Today I took Clara to the doctor's to get her diaper rash checked out. The doctor's office is on the fourth floor of a hospital. Clara wanted to carry her book, The Very Hairy Bear, through the maze of hallways to the reception area, with a few "reading" breaks on any steps that looked interesting on the way.
Our doctor shares a reception area with another office. There were, of course, several people that Clara felt should see her book, including an elderly lady who was quite charmed by Clara's intrusion of her personal space.
Next to the reception area is a large staircase leading up to who knows where. Clara, having had lots of practice on the stairs at our house, decided to climb it (with me right next to her, of course). Unfortunately, every kid in the waiting room watched her and decided it must be a fun thing to do. Toddlers and pre-schoolers herded, en masse, to the staircase. Parents shrieked out warnings and grabbed at their kids, looking at Clara with unmasked disapproval. An instigator. We decided to leave the stairs alone.
Clara enjoyed the examining room because it had some interesting books and toys, and because she could stand on the bench next to me and look out the windows. She did not, however, think very highly of the doctor.
Doctor Schaffer is a really nice lady with a great education (Northwestern Medical School). She's also very efficient and thorough, and probably not well-liked by many toddlers. Clara screamed her fury while the doctor checked her ears and throat.
"Mom! This lady is trying to kill me! And you're helping her by holding down my arms and legs!"
Clara crescendoed to her highest pitch as Dr. Schaffer shined a light up her nose.
"Now I remember! This is the same lady who gave me all those shots before!!!! How could you sacrifice me to this pathological prodder ?!!"
Dr. Schaffer finished the exam and Clara pressed her face into my neck. She was pretty sure she was going to get a shot.
"It's okay. No shots. All done," I said, putting her clothes back on. She gave a great sigh of relief as Dr. Schaffer left the room.
"Thank God she's gone. I don't know how you got her to leave, Mom, but we have to get out of here. Fast. Here, I'll take the lead."
At checkout, she got a sticker with a picture of a little green monster on it. I helped her peel the sticker off its backing and adhere it to her pants. On the way out, she tried to stick the backing on another little girl's knee.
"Honey, that side doesn't stick," I said. The little girl smiled shyly. She liked it that Clara came to share, even if all she had to offer was a sticker backing.
"Bye!" Clara shouted to the entire waiting room as we left. She raised her dimpled little fist and waved.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
It's Getting Complicated
Last week I started writing a freelance article for the Idaho Business Review. While it's fun to get back in the journalism game, I'm finding that it's an adjustment for Clara and my relationship and routine.
During the day, I periodically have to take phone calls and write up e-mails to get my reporting done for my story. Clara doesn't understand when I explain that, "Mama's working right now. I will be done with this phone call in a few minutes."
What is this thing you call work? she seems to say. You know, you don't have to do this. You can put the phone down and read me a story. Hey, do you want to color with me?
"Honey, Mama is writing. Go play. Go play with your kitchenette....I can't have you on my lap right now because I'm typing on my laptop....Okay, you can sit next to me here in the crook of my arm but don't...Yeah, don't touch that."
I think I need some sort of big timer that she can see, and that I can set for ten-minute increments. That way, I can say, "Mama will work for ten minutes more and then we can go outside." And I can set the timer and she can watch it.
I feel horribly guilty about the way I have to tune Clara out when I take phone calls or when I'm trying to write (tune her out, but also somehow keep an eye on her at the same time). A friend in a similar situation encouraged me that it might be a healthy thing, for her to have time to be an "individual" for a few minutes.
Mother guilt. It's the worst.
But there's levity in every situation, I guess. I was replying to an e-mail my editor sent me when I had to run upstairs for a minute. I left the laptop open on the couch. When I came back down a few seconds later, Clara had typed "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" in my reply. Was she trying to tell my editor I found her e-mail boring? Thank goodness she didn't accidentally send it.
During the day, I periodically have to take phone calls and write up e-mails to get my reporting done for my story. Clara doesn't understand when I explain that, "Mama's working right now. I will be done with this phone call in a few minutes."
What is this thing you call work? she seems to say. You know, you don't have to do this. You can put the phone down and read me a story. Hey, do you want to color with me?
"Honey, Mama is writing. Go play. Go play with your kitchenette....I can't have you on my lap right now because I'm typing on my laptop....Okay, you can sit next to me here in the crook of my arm but don't...Yeah, don't touch that."
I think I need some sort of big timer that she can see, and that I can set for ten-minute increments. That way, I can say, "Mama will work for ten minutes more and then we can go outside." And I can set the timer and she can watch it.
I feel horribly guilty about the way I have to tune Clara out when I take phone calls or when I'm trying to write (tune her out, but also somehow keep an eye on her at the same time). A friend in a similar situation encouraged me that it might be a healthy thing, for her to have time to be an "individual" for a few minutes.
Mother guilt. It's the worst.
But there's levity in every situation, I guess. I was replying to an e-mail my editor sent me when I had to run upstairs for a minute. I left the laptop open on the couch. When I came back down a few seconds later, Clara had typed "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" in my reply. Was she trying to tell my editor I found her e-mail boring? Thank goodness she didn't accidentally send it.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Gardening with Clara, Part 2
This is how we get ready to garden: I put on a tank top and shorts and get a hat. I take off all Clara's clothes, and smear her with SPF 110 sunblock until she looks like I dipped her in a jar of mayonnaise. Then I spray her with aerosolized sunblock in case there's a spot I missed.
