A few nights ago, we tried to teach Clara how to say "please."
She'd asked for another piece of cheese. I held it back, saying, "Can you say 'please'?"
"Say 'please,'" Simon chorused.
She smiled and pointed at the cheese.
"Tizz," she said.
Finally we gave up and gave her the cheese. She smiled again, said, "please," and gave it back to us.
When I thought about it, it made sense. For a few weeks I'd intermittently been asking her to say "please." But I'd always give up after a few tries and give her the thing she desired. So to her, a person said, "Please," before they gave another person something. The giver, not the asker, was the one who said, "Please."
******************
When Clara wants another piece of something, a strawberry or a clump of pre-masticated almonds or a piece of chocolate, she often says, "Done!" or "Nai nanew!" ("I want to," or "I want another"). Today in the car, when she wanted another Cheerio, she said, "Thank-you!" with a certain amount of urgency.
"We say 'thank-you' after we get the Cheerio," I explained.
"Hes," she agreed.
******************
Clara has selective hearing. Today I told her, "No, no more Winnie the Pooh today."
"Hes," she said, nodding her head vigorously. She wasn't arguing, she was agreeing because she chose not to hear the "No," part.
"No," I repeated.
"Poop! Poop!" she said, pointing at the TV.
"No! We already watched 'Poop' once today!"
"Hes! Hes!" She agreed enthusiastically. I would love to watch "Poop" again. Thank-you for asking!
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Sleeping with Wilbur
The second night Wilbur was here, we did everything we had done the first night before bed. Scratched him behind the ears. Petted his belly. Made sure he had food and water. Inwardly congratulated ourselves on the comfortable selection of chairs and couches for him to sleep on, both in the living room and downstairs in the family room.
At about 1 a.m., he started scratching on our door.
"He wants to come in and sleep on the bed," I whispered.
"Well, he's not going to," Simon whispered back.
There was silence for a minute, and then a huffing, wheezing sort of crescendo from outside the door.
"What the heck is that?" I said, but I knew, even before I'd finished the question. The Bassett Hound in Wilbur's Beagle/Bassett Hound mix was fighting its way out. The relatively quiet, mellow guy we'd picked up at the pound, the middle-aged dog, rendered soft by years of people food and too many afternoon snoozes, was regaining a slice of his youthful vigor.
He was working his way up to a howl.
When it came it was glorious. Full-throated, deeply masculine. A howl any dog would be proud of.
"It sounds like he's treed a raccoon right outside our door," I thought.
Clara woke up and started crying. Simon said some words that can't be repeated here.
Clearly, action needed to be taken. Simon is one of the more stubborn people I know. I could tell by the way his body stiffened and burrowed down in the blankets next to me that he was entrenching. It's hard to say who would have won the Simon/Wilbur stand-off, but I wasn't willing to sacrifice a night of sleep to find out.
"I'm putting him in the basement," I said. I opened the door, grabbed Wilbur by the collar, and tried to get him to come with me. He resisted by sitting down on his butt and didn't seem to mind terribly much when I dragged it across the carpet.
The basement, lest you think me cruel, is actually completely finished, with carpeting and soft chairs. Wilbur, however, was only slightly less loud down there.
"He's lonely. I'm going to sleep with him," I announced after ten or fifteen minutes more of Wilbur's gravelly bay.
"I don't want you to go down there," Simon whispered fiercely. "I think we should wait him out."
"I'm going!" I hissed.
I wrapped myself up like a burrito at the base of the couch where Wilbur settled himself, covering even my head. Throughout the night, I'd hear a snuffling sound and see Wilbur's slender black nose--the only delicate part of him--appear through the end of my goose down shroud. He was checking to make sure I was still there.
At about 1 a.m., he started scratching on our door.
"He wants to come in and sleep on the bed," I whispered.
"Well, he's not going to," Simon whispered back.
There was silence for a minute, and then a huffing, wheezing sort of crescendo from outside the door.
"What the heck is that?" I said, but I knew, even before I'd finished the question. The Bassett Hound in Wilbur's Beagle/Bassett Hound mix was fighting its way out. The relatively quiet, mellow guy we'd picked up at the pound, the middle-aged dog, rendered soft by years of people food and too many afternoon snoozes, was regaining a slice of his youthful vigor.
He was working his way up to a howl.
When it came it was glorious. Full-throated, deeply masculine. A howl any dog would be proud of.
"It sounds like he's treed a raccoon right outside our door," I thought.
Clara woke up and started crying. Simon said some words that can't be repeated here.
Clearly, action needed to be taken. Simon is one of the more stubborn people I know. I could tell by the way his body stiffened and burrowed down in the blankets next to me that he was entrenching. It's hard to say who would have won the Simon/Wilbur stand-off, but I wasn't willing to sacrifice a night of sleep to find out.
