off sale rack and usually the house brand or something similar (read slightly sad). However, I found a Kors jacket, a brand new pair of DKNY jeans and a whole panoply of highly colored button up shirts in jaunty hues from Ralph Lauren. Mom was making an effort. I guess the years I spent mocking her love of pleats finally wore her down, as I did find her two virtually identical pairs of boot cut jeans that I know she wore every day, because once, after she had returned home from a visit, she called to ask me if she had left the first pair at my house, as she couldn't find them and they were her "good" jeans. Hence the second pair.

Maybe in a few years' time, she would have flown to Vegas twice a year to shop exclusively at Versace. Well, if she could part stand to live without her 17 silk shells in an array of fetching beiges, purchased in bulk from the Macy's outlet.