She is allowed to go down the two concrete back steps on her own, while I watch and supervise. She skooches down one step and stops to enjoy sitting on a step. She realizes it might be more fun if she had one of her babies with her, so she climbs back up the step, leaving behind a greasy sunscreen print of her bottom and thighs. She comes back with two babies. She thinks how to navigate the steps with the babies. She puts them each in a half nelson, with their heads sticking out from her armpits. This is so her hands are available if she needs them to catch herself.
Ugly Baby nearly always gives Clara trouble in this configuration, because her battery-packed abdomen is so heavy and her legs get caught on the lip of the threshold. Really, Ugly Baby gives Clara the most trouble of all her babies, and this is perhaps why she loves her the most. She always stops on her way down the steps to tenderly kiss Ugly Baby.
On a side note, Simon loves to squish Ugly Baby's malleable rubber skull in so she looks like an alien of some kind. You'd think Clara would be appalled by this violence to Ugly Baby, but she actually thinks it's hilarious. It invites discourse, perhaps, on the primal nature of parenting. Animals that eat their young come to mind.
Outside, I turn the hose on a bit so Clara can splash around. She puts her toe in the water and whispers, "Ohhhhh. Haaaahhhhht."
"No, Hon. It's cold," I say.
Playing in the hose is one of Clara's favorite things to do. She fills up an old water bottle over and over, and dumps it on the grass. She found an old measuring cup that the previous owner left in the dirt. From the looks of it, the previous owner's dog chewed on it regularly. Clara likes to fill it up with water, too, and to wash the dirt off it. I'm okay with it as long as it's outside.
Once, Simon said he saw Clara lick the chewed-up measuring cup. I was horrified, but Simon is more blase about germs than me. He says Clara must be fairly impervious to germs. Despite my constant washing of her babies, they are somehow always covered in dirt and food grime, and she makes out with them all day, he explains. Therefore she must have the constitution of a gladiator.
Clara can play in the hose for like an hour without being distracted. I always end up turning it off before then because I feel guilty about wasting water in a desert.
Immediately she comes to hang on me as I weed.
"'Nack, Mommy."
"Okay." I go inside, wash my hands, and get her a saltine cracker smeared with peanut butter. "Now, don't show this to the sugar ants," I say.
A minute passes, and I hear her shriek in horror. She's dipped the cracker in the dirt.
"Maybe I can fix it," I say, brushing at the dirt. Of course, it's sticking to the peanut butter, so brushing at it only mixes it in. Now it looks like a peanut-butter, crushed-Oreo saltine cracker. I use my finger to wipe the peanut butter from the cracker and then the edge of the concrete patio to wipe the peanut butter from my finger. Then I look down at the dirty cracker and think, "Wait. What am I doing?"
And I go inside to get her another.
She is allowed to go down the two concrete back steps on her own, while I watch and supervise. She skooches down one step and stops to enjoy sitting on a step. She realizes it might be more fun if she had one of her babies with her, so she climbs back up the step, leaving behind a greasy sunscreen print of her bottom and thighs. She comes back with two babies. She thinks how to navigate the steps with the babies. She puts them each in a half nelson, with their heads sticking out from her armpits. This is so her hands are available if she needs them to catch herself.
Ugly Baby nearly always gives Clara trouble in this configuration, because her battery-packed abdomen is so heavy and her legs get caught on the lip of the threshold. Really, Ugly Baby gives Clara the most trouble of all her babies, and this is perhaps why she loves her the most. She always stops on her way down the steps to tenderly kiss Ugly Baby.
On a side note, Simon loves to squish Ugly Baby's malleable rubber skull in so she looks like an alien of some kind. You'd think Clara would be appalled by this violence to Ugly Baby, but she actually thinks it's hilarious. It invites discourse, perhaps, on the primal nature of parenting. Animals that eat their young come to mind.
Outside, I turn the hose on a bit so Clara can splash around. She puts her toe in the water and whispers, "Ohhhhh. Haaaahhhhht."
"No, Hon. It's cold," I say.
Playing in the hose is one of Clara's favorite things to do. She fills up an old water bottle over and over, and dumps it on the grass. She found an old measuring cup that the previous owner left in the dirt. From the looks of it, the previous owner's dog chewed on it regularly. Clara likes to fill it up with water, too, and to wash the dirt off it. I'm okay with it as long as it's outside.
Once, Simon said he saw Clara lick the chewed-up measuring cup. I was horrified, but Simon is more blase about germs than me. He says Clara must be fairly impervious to germs. Despite my constant washing of her babies, they are somehow always covered in dirt and food grime, and she makes out with them all day, he explains. Therefore she must have the constitution of a gladiator.
Clara can play in the hose for like an hour without being distracted. I always end up turning it off before then because I feel guilty about wasting water in a desert.
Immediately she comes to hang on me as I weed.
"'Nack, Mommy."
"Okay." I go inside, wash my hands, and get her a saltine cracker smeared with peanut butter. "Now, don't show this to the sugar ants," I say.
A minute passes, and I hear her shriek in horror. She's dipped the cracker in the dirt.
"Maybe I can fix it," I say, brushing at the dirt. Of course, it's sticking to the peanut butter, so brushing at it only mixes it in. Now it looks like a peanut-butter, crushed-Oreo saltine cracker. I use my finger to wipe the peanut butter from the cracker and then the edge of the concrete patio to wipe the peanut butter from my finger. Then I look down at the dirty cracker and think, "Wait. What am I doing?"