"I'm putting him in the basement," I said. I opened the door, grabbed Wilbur by the collar, and tried to get him to come with me. He resisted by sitting down on his butt and didn't seem to mind terribly much when I dragged it across the carpet.
The basement, lest you think me cruel, is actually completely finished, with carpeting and soft chairs. Wilbur, however, was only slightly less loud down there.
"He's lonely. I'm going to sleep with him," I announced after ten or fifteen minutes more of Wilbur's gravelly bay.
"I don't want you to go down there," Simon whispered fiercely. "I think we should wait him out."
"I'm going!" I hissed.
I wrapped myself up like a burrito at the base of the couch where Wilbur settled himself, covering even my head. Throughout the night, I'd hear a snuffling sound and see Wilbur's slender black nose--the only delicate part of him--appear through the end of my goose down shroud. He was checking to make sure I was still there.
Strawberries
Last night I found a ripe strawberry on one of my strawberry plants and brought it inside for Clara. This was after she had pussy-footed around a bowl of Cheerios, hid a bunch of cheesy noodles between her thigh and the side of her booster chair and made an elegant, paisley-like design on her booster tray with ketchup.
While she ate it, she nodded enthusiastically and did a little shimmy with her shoulders. This is her way of showing appreciation for food.
Which was great, except that it was the only strawberry I had. My garden's strawberry yield has been less than spectacular thus far.
"Hey, do you want some cantaloupe?" I asked, trying to head off the on-coming gastronomical breakdown.
"Nope. Beh-yee." (Berry)
"Uh, that's the only berry I had."
"Nope. Beh-yee." Firmer, this time. Resolute.
"Hey, look at what I found! A banana! Naner, naner, naner, I found you in the bowl." (sung to the tune of "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel").
"No! This, this! Beh-yee! Nanew! Nanew!" ("I want to," or, "I want another.") She pointed a tiny finger in the approximate direction of the garden.
"Honey, I don't have any more. You know I give you all the strawberries from the garden when they're ready! You get them all! I promise!"
She flung her head back and her shoulder's sagged while her dirge filled the kitchen.
************************
Clara has always loved strawberries. When she was first trying solid food, a little over a year ago, I gave her a strawberry. Her little pink mouth puckered with delight and her toes curled under.
This spring I planted six strawberry plants. My first harvest, a few weeks back, was five or six berries that, while very tiny, were also pretty sweet. I washed one and gave it to Clara and put the rest in a bowl on the patio to wash later. I went inside for a minute and, when I came back out, all the strawberries were gone. Clara had a smear of mud on the side of her mouth.
She habitually wanders over to the strawberry plants and nonchalantly rifles through the leaves. There are berries on them now, but they're still a little green. I hope I can manage to keep her out of them until they ripen up.
While she ate it, she nodded enthusiastically and did a little shimmy with her shoulders. This is her way of showing appreciation for food.
Which was great, except that it was the only strawberry I had. My garden's strawberry yield has been less than spectacular thus far.
"Hey, do you want some cantaloupe?" I asked, trying to head off the on-coming gastronomical breakdown.
"Nope. Beh-yee." (Berry)
"Uh, that's the only berry I had."
"Nope. Beh-yee." Firmer, this time. Resolute.
"Hey, look at what I found! A banana! Naner, naner, naner, I found you in the bowl." (sung to the tune of "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel").
"No! This, this! Beh-yee! Nanew! Nanew!" ("I want to," or, "I want another.") She pointed a tiny finger in the approximate direction of the garden.
"Honey, I don't have any more. You know I give you all the strawberries from the garden when they're ready! You get them all! I promise!"
She flung her head back and her shoulder's sagged while her dirge filled the kitchen.
************************
Clara has always loved strawberries. When she was first trying solid food, a little over a year ago, I gave her a strawberry. Her little pink mouth puckered with delight and her toes curled under.
This spring I planted six strawberry plants. My first harvest, a few weeks back, was five or six berries that, while very tiny, were also pretty sweet. I washed one and gave it to Clara and put the rest in a bowl on the patio to wash later. I went inside for a minute and, when I came back out, all the strawberries were gone. Clara had a smear of mud on the side of her mouth.
She habitually wanders over to the strawberry plants and nonchalantly rifles through the leaves. There are berries on them now, but they're still a little green. I hope I can manage to keep her out of them until they ripen up.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Clara and Wilbur
Yesterday when we got home with our new dog, Wilbur, the first thing we did was to put out his dog dish and lay out his pink, terrycloth bed. Clara had not been feeling well when we went to the Humane Society to pick Wilbur up.