And I go inside to get her another.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Gardening with Clara
The last few weeks have been perfect for tilling up some ground in the backyard for a garden and getting the flowerbeds ready for summer. It's a big job this year, but I figured if Clara and I went out between her naps, she could play in the dirt while I cultivated.
First, we planted seeds in little containers to put on the windowsill. I made holes in the dirt with my index finger and gave a pea seed to Clara. She loves peas. The seed looked just like a shriveled pea.
"Do not eat this pea. It's yucky," I explained. "We put this pea in the little hole and cover it with a blanket of dirt."
She put it in the hole.
"Good job!" I said.
She took it out of the hole.
"No, you have to leave it in the hole so we can over it with dirt. Here, let me try."
"No! Me!"
She put it in the hole. She took it out. She looked at me as if to say, "This doesn't do anything. Why are we doing this?"
I opened a package of dill seed.
"Me! Me!"
"Hon, these seeds are really tiny."
"Me!"
I gave her a dill seed and pointed to the dirt, but she dropped it on the sidewalk. "Oh," she said sadly. "Mommy."
I found the seed and pushed the tip of my index finger against it to pick it up.
"What the?" her expression seemed to say. "That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."
I gave her another, which she promptly dropped for the express purpose of seeing if she could pick it up like I did. She pushed the tip of her teensy-tiny index finger against it, muttering softly.
It didn't work, but she shrugged it off and went to play with the garden hose.
*************************
The next day I decided to rip out part of the flowerbeds to make room for my tomato plants. Clara brought her baby out and laid her in the dirt next to me. She squatted by some dandelions and started singing under her breath.
"Wheedle-deedle-deedle. Beedle-deedle-deedle."
Very, very quietly, I brought out my spade and cultivating claw to turn the earth.
"Mommy!"
"Yes?"
"Me."
"No, you can't have the claw. It's ouchy. Would you like a spoon to turn the dirt with?"
"'poon."
I got her a spoon, but she wanted the spade. I let her have it. She wielded it in a way that she thought was expert, but that unfortunately sprayed my face with dirt. She repositioned herself to squat directly in front of me, her little diaper bottom completely obscuring my view of the weeds I was pulling.
"Sweets," I said, moving her to the side. She squawked her protest and I was tempted to toss the baby doll way out in the grass to give her something to do.
The thing about working with a toddler is, their attention span lasts a few minutes, at most.
"Jewsh," she said soon after I'd given her the spade.
"That is correct. We are Jewish," I replied, stalling for time.
"Mommy. Mommy!! Jewsh, jewsh, jewsh, jewsh!!!!"
"Alright, alright, I'll get you some juice."
I went inside, washed all the dirt off my hands, found a clean sippy cup and filled it with Naked Green Machine, a premium, vitamin-enhanced juice blend whose 20-ounce version costs as much as a brick of cheese.
Clara chugged it and tossed the cup to the side before hunkering down in the dirt once more.
A few moments passed. I was just getting engrossed in the weeding when I felt her draping herself over my crouched form.
"Hi, Sweetie," I said.
"Mommy," she crooned, twining her hands around my neck. "Mommy," she whispered, planting a huge, wet kiss right on my mouth.
First, we planted seeds in little containers to put on the windowsill. I made holes in the dirt with my index finger and gave a pea seed to Clara. She loves peas. The seed looked just like a shriveled pea.
"Do not eat this pea. It's yucky," I explained. "We put this pea in the little hole and cover it with a blanket of dirt."
She put it in the hole.
"Good job!" I said.
She took it out of the hole.
"No, you have to leave it in the hole so we can over it with dirt. Here, let me try."
"No! Me!"
She put it in the hole. She took it out. She looked at me as if to say, "This doesn't do anything. Why are we doing this?"
I opened a package of dill seed.
"Me! Me!"
"Hon, these seeds are really tiny."
"Me!"
I gave her a dill seed and pointed to the dirt, but she dropped it on the sidewalk. "Oh," she said sadly. "Mommy."
I found the seed and pushed the tip of my index finger against it to pick it up.
"What the?" her expression seemed to say. "That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."
I gave her another, which she promptly dropped for the express purpose of seeing if she could pick it up like I did. She pushed the tip of her teensy-tiny index finger against it, muttering softly.
It didn't work, but she shrugged it off and went to play with the garden hose.
*************************
The next day I decided to rip out part of the flowerbeds to make room for my tomato plants. Clara brought her baby out and laid her in the dirt next to me. She squatted by some dandelions and started singing under her breath.
"Wheedle-deedle-deedle. Beedle-deedle-deedle."
Very, very quietly, I brought out my spade and cultivating claw to turn the earth.
"Mommy!"
"Yes?"
"Me."
"No, you can't have the claw. It's ouchy. Would you like a spoon to turn the dirt with?"
"'poon."
I got her a spoon, but she wanted the spade. I let her have it. She wielded it in a way that she thought was expert, but that unfortunately sprayed my face with dirt. She repositioned herself to squat directly in front of me, her little diaper bottom completely obscuring my view of the weeds I was pulling.
"Sweets," I said, moving her to the side. She squawked her protest and I was tempted to toss the baby doll way out in the grass to give her something to do.
The thing about working with a toddler is, their attention span lasts a few minutes, at most.
"Jewsh," she said soon after I'd given her the spade.
"That is correct. We are Jewish," I replied, stalling for time.
"Mommy. Mommy!! Jewsh, jewsh, jewsh, jewsh!!!!"
"Alright, alright, I'll get you some juice."
I went inside, washed all the dirt off my hands, found a clean sippy cup and filled it with Naked Green Machine, a premium, vitamin-enhanced juice blend whose 20-ounce version costs as much as a brick of cheese.
Clara chugged it and tossed the cup to the side before hunkering down in the dirt once more.
A few moments passed. I was just getting engrossed in the weeding when I felt her draping herself over my crouched form.
"Hi, Sweetie," I said.
"Mommy," she crooned, twining her hands around my neck. "Mommy," she whispered, planting a huge, wet kiss right on my mouth.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Waking Up Clara
When she wakes up in the morning, the only thing Clara wants to do is come to my bed to breastfeed. I am in the process of slowly weaning her, and the morning feeding was the next feeding to get cut. It is sad for both of us. I love snuggling with her, of course, but the morning breastfeeding also gave me a few minutes more to doze.
My strategy for the morning weaning is simple: instead of bringing her to my bed when she wakes up, I'll put on my slippers and we'll go for a walk around the neighborhood.
This morning she sensed a change in the air.
"Beast," she said, smacking my chest as we left her bedroom. "Beast," she repeated more urgently, smacking her own chest as we headed down the stairs.
"Honey, when you do that, it sounds like you're calling yourself a 'beast,'" I replied.
"Best," she tried again, putting her hand lightly over her chest. I could hear the grogginess in her voice mixing with the strain of trying to present her needs logically to me.
"Now it looks like you're just full of yourself," I replied.
"Mommmmmmmyyyyy!!!!" she yelled in frustration. I want the breast! You know my words for "breast!" And you're ignoring me and talking in grown-up language I don't understand! And apparently taking me on a strange tour of the house!!!! And--
"Ohhhhh," she said as I opened the front door and the fragrant, early-morning world greeted us.
"Bus," she said, pointing to a Lowe's delivery van parked next door.
"Close, very close. It's long, but not as long as a bus."
We walked for a block, I in my sweats and she in her pink gingham jammies, her hair flying all over the place. There are four dogs that we know of on our block. We can see them in the backyards. The blond lab next door put her front paws up on the fence to bay at us. The mutt across the street barked and wagged his tail.
In front of a house with a chainsaw sculpture of St. Francis de Assisi, there was a flock of quails.
"Bird," Clara said, pointing to them. For the longest time, she called birds, "dogs." I was surprised and delighted she knew the word for birds, and I told her so.
We looked at some plants next door, and a multi-forked tree perfect for a tree house. The street cleaner passed.
"Bus," Clara said, pointing at it.
"Pretty close. It's loud like a bus, but it's not a bus."
We got back to the house and she had a delicious breakfast of cheerios and yogurt.
My strategy for the morning weaning is simple: instead of bringing her to my bed when she wakes up, I'll put on my slippers and we'll go for a walk around the neighborhood.
This morning she sensed a change in the air.
"Beast," she said, smacking my chest as we left her bedroom. "Beast," she repeated more urgently, smacking her own chest as we headed down the stairs.
"Honey, when you do that, it sounds like you're calling yourself a 'beast,'" I replied.
"Best," she tried again, putting her hand lightly over her chest. I could hear the grogginess in her voice mixing with the strain of trying to present her needs logically to me.
"Now it looks like you're just full of yourself," I replied.
"Mommmmmmmyyyyy!!!!" she yelled in frustration. I want the breast! You know my words for "breast!" And you're ignoring me and talking in grown-up language I don't understand! And apparently taking me on a strange tour of the house!!!! And--
"Ohhhhh," she said as I opened the front door and the fragrant, early-morning world greeted us.
"Bus," she said, pointing to a Lowe's delivery van parked next door.
"Close, very close. It's long, but not as long as a bus."
We walked for a block, I in my sweats and she in her pink gingham jammies, her hair flying all over the place. There are four dogs that we know of on our block. We can see them in the backyards. The blond lab next door put her front paws up on the fence to bay at us. The mutt across the street barked and wagged his tail.
In front of a house with a chainsaw sculpture of St. Francis de Assisi, there was a flock of quails.
"Bird," Clara said, pointing to them. For the longest time, she called birds, "dogs." I was surprised and delighted she knew the word for birds, and I told her so.
We looked at some plants next door, and a multi-forked tree perfect for a tree house. The street cleaner passed.
"Bus," Clara said, pointing at it.
"Pretty close. It's loud like a bus, but it's not a bus."
We got back to the house and she had a delicious breakfast of cheerios and yogurt.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Singing to Clara
Simon and I sang to Clara while she was in the womb, and pretty much every night of her infancy. For a while, we sang a series of songs we followed in strict order: "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," "Baaa-Baaa Black Sheep," "ABC's," "Row Your Boat," "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad," and "Home on the Range." She would listen intently while breastfeeding or sucking on her bottle. Later, she would sit up and smile a little pink smile.
Neither Simon nor I have even a moderately good singing voice. When we first started, we used to get into arguments about who was singing which song correctly. We got better and tried to get fancy. We sang "Row Your Boat," in a round, but I had to plug my ears and hunch over with my eyes squeezed shut to not get distracted by Simon's verse.
Coming from an extended family that sings in four-part harmony, I really wanted to harmonize. I discovered, if I stayed I the same note, it would eventually harmonize somewhere in the song. Simon wanted to know why I was singing like a Gregorian chant.
One night, Simon said we should try singing something else. I felt peeved at first, because I was getting really good at the nursery songs. Then I imagined this universe of new material opening up before my eyes. It was like that song in Aladdin, "A Whole New World," which I have tried to sing on occasion, usually when I enter a big bookstore or an especially ornate restaurant bathroom.