When we got home though, and Wilbur came into the house with us, Clara was excited. As excited as someone with a terrible cold virus and emerging molars can be.
She assumed that the dog dish and dog bed were for her. An understandable mistake. We poured some dog food into Wilbur's dish and some water into his water bowl. She took a handful of dog food and put it into the water when our backs were turned. Wilbur took a drink from his water bowl, and she attempted to drink from it, too.
"This is Wilbur's food and water," we explained. She seemed a little miffed.
For his part, Wilbur was concerned at the level of instability in this miniature person with lots of hair. He rolled over for a belly scratch and she slapped his sensitive tummy. He extended his nose to sniff out the delicious layers of ketchup and Cheerio aroma on her and she attempted to grab his nose.
Much to Wilbur's consternation, she was also apparently against saying nice things like, "Good boy," or even a simple, "Wilbur." Instead, she ran around the house shouting, "Dog! Dog! Dog!"
When we put her down for her nap, Clara yelled and cried for a while. Wilbur's chunky legs churned up the stairs in alarm and he stationed himself in front of her door. He looked at me with bafflement and deep concern. Finally, when he realized there was nothing he could do, he headed outside, to the far corner of the lawn.
*****************************
When Clara woke up from her nap, she attempted to commandeer Wilbur's dog bed. One thing we've quickly learned about Wilbur is, if he doesn't want to budge, he won't. And his girth makes moving him incredibly difficult.
Clara tried to be sweet about it. She brought Ugly Baby over and snuggled her down next to Wilbur. She laid down next to him too, and sort of pushed against him to maneuver him off his terrycloth mat. Wilbur only looked at her balefully. She tried to kiss him on the nose, but he quickly turned his head, frightened, no doubt, by her razor-sharp baby chompers. Finally she put her dimpled baby hands on his considerable flanks and pushed. Wilbur was unmoved.
*****************************
Today Wilbur seems to have come to terms with the fact of Clara: unpredictable, loud, not inclined to scratch behind his ears. He snoozed on the couch this evening while she alternately pretended to read to him, petted his fur in the wrong direction, and wedged one of her plastic play cooking pots under his jaw. She was pretending to feed him, I think.
"Be nice to Wilbur!" we said.
Wilbur only cracked his eyes open a bit, repositioned his paws, and fell back to sleep.
When we got home though, and Wilbur came into the house with us, Clara was excited. As excited as someone with a terrible cold virus and emerging molars can be.
She assumed that the dog dish and dog bed were for her. An understandable mistake. We poured some dog food into Wilbur's dish and some water into his water bowl. She took a handful of dog food and put it into the water when our backs were turned. Wilbur took a drink from his water bowl, and she attempted to drink from it, too.
"This is Wilbur's food and water," we explained. She seemed a little miffed.
For his part, Wilbur was concerned at the level of instability in this miniature person with lots of hair. He rolled over for a belly scratch and she slapped his sensitive tummy. He extended his nose to sniff out the delicious layers of ketchup and Cheerio aroma on her and she attempted to grab his nose.
Much to Wilbur's consternation, she was also apparently against saying nice things like, "Good boy," or even a simple, "Wilbur." Instead, she ran around the house shouting, "Dog! Dog! Dog!"
When we put her down for her nap, Clara yelled and cried for a while. Wilbur's chunky legs churned up the stairs in alarm and he stationed himself in front of her door. He looked at me with bafflement and deep concern. Finally, when he realized there was nothing he could do, he headed outside, to the far corner of the lawn.
*****************************
When Clara woke up from her nap, she attempted to commandeer Wilbur's dog bed. One thing we've quickly learned about Wilbur is, if he doesn't want to budge, he won't. And his girth makes moving him incredibly difficult.
Clara tried to be sweet about it. She brought Ugly Baby over and snuggled her down next to Wilbur. She laid down next to him too, and sort of pushed against him to maneuver him off his terrycloth mat. Wilbur only looked at her balefully. She tried to kiss him on the nose, but he quickly turned his head, frightened, no doubt, by her razor-sharp baby chompers. Finally she put her dimpled baby hands on his considerable flanks and pushed. Wilbur was unmoved.
*****************************
Today Wilbur seems to have come to terms with the fact of Clara: unpredictable, loud, not inclined to scratch behind his ears. He snoozed on the couch this evening while she alternately pretended to read to him, petted his fur in the wrong direction, and wedged one of her plastic play cooking pots under his jaw. She was pretending to feed him, I think.
"Be nice to Wilbur!" we said.
Wilbur only cracked his eyes open a bit, repositioned his paws, and fell back to sleep.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Wilbur
Today was the day to get a dog. We went to the Humane Society, feeling open to anything, as long as it was small, hypoallergenic, cute, house-trained, great with babies, in spectacular health and smelled like Aveda rosemary-mint shampoo.