Simon started to sing, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." Really?! I said. That song is hard. We moved on to Abbey Road. I spent most of my histrionic junior high-school years listening to that album, therefore I knew the lyrics to each song perfectly. The tune was another story.
Neither Simon nor I have even a moderately good singing voice. When we first started, we used to get into arguments about who was singing which song correctly. We got better and tried to get fancy. We sang "Row Your Boat," in a round, but I had to plug my ears and hunch over with my eyes squeezed shut to not get distracted by Simon's verse.
Coming from an extended family that sings in four-part harmony, I really wanted to harmonize. I discovered, if I stayed I the same note, it would eventually harmonize somewhere in the song. Simon wanted to know why I was singing like a Gregorian chant.
One night, Simon said we should try singing something else. I felt peeved at first, because I was getting really good at the nursery songs. Then I imagined this universe of new material opening up before my eyes. It was like that song in Aladdin, "A Whole New World," which I have tried to sing on occasion, usually when I enter a big bookstore or an especially ornate restaurant bathroom.
Simon started to sing, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." Really?! I said. That song is hard. We moved on to Abbey Road. I spent most of my histrionic junior high-school years listening to that album, therefore I knew the lyrics to each song perfectly. The tune was another story.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Ants
Dear Sugar Ants,
My name is Clara Shifrin, and I will be hosting a feast tonight at about 5:30 next to my booster seat in the kitchen. There will be Cheerios, perhaps drizzled in honey. There will likely be peas and some scrambled eggs with cheese. For dessert, there will be orange slices and a chocolate cookie. Bring a friend!
If you can't come, don't worry. I will leave lots of crumbs all around, and my mom will probably be too harried with cleaning my hands and face to bother about them right away. Also, lots of food dribbles down my shirt. My mom is never able to get it all, so you should be able to find little pieces of food all over the house. If not, there's always the dirty clothes hamper.
By the way, I saw you found the sweet potato chip I left you in the garage. You guys were all swarming over it so completely, I couldn't even tell what it was at first!
When you come to the feast tonight, watch out for my dad with his bottle of Tilex.
Your friend,
Clara
My name is Clara Shifrin, and I will be hosting a feast tonight at about 5:30 next to my booster seat in the kitchen. There will be Cheerios, perhaps drizzled in honey. There will likely be peas and some scrambled eggs with cheese. For dessert, there will be orange slices and a chocolate cookie. Bring a friend!
If you can't come, don't worry. I will leave lots of crumbs all around, and my mom will probably be too harried with cleaning my hands and face to bother about them right away. Also, lots of food dribbles down my shirt. My mom is never able to get it all, so you should be able to find little pieces of food all over the house. If not, there's always the dirty clothes hamper.
By the way, I saw you found the sweet potato chip I left you in the garage. You guys were all swarming over it so completely, I couldn't even tell what it was at first!
When you come to the feast tonight, watch out for my dad with his bottle of Tilex.
Your friend,
Clara
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Shopping with Clara
Since today was Earth Day, I planned to spend most of the morning and early afternoon taking advantage of sales. Sometimes I do that: plan and organize an industrious day. The thing I still don't take into consideration, even after fifteen months, is the vicissitudes of a tiny person in a tulle-trimmed pink tank top and neon-green Crocs.
Clara hadn't had a proper breakfast and was complaining of an empty belly even before we had fully backed out of the driveway. I passed her some prunes from my purse.
We passed an open house at the North End Organic Nursery. Clara was interested in the colorful booths and live music, but the fatal, sucking black hole was the bouncy house that had been set up. We stopped. We watched older kids bounce in the bouncy house. There was face painting and kids could plant a seed in their own little pots. I held her by one arm while enveloping her in a cloud of sunscreen spray mist.
After the open house, she was too hungry to continue to the stores without food, and prunes weren't going to cut it. Rather than go all the way home for lunch, we stopped at the Co-op to buy a salad from the deli and a whole wheat bagel to snack on. The sun shone brilliantly. There were dogs on leashes walking down the sidewalk and people on bicycles that had bells.
I thought about the mall: overly-perfumed, filled with a nauseating profusion of clothes and merchandise. Dark. Indoors. Too much to ask of a baby, surely. Babies need grass and sunshine and trees.
We went to the park and had a picnic with our food. Clara chased a squirrel, shouting, "Arf!Arf!" I explained it wasn't a dog, even though it had a fluffy tail like some dogs. She watched it scamper up a tree and tentatively grabbed at the bark. "We can't climb trees like squirrels do," I said, "But someday you might be able to climb a tree by holding onto the branches."
We went down the slide seven times. We climbed across the playground equipment. Then we went down the slide three more times.
Clara rubbed her eyes and asked for her baby to hold. We drove home for her nap. We had not gone to a single store for sales or bought a single thing on my list, but Clara was tired and sweaty and happy. And I guess I was, too.
Clara hadn't had a proper breakfast and was complaining of an empty belly even before we had fully backed out of the driveway. I passed her some prunes from my purse.
We passed an open house at the North End Organic Nursery. Clara was interested in the colorful booths and live music, but the fatal, sucking black hole was the bouncy house that had been set up. We stopped. We watched older kids bounce in the bouncy house. There was face painting and kids could plant a seed in their own little pots. I held her by one arm while enveloping her in a cloud of sunscreen spray mist.
After the open house, she was too hungry to continue to the stores without food, and prunes weren't going to cut it. Rather than go all the way home for lunch, we stopped at the Co-op to buy a salad from the deli and a whole wheat bagel to snack on. The sun shone brilliantly. There were dogs on leashes walking down the sidewalk and people on bicycles that had bells.
I thought about the mall: overly-perfumed, filled with a nauseating profusion of clothes and merchandise. Dark. Indoors. Too much to ask of a baby, surely. Babies need grass and sunshine and trees.
We went to the park and had a picnic with our food. Clara chased a squirrel, shouting, "Arf!Arf!" I explained it wasn't a dog, even though it had a fluffy tail like some dogs. She watched it scamper up a tree and tentatively grabbed at the bark. "We can't climb trees like squirrels do," I said, "But someday you might be able to climb a tree by holding onto the branches."
We went down the slide seven times. We climbed across the playground equipment. Then we went down the slide three more times.
Clara rubbed her eyes and asked for her baby to hold. We drove home for her nap. We had not gone to a single store for sales or bought a single thing on my list, but Clara was tired and sweaty and happy. And I guess I was, too.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Buff
Like most toddlers, Clara likes to be naked. It doesn't matter if we're inside or outside. If the temperature is 60 or higher, she'd prefer to be disrobed. She has lots of ways of achieving this. She runs away in her diaper while I'm trying to find the leggings that go with a certain shirt. She argues that she wants to put on her own pants, then wraps them around her neck and runs off. She arches her back and kicks her legs when I'm trying to change her.
Yesterday she got her wish, because she developed a horrendous diaper rash (She'd eaten a cupful of peas and four asparagus spears with dinner. I was so excited to see her eating veggies that I didn't think about the consequences. Then, on a long walk, she poured her entire sippy cupful of strawberry-vegetable juice down the back of her pants in her stroller, thus marinating her bottom in fruit and veggie acid for a solid hour. Since the front of her was completely dry, I didn't notice until it was too late, apparently).
The diaper rash was so bad, I decided to let her run free, as it were, for most of yesterday and today. It wasn't too stressful. Baby pee is not that offensive, and since we were outside much of the day, it didn't really matter anyway. As for the other stuff, I just had to be super prescient and dangle her over the toilet when the signs seemed to indicate the need.
All this running wild has cleared up her diaper rash somewhat. Unfortunately, it has also convinced her that clothes are no longer necessary, and, most especially, that diapers are no longer necessary. I've become adept at the "running neck-hole slamdunk," where I attempt to throw her sundress over her head as she runs by. Also, the "Hollywood stylist shuffle," where I keep apace of her on my knees and coax her hands through the armholes by telling her, in a breathy voice, how pretty she looks.
Yesterday she got her wish, because she developed a horrendous diaper rash (She'd eaten a cupful of peas and four asparagus spears with dinner. I was so excited to see her eating veggies that I didn't think about the consequences. Then, on a long walk, she poured her entire sippy cupful of strawberry-vegetable juice down the back of her pants in her stroller, thus marinating her bottom in fruit and veggie acid for a solid hour. Since the front of her was completely dry, I didn't notice until it was too late, apparently).
The diaper rash was so bad, I decided to let her run free, as it were, for most of yesterday and today. It wasn't too stressful. Baby pee is not that offensive, and since we were outside much of the day, it didn't really matter anyway. As for the other stuff, I just had to be super prescient and dangle her over the toilet when the signs seemed to indicate the need.
All this running wild has cleared up her diaper rash somewhat. Unfortunately, it has also convinced her that clothes are no longer necessary, and, most especially, that diapers are no longer necessary. I've become adept at the "running neck-hole slamdunk," where I attempt to throw her sundress over her head as she runs by. Also, the "Hollywood stylist shuffle," where I keep apace of her on my knees and coax her hands through the armholes by telling her, in a breathy voice, how pretty she looks.
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Spa Day
Sometimes Clara and I have a spa day. This means that, instead of my normal five-minute morning routine, we spend two hours or so in the bathroom, bathing and getting ready for the day. It usually is a spontaneous thing, and tends to happen when I need a shower.
When Clara was an infant, taking a shower was no problem. I'd simply set up her swing in the bathroom or strap her into her booster seat with a bunch of toys.
Now, Clara refuses to sit still and play quietly on the floor. She opens the shower's sliding glass doors and gets soaked in the spray ( as does the bath mat, toilet, towels, etc). She wants to hold the soap, even--no, especially--when it's slimy and wet. She picks up my socks and throws them in.
She stands in the open door, her ringlets getting wetter and wetter, and yells, "Mommmmmyyyyy!!!!! Me! Me! Dup! Dup" which means, "Mom, I would like to be in the shower also."
So, invariably, I strip her down and bring her in. It's never very practical, because she insists that I hold her, and she gets so slippery that I'm afraid I'll drop her. After a few minutes I always sigh, turn off the shower, and start the bath.
She brings out all her toys, and clambers all over me while I'm trying to scrub down. She wants me to play with her wind-up fish, and with her squeezie fishes that squirt water all over the place. She has some letters that stick when wet, and she sits on my reclining belly like it's a bench and pretends to spell things on the side of the tub.
I have to confess, it's a pretty nice way to start the day.
When Clara was an infant, taking a shower was no problem. I'd simply set up her swing in the bathroom or strap her into her booster seat with a bunch of toys.
Now, Clara refuses to sit still and play quietly on the floor. She opens the shower's sliding glass doors and gets soaked in the spray ( as does the bath mat, toilet, towels, etc). She wants to hold the soap, even--no, especially--when it's slimy and wet. She picks up my socks and throws them in.