The Humane Society in Boise has two big kennels. They were filled mostly with pit bulls and black labs, but there were also four beagles. Two were smaller and pretty young. The other two were older and rather chunky. I didn't get a good look because I was trying to keep a firm grasp on a wriggling Clara. She was very excited about the dogs.
When we had finished walking through the kennels, Simon said, "Well, what do you think?"
We agreed the beagles were cute.
"Do you want to take that one for a walk?" he asked.
"Okay," I said, trying to remember which dog he was talking about.
Simon went to get a leash and collect the dog while Clara and I hung out in the hallway.
Suddenly, the kennel door banged open. I looked up to see the chubby hindquarters of a very portly dog disappearing down the hallway.
"Someone let that dog out!" I said.
The clerk rushed after the dog and Simon emerged from the kennel door, looking both amused and a little panicked, the leash hanging limply from his hand.
And that was the auspicious beginning of our acquaintance with Wilbur.
**************************
Wilbur is a seven-year-old beagle. He is a very good-natured guy who follows his nose and likes to have his belly scratched.
It would be inaccurate to say Wilbur is merely "big-boned," or "of wholesome proportions." Wilbur probably wouldn't be able to shop in the "husky" section of the clothes store, because he is not merely "husky." He is FAT. (He also farts. A LOT. As I write this I am sitting in a cloud of dog fart, emitted at intervals by a sleeping Wilbur. I am attempting to remedy this by piling papers over his rear end. )
The clerk finally captured Wilbur, and came back holding him under the arm pits. It had an unflattering effect on Wilbur's physiognomy, causing all his chub to bunch up around his shoulders and chin. He looked at me balefully. I wanted to give him a big squeeze.
"It's a good thing he's not one of those thin dogs," the clerk said, huffing with the effort of carrying him. "Otherwise I would never have caught him."
The personalized note that came with Wilbur said he would do best in a home with owners that will spend time helping him lose weight. We have a big yard and lots of stairs. When we first got back home, he tore around the house and yard. By tonight, he was already so sore he could barely climb the stairs. I think he'll be able to get healthier here.
***************************
When we first met Wilbur, his name was Boomer. But it didn't seem to fit him that well. We spent half the day trying out names for him. I confess that, among the array of names we considered, "Meatball," "Meat loaf," and "Pork chop" did come up.
When we were considering whether or not to get Wilbur, Simon said one of the great things about him is he's too hefty to jump up on the couches and bed. Boy, was he wrong. For a big guy, Wilbur is very agile. He had claimed our bed by six this evening, and was stretched out on our comforter, dozing. Simon said with his square ears and rotund body, he looked just like a pig.
Since he's sweet, too, we named him Wilbur.
Tomorrow I will blog about Clara's reaction to Wilbur.
The Humane Society in Boise has two big kennels. They were filled mostly with pit bulls and black labs, but there were also four beagles. Two were smaller and pretty young. The other two were older and rather chunky. I didn't get a good look because I was trying to keep a firm grasp on a wriggling Clara. She was very excited about the dogs.
When we had finished walking through the kennels, Simon said, "Well, what do you think?"
We agreed the beagles were cute.
"Do you want to take that one for a walk?" he asked.
"Okay," I said, trying to remember which dog he was talking about.
Simon went to get a leash and collect the dog while Clara and I hung out in the hallway.
Suddenly, the kennel door banged open. I looked up to see the chubby hindquarters of a very portly dog disappearing down the hallway.
"Someone let that dog out!" I said.
The clerk rushed after the dog and Simon emerged from the kennel door, looking both amused and a little panicked, the leash hanging limply from his hand.
And that was the auspicious beginning of our acquaintance with Wilbur.
**************************
Wilbur is a seven-year-old beagle. He is a very good-natured guy who follows his nose and likes to have his belly scratched.
It would be inaccurate to say Wilbur is merely "big-boned," or "of wholesome proportions." Wilbur probably wouldn't be able to shop in the "husky" section of the clothes store, because he is not merely "husky." He is FAT. (He also farts. A LOT. As I write this I am sitting in a cloud of dog fart, emitted at intervals by a sleeping Wilbur. I am attempting to remedy this by piling papers over his rear end. )
The clerk finally captured Wilbur, and came back holding him under the arm pits. It had an unflattering effect on Wilbur's physiognomy, causing all his chub to bunch up around his shoulders and chin. He looked at me balefully. I wanted to give him a big squeeze.
"It's a good thing he's not one of those thin dogs," the clerk said, huffing with the effort of carrying him. "Otherwise I would never have caught him."