She stands in the open door, her ringlets getting wetter and wetter, and yells, "Mommmmmyyyyy!!!!! Me! Me! Dup! Dup" which means, "Mom, I would like to be in the shower also."
So, invariably, I strip her down and bring her in. It's never very practical, because she insists that I hold her, and she gets so slippery that I'm afraid I'll drop her. After a few minutes I always sigh, turn off the shower, and start the bath.
She brings out all her toys, and clambers all over me while I'm trying to scrub down. She wants me to play with her wind-up fish, and with her squeezie fishes that squirt water all over the place. She has some letters that stick when wet, and she sits on my reclining belly like it's a bench and pretends to spell things on the side of the tub.
I have to confess, it's a pretty nice way to start the day.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
New Car Seat
Yesterday I got a new car seat for Clara. She's been using the infant one, but it's only rated to 30 inches and 25 pounds, and she's about there. The new car seat is pink and, in accordance with Idaho laws, it faces the front.
I had trouble installing it, because Clara was with me and she wanted to crawl around on the seats, on me, on the floor.
Finally I got the seat in. When I tried to strap her into it, she started hollering and flailing. It's an unusual response, because usually she loves to try new things. I got her to sit still by letting her simultaneously press her little sneakers against my chest and pull on my earrings. It hurt, but it was worth it.
She was still upset, so I let her strap her dolls into her old infant seat next to her.
Having Clara in a front-facing seat is a nice experience. Before, when she faced backwards, you could hear her chit-chatting and you could sometimes catch a glimpse of a little pink foot in the rearview mirror. Now, I can glance back from time to time and see her pearly little teeth smiling at me. Her eyes are super light blue, and they almost glow in the light coming through the window. I glanced back once and she was blowing me kisses. Another time she had taken her shoes and socks off and was threading her fingers through her toes.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Swimming Part 2
Clara loves the pretzel slide at the Y. She pointed at it and shouted. She pulled on the front of my bathing suit and grasped the sides of my face with her hands, yelling, "Mommmmyyyy! Mommy!" It was completely undeniable that she wanted to go down the slide.
We have gone down the slide before. The sign above the slide says kids can go down when they turn one. I took her down at eleven and a half months, because it looked like so much fun. That first time, I lost my footing when we came out the end, and we ended up on the bottom of the pool, with me holding Clara like a football. When we broke the surface, I was shaking with adrenaline, but she was merely surprised. All of the other parents stared at us and smiled.
"What the heck?" I remembering sputtering to a Dad nearby. "The suction on the bottom of that thing is unbelievable." My sympathetic nervous system had kicked in. I felt like an Iraqi war veteran.
He merely smiled at me placidly. "Mmmmmm...You have to hold the kid up when you come out the end. Otherwise it'll suck you right under."
When I was younger, and before I had Clara, I did all sorts of crazy things. Rock-climbing hundred-foot basalt cliffs. Reporting stories from extremely dangerous housing projects. Driving motorbikes at high speeds through the desert without a helmet. Now the thought of that kiddie pretzel slide at the Y made my heart pound. I could have dropped her at the bottom!!! Was I a terrible mother, for taking my baby down the slide???!!!!
But Clara wanted to go down. And you have to face your fears, right? So we took our place in line with a bunch of skinny nine and ten-year-olds in baggy swim trunks and bikinis. The boys kept doing all sorts of nefarious things, like pushing each other and, that most heinous of crimes, running on the wet concrete. The lifeguards blew their whistles. Since I was standing amidst them, I jumped. Was I in trouble? Did they know me from last time, when I took my poor baby for a log-roll at the bottom of the slide?
All the way up the stairs, Clara shrieked and giggled at the people going down the slide, while I clutched her wriggling, wet body tightly. We finally got to the top. My face felt numb with fear and one of my arms was twitching.
Clara began to have second thoughts.
Wait, we're going down there? I don't want to go down there, her body language seemed to say.
"I just stood in a line of obnoxious 'tweens for ten minutes, freezing my ass off. We're going down the slide," I said, sitting her on my lap and pushing off. Clara hollered in fear all the way down. Not the piercing shriek of a little girl, but the low, guttural cry of a WWE wrestler. I clenched my teeth and said, "It's okay, honey! Isn't this fun? Yay!!!"
When we came shooting out the bottom, I held her up so high her feet didn't even touch the water.
Swimming Part I
I started writing this a few weeks ago...
There is a reason I have a dirty house, and that reason is Clara. I can't do anything without her "help." She wants to sweep the floor, though the broom is three times her height, and she ends up whacking the glass panes on the china hutch with the end of it. She wants to watch me make her cheesy eggs, and she'd like to hold the egg or maybe put her finger in the raw egg in the frying pan. She adores the vaccum cleaner, and likes to stand right in front of it so she is well-positioned to screech at it and grab at the light on the front of it.
This morning I really, really wanted to do the dishes, but generally whenever I open the dishwasher to load or unload it, she yells, "Mah 'poon!" ("My spoon"), and empties the silverware tray onto the kitchen floor. Removing the silverware tray only shifts her attention to the plates and bowls and glasses on the bottom rack. She also likes to use the bottom rack to stash her things. I have found many items in the dishwasher. A glitter pen (thank goodness it didn't burst open on the wash cycle). Some of my hair barrettes. One of my leather gloves. This morning I gave her a tub of soapy water to wash her toys on the floor, because I figured since I would be washing the floor later she could splash around and make a mess. In an astonishing display of strength, she turned the entire tub over, flooding the kitchen floor. She was so befuddled by what she'd done, she stood there in her soaking footie pajamas and shouted, "Hey! Heeeyyyy!" for a moment before taking a step, slipping, and falling on her bottom.
I decided that nothing was going to get done and we should just do something fun. Maybe go swimming at the Y since I'd been promising it for a few days. We ran into a snag when she refused to get dressed, or rather, didn't want me to dress her. She ran around in her diaper clutching her clothes. I got the sense she wanted to put them on herself but had no idea where to begin. I tried to show her. She was pretty sure I was wrong and, anyway, wrapping her clothes around her neck would work just as well. Finally I wrestled her to the ground and put on her shirt. She lay face-down on the tile floor, crying for several minutes, while I crouched over her and said apparently completely illogical, meaningless things like, "You have to wear a shirt to go outside! It's cold outside and Mama doesn't want you to be cold!"
No, no, I didn't understand. She hated shirts. HATED THEM.
"But you look so pretty in your shirt," I said, appealing to her vanity. She looked up, smiled through her tears, and stroked her hair. Yes, she was pretty, wasn't she? Did she see all the pretty flowers on her shirt? Yes, she did. Did she want to look at pictures of dogs in the car? Yes, she did.
***********************
I should get an award for sitting in the kiddie pool. Since it's spring break here, the pool was packed with kids. It was also Senior Swim when we arrived, meaning the seniors get sole custody of the recreation pool for an hour, forcing the older kids into the kiddie pool, as well. The seniors are very possessive of the rec pool during senior swim. They bob around like white-haired sentries, shooting mistrustful glances at all the unruly tykes in the kiddie pool.
The pool seemed murkier than usual, and I refuse to even guess how many kids had peed in it.
I was the only adult who had ventured into it. It was out of necessity, of course. Clara was the youngest one in there, and she tends to get so excited she loses her balance and falls under. She likes to play on the step leading into the water, forcing me to sit chest-deep in the water below her and monitor her movements. As usual, several two and three-year-olds ventured over to us to make small talk. The little kids seem attracted to Clara because she is a "baby," and therefore under their dominion. They help her horde floaty balls and sponge noodles or try to hold her hands and pull her off the step. They help themselves to my lap and hold onto my shoulders and hair to keep their balance. They jabber at me nonstop about the details of their bathing suits. Their parents take their time intervening. Hey, free babysitting, right?
The second Senior Swim was over, I took Clara into the rec pool. I practically hustled the Blue Hairs up their special, hip-conserving loading dock in my anxiety to get into comparatively clean water. The lifeguards turned on the big pretzel slide and kids started lining up to go down it. Clara loves the slide because it has lots of whirlpools and bubbles at the bottom.
(to be continued)
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Growing Clara
Hi. I decided to start a blog to share all my stories about Clara. Also, it seems like the best way to keep track of all the interesting things she says and does. Usually all I have at hand to record her new words or habits is miniature stickie notes. I try to buy notebooks, but I always seem to lose them. A blog makes much more sense.
Clara is 15 months. She walks (runs) and talks (screams, shouts, shrieks). She goes to sleep at 8:30 and wakes up at 7:00. Sometimes she naps for a few hours in the afternoon, but usually she only goes down for about an hour. If you're lucky, she will sit still long enough to read a book. She likes Sesame Street and flour-less chocolate torte.
Clara's favorite toys right now are her baby dolls, all of which were given to her by her grandparents. She has four: a tiny, filthy cloth doll that she chewed on as an infant; a rag doll from the Bahamas with a brightly-colored skirt; a small, pretty Aryan baby with a perfectly puckered mouth; and a larger baby with a misshapen body. Her favorite baby at the moment is this last one. Her grandparents bought it for her last Christmas. Its body is misshapen because it contains a bulky battery pack that enables it to cry, to blink its eyes, and make sucking sounds when you put its bottle in its mouth.
We, my husband, Simon, and I, call the doll "Ugly Baby." I find it unnerving because its cries sound to me like the long, drawn-out craaawwww of a chicken on the prowl for food.
We hadn't bothered to change the doll's battery pack for several months, and it stopped making all of its baby noises, sucking, and blinking its eyes. Then, one day recently, Clara put the doll's belly against the edge of the sidewalk, mafia style, and stepped on her back a few times. Much to her delight, the doll began to make her crying sounds again. It doesn't suck on its bottle anymore though, and only one eye blinks, making it look like it's always winking malevolently.
Clara calls the doll "Beeeee," which is short for "Baby." She insists on sleeping with it, even though I imagine the battery pack makes it less-than-cuddly. She also feeds it. Simon calls me "Dick Cheney" because I'm constantly dipping the doll's plastic head in the sink to clean off chicken grease, yogurt smears, honey, etc. There's a tiny bit of almond butter stuck way back in the doll's mouth. So far back I can't get to it. Who knows how long its been there and what kind of germs are festering in it.
Ugly Baby's bottle is tightly tied to one hand so it doesn't get lost. This arrangement means it's impossible to get her shirt off. After several months of lavish hugs by ketchup-smeared fingers, it was so stained and grotesque I had to cut it off with a pair of scissors the other day.
Thus, Ugly Baby is now naked from the waist up and, Clara imagines, exposed to the spring chill. To mitigate this, she pulls clean clothes that I neatly folded from the laundry basket or dresser drawers to wrap Ugly Baby in. Usually, it's a pair of my sweat pants or work-out shorts, but Daddy's T shirts work just as well.
I think it's time to make Ugly Baby a poncho.
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