The personalized note that came with Wilbur said he would do best in a home with owners that will spend time helping him lose weight. We have a big yard and lots of stairs. When we first got back home, he tore around the house and yard. By tonight, he was already so sore he could barely climb the stairs. I think he'll be able to get healthier here.
***************************
When we first met Wilbur, his name was Boomer. But it didn't seem to fit him that well. We spent half the day trying out names for him. I confess that, among the array of names we considered, "Meatball," "Meat loaf," and "Pork chop" did come up.
When we were considering whether or not to get Wilbur, Simon said one of the great things about him is he's too hefty to jump up on the couches and bed. Boy, was he wrong. For a big guy, Wilbur is very agile. He had claimed our bed by six this evening, and was stretched out on our comforter, dozing. Simon said with his square ears and rotund body, he looked just like a pig.
Since he's sweet, too, we named him Wilbur.
Tomorrow I will blog about Clara's reaction to Wilbur.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Daddy and More Molars
Yesterday in the car on the way back from the gym, Clara wanted to talk about Daddy.
"Mommy," she said.
"Yes?"
"Daddy."
And over and over, I told her, "Daddy is at work, but he'll be home later."
Then it occurred to me that maybe she was looking for more information.
"Daddy might be in a meeting right now. A meeting is where lots of people come into a room with Daddy, and they all talk together. The people say, 'Daddy, do you have that proposal we talked about last week?' And Daddy says, 'Yes, it's here in my pocket.'"
There was silence as Clara seemed to consider this. Then,
"Mommy."
"Yes."
"Daddy."
"Then he has his lunch, a sandwich and a banana, at his desk. Then all of a sudden, engineers and project managers start calling him. They say, 'Daddy, we want our project proposals! We want our project proposals! And Daddy says, 'Hold your horses, Engineers!'"
I saw a flash of pearly baby teeth in the rearview mirror as Clara grinned. She likes horses, I think, and she really likes phones.
Now, as I write this, it occurs to me that Clara wanted to talk to Simon on the phone. It's something we do from time to time while we're driving somewhere. We do speaker phone or bluetooth.
*********************
Last night Clara woke at 1:30 a.m. It wasn't surprising; for the last several nights she's woken up repeatedly because her molars are coming in. Simon and I had agreed before we went to bed last night that we'd let her cry for awhile, to see if she'd go back to sleep on her own.
She cried and cried, and yelled, and cried some more. Finally, maybe forty minutes later, her cries got the muffled sound that lets us know she's laid back down in her crib and put her head down.
I drifted off. I thought I heard her crying again, and then she stopped. I woke with a start at 3:30 a.m. because she was yelling, "Mommy!" from her crib.
"Has she been crying for two hours and I just slept through it?" I wondered. I went to her room, gave her some acetaminophen, breastfed her, and laid her back down.
My alarm went off at 5:45 a.m., but just a minute or two before it did, Clara woke up and started yelling again.
She was very relieved to see me, and even a little cheerful. I brought her into the bathroom while I got ready for work, and ran her a warm bath. She hadn't eaten a lot the day before, so I got her a chocolate cookie from the kitchen and some mango slices. She filled an empty shampoo bottle over and over with bathwater and dumped it.
Finally, when it was time for me to leave, I got her out of the water and wrapped her in the softest towel I could find. Her body was rosy and warm from the bath.
I put her back in her jammies and brought her into our room so she could snuggle with Simon.
"Shhhhh," she said, pointing to Simon's slumbering form on the bed.
**********************
I stopped by the grocery store on the way home from work to get some ham for sandwiches and chocolate milk to ply Clara with. I was pretty hungry, and looking forward to ham on wheat with some mayo and cheese. Maybe some cilantro and fresh tomatoes, too.
When I got home, Simon told me he hadn't been able to get Clara to eat anything since waking because her mouth hurt too badly. I made her a scrambled egg with cheese and ketchup, which is one of her favorites. But she only took one bite. She sat in her booster seat looking at me with eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket (to steal a phrase from Little House on the Prairie).
I gave her some teething medicine. Then I took her upstairs to her room and wrapped her in a snuggly blanket and rocked her for a long time. She was so exhausted and overwrought that her body twitched and jolted on its swift descent into sleep. She hadn't fallen asleep that violently since Christmas, when we'd spent the day visiting relatives and she'd willfully skipped both her morning and afternoon naps.
As I rocked, I remembered that I was hungry. I couldn't yell down to Simon to bring me a snack because it would wake Clara. I wished for a telepathic robot to bring me a ham sandwich and my laptop with some headphones so I could watch a movie while I rocked Clara. Also a heating pad for my feet.
"Mommy," she said.
"Yes?"
"Daddy."
And over and over, I told her, "Daddy is at work, but he'll be home later."
Then it occurred to me that maybe she was looking for more information.
"Daddy might be in a meeting right now. A meeting is where lots of people come into a room with Daddy, and they all talk together. The people say, 'Daddy, do you have that proposal we talked about last week?' And Daddy says, 'Yes, it's here in my pocket.'"
There was silence as Clara seemed to consider this. Then,
"Mommy."
"Yes."
"Daddy."
"Then he has his lunch, a sandwich and a banana, at his desk. Then all of a sudden, engineers and project managers start calling him. They say, 'Daddy, we want our project proposals! We want our project proposals! And Daddy says, 'Hold your horses, Engineers!'"
I saw a flash of pearly baby teeth in the rearview mirror as Clara grinned. She likes horses, I think, and she really likes phones.
Now, as I write this, it occurs to me that Clara wanted to talk to Simon on the phone. It's something we do from time to time while we're driving somewhere. We do speaker phone or bluetooth.
*********************
Last night Clara woke at 1:30 a.m. It wasn't surprising; for the last several nights she's woken up repeatedly because her molars are coming in. Simon and I had agreed before we went to bed last night that we'd let her cry for awhile, to see if she'd go back to sleep on her own.
She cried and cried, and yelled, and cried some more. Finally, maybe forty minutes later, her cries got the muffled sound that lets us know she's laid back down in her crib and put her head down.
I drifted off. I thought I heard her crying again, and then she stopped. I woke with a start at 3:30 a.m. because she was yelling, "Mommy!" from her crib.
"Has she been crying for two hours and I just slept through it?" I wondered. I went to her room, gave her some acetaminophen, breastfed her, and laid her back down.
My alarm went off at 5:45 a.m., but just a minute or two before it did, Clara woke up and started yelling again.
She was very relieved to see me, and even a little cheerful. I brought her into the bathroom while I got ready for work, and ran her a warm bath. She hadn't eaten a lot the day before, so I got her a chocolate cookie from the kitchen and some mango slices. She filled an empty shampoo bottle over and over with bathwater and dumped it.
Finally, when it was time for me to leave, I got her out of the water and wrapped her in the softest towel I could find. Her body was rosy and warm from the bath.
I put her back in her jammies and brought her into our room so she could snuggle with Simon.
"Shhhhh," she said, pointing to Simon's slumbering form on the bed.
**********************
I stopped by the grocery store on the way home from work to get some ham for sandwiches and chocolate milk to ply Clara with. I was pretty hungry, and looking forward to ham on wheat with some mayo and cheese. Maybe some cilantro and fresh tomatoes, too.
When I got home, Simon told me he hadn't been able to get Clara to eat anything since waking because her mouth hurt too badly. I made her a scrambled egg with cheese and ketchup, which is one of her favorites. But she only took one bite. She sat in her booster seat looking at me with eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket (to steal a phrase from Little House on the Prairie).
I gave her some teething medicine. Then I took her upstairs to her room and wrapped her in a snuggly blanket and rocked her for a long time. She was so exhausted and overwrought that her body twitched and jolted on its swift descent into sleep. She hadn't fallen asleep that violently since Christmas, when we'd spent the day visiting relatives and she'd willfully skipped both her morning and afternoon naps.
As I rocked, I remembered that I was hungry. I couldn't yell down to Simon to bring me a snack because it would wake Clara. I wished for a telepathic robot to bring me a ham sandwich and my laptop with some headphones so I could watch a movie while I rocked Clara. Also a heating pad for my feet.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Underpants and furniture shopping
Today we decided to go to the furniture store. Since she has been taking her diaper off a lot lately, I decided to offer Clara the opportunity to wear underpants. Her Grammie got her a three-pack awhile back. I brought out a pink pair with a little monkey on them.
"Would you like to wear a pair of underpants or a diaper today?" I asked, laying the choices side by side on the floor.
She wanted the underpants, and she wanted to put them on herself. She put a leg through a leg hole and pulled it up her leg a bit. Then she realized she'd need to put the other leg somewhere, too. The underpants were twisted up and she couldn't find the other leg hole.
"Would you like me to show you?" I asked.
She made her own particular sound of frustration and impatience, a sound like a baby pterodactyl. I ventured my hand out to show her and she turned away sharply.
"No! No!" she said. I could tell by her voice that her frustration was reaching a critical point.
She shook the underpants off and tried again. This time she tried to put her arm through the other leg hole. But she knew this wasn't right, either. She took the underpants off and held them in a ball next to her chest.
She didn't want me to have them.
She took off running down the hall, into the bathroom. She lifted the toilet lid and tossed the underpants inside.
She seemed a little relieved when I strapped her into her diaper.
*****************
Clara loves the consignment furniture store we go to from time to time. The store has a ramp. She is perennially surprised and delighted by the way her legs go faster and faster, without her seeming to make them, as she runs down the ramp.
Today she wanted to sit on all the chairs and couches (there were many). She sat on a blue corduroy love seat and a plush, overstuffed recliner. She sat on a Queen Anne chair and a chair with earthy, velour upholstery straight from the seventies.
"Tair! Tair!" she said, running from room to room.
"Down!" she said, standing in front of each chair.
"You mean, 'Up,' I think," I said.
"Hesh," she conceded, nodding and giggling.
As soon as she was settled in a chair, she asked for her sippy cup.
******************
All that running and climbing on chairs made Clara pretty hungry and tired. After a disastrous foray to Carl's Jr. (apparently, Carl's Jr. cannot make a grilled cheese sandwich that is in the least palatable), we got a bagel and cream cheese at Starbucks.
Clara loves bagels with cream cheese. I reached back to hand her little bites while I drove. As usual, she chit-chatted with me.
"Mommy."
"Yes, Love."
"Tizz."
"Yes, it's cream cheese."
"Mommy."
"Yes, Love."
"Daddy."
"Daddy's at work. But we'll see him tonight."
"Mommy."
"Yes."
"Potty."
"Yes, we put poop and pee in the potty."
She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, apologetically, "Mess."
I glanced back. She was painting cream cheese swirls on her bare legs beneath her lime-green capri leggings. She had run out of real estate, from the looks of it, having painted the car door and the straps on her car seat.
By the time we got home, the cream cheese had dried and cracked, making her look as though she had an exotic skin disease.
"Would you like to wear a pair of underpants or a diaper today?" I asked, laying the choices side by side on the floor.
She wanted the underpants, and she wanted to put them on herself. She put a leg through a leg hole and pulled it up her leg a bit. Then she realized she'd need to put the other leg somewhere, too. The underpants were twisted up and she couldn't find the other leg hole.
"Would you like me to show you?" I asked.
She made her own particular sound of frustration and impatience, a sound like a baby pterodactyl. I ventured my hand out to show her and she turned away sharply.
"No! No!" she said. I could tell by her voice that her frustration was reaching a critical point.
She shook the underpants off and tried again. This time she tried to put her arm through the other leg hole. But she knew this wasn't right, either. She took the underpants off and held them in a ball next to her chest.
She didn't want me to have them.
She took off running down the hall, into the bathroom. She lifted the toilet lid and tossed the underpants inside.
She seemed a little relieved when I strapped her into her diaper.
*****************
Clara loves the consignment furniture store we go to from time to time. The store has a ramp. She is perennially surprised and delighted by the way her legs go faster and faster, without her seeming to make them, as she runs down the ramp.
Today she wanted to sit on all the chairs and couches (there were many). She sat on a blue corduroy love seat and a plush, overstuffed recliner. She sat on a Queen Anne chair and a chair with earthy, velour upholstery straight from the seventies.
"Tair! Tair!" she said, running from room to room.
"Down!" she said, standing in front of each chair.
"You mean, 'Up,' I think," I said.
"Hesh," she conceded, nodding and giggling.
As soon as she was settled in a chair, she asked for her sippy cup.
******************
All that running and climbing on chairs made Clara pretty hungry and tired. After a disastrous foray to Carl's Jr. (apparently, Carl's Jr. cannot make a grilled cheese sandwich that is in the least palatable), we got a bagel and cream cheese at Starbucks.
Clara loves bagels with cream cheese. I reached back to hand her little bites while I drove. As usual, she chit-chatted with me.
"Mommy."
"Yes, Love."
"Tizz."
"Yes, it's cream cheese."
"Mommy."
"Yes, Love."
"Daddy."
"Daddy's at work. But we'll see him tonight."
"Mommy."
"Yes."
"Potty."
"Yes, we put poop and pee in the potty."
She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, apologetically, "Mess."
I glanced back. She was painting cream cheese swirls on her bare legs beneath her lime-green capri leggings. She had run out of real estate, from the looks of it, having painted the car door and the straps on her car seat.
By the time we got home, the cream cheese had dried and cracked, making her look as though she had an exotic skin disease.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Grumpilstiltskin
Last night Clara woke up at 2:30. I could tell two things by the tone of her cries: 1. She was going to need acetaminophen for her descending molars, and 2. She was going to want to be breastfed for comfort, and probably rocked for a long time after that.
"La-la," she croaked when I picked her up. She pointed to the rocker. "La-la! La-la! La-la!"
I gave her medicine and then we settled into the rocker. I turned on her overhead projector, which projects a scene of cartoon fish on the ceiling and plays lullabies.
The rule is, I rock and/or breastfeed for one round of lullabies. It usually takes about fifteen minutes or so for all the lullabies to play through and the projector to slowly fade. Last night we rocked through three rounds of lullabies. She curled up so tightly in my arms and sealed her little body against mine so completely, it felt cruel to put her back in her crib too soon. It was satisfying to watch her eyelids get heavy. Sometimes when that happens, I gently stroke her arm or push her hair behind her ear, and she instantly falls asleep.
This morning though, she was grumpy as a bear.
I had to transplant some tomatoes. It couldn't wait a day longer, I felt. Since it was rather cool outside, I dressed her in a sweater and pants.
Gardening with Clara takes a lot of patience. She usually wants to do exactly what I'm doing in the exact moment I'm doing it, in the exact location where I'm doing it. She overpowers me at the hose. She hangs on the handle of the garden rake until I let her take over. She positions herself right in front of me, so I can't even see what I'm doing.
Today was different, though. She didn't want to do what I was doing. She wanted to boss me. And she was pretty sure I was doing everything all wrong.
I dug a hole for a tomato plant and filled it with water. I put the plant into the hole and started to shove dirt around it. Clara made disgruntled sounds. She picked the plant up by its leaves and hauled it out of the hole. She wanted to use the spade to swish the water around in the hole.
"Clara, Mama's planting this plant. It goes in the hole. And we don't pick plants up by their leaves, okay?"
Her response was to run furiously in place while her arms hung limply at her sides, tilt her head back, and howl.
"La-la," she croaked when I picked her up. She pointed to the rocker. "La-la! La-la! La-la!"
I gave her medicine and then we settled into the rocker. I turned on her overhead projector, which projects a scene of cartoon fish on the ceiling and plays lullabies.
The rule is, I rock and/or breastfeed for one round of lullabies. It usually takes about fifteen minutes or so for all the lullabies to play through and the projector to slowly fade. Last night we rocked through three rounds of lullabies. She curled up so tightly in my arms and sealed her little body against mine so completely, it felt cruel to put her back in her crib too soon. It was satisfying to watch her eyelids get heavy. Sometimes when that happens, I gently stroke her arm or push her hair behind her ear, and she instantly falls asleep.
This morning though, she was grumpy as a bear.
I had to transplant some tomatoes. It couldn't wait a day longer, I felt. Since it was rather cool outside, I dressed her in a sweater and pants.
Gardening with Clara takes a lot of patience. She usually wants to do exactly what I'm doing in the exact moment I'm doing it, in the exact location where I'm doing it. She overpowers me at the hose. She hangs on the handle of the garden rake until I let her take over. She positions herself right in front of me, so I can't even see what I'm doing.
Today was different, though. She didn't want to do what I was doing. She wanted to boss me. And she was pretty sure I was doing everything all wrong.
I dug a hole for a tomato plant and filled it with water. I put the plant into the hole and started to shove dirt around it. Clara made disgruntled sounds. She picked the plant up by its leaves and hauled it out of the hole. She wanted to use the spade to swish the water around in the hole.
"Clara, Mama's planting this plant. It goes in the hole. And we don't pick plants up by their leaves, okay?"
Her response was to run furiously in place while her arms hung limply at her sides, tilt her head back, and howl.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Molars
Night before last, Clara had a tofu
dog with melted cheese, a pile of corn and peas, a couple bites of yogurt and
pineapple chunks for dinner.
“Do you think she had enough?”
Simon asked as we were trying to diaper her.
“When I offered her more yogurt,
she refused,” I said.
The next morning, at about 5:15
a.m., I heard her making her disgruntled morning sounds. I picked up her warm body from her crib. Her hair was fuzzy with sleep, her
eyelashes still halfway tangled together.
I took her downstairs and poured a
bowlful of cereal for her and I to share, a fresh diaper under my arm. Because it had been warm the night before, she was wearing
only a diaper and a T-shirt that said, “Sunny Days Ahead.”
I laid out her fresh diaper, and
she saw the pictures of Winnie the Pooh and Piglet on it.
“Poop! Poop!” she said
excitedly. She ran to the top of
the stairs leading to the basement. “Poop! Poop!” She
pointed down the stairs.
We went down to the playroom. Clara had watched Winnie the Pooh with Simon three times the day before--once in Spanish--but she wanted to watch it again now, at 5:19 a.m. I put it on and was rather disappointed that I couldn't actually see it. I'd left my glasses upstairs on my nightstand and didn't want to interrupt Simon's sleep again to get them.
We watched the entire hour-long movie before I felt like she was sleepy enough to go back to bed.
The plan for the next night--last night-- was obvious to both Simon and me: keep her up an hour later, until nine or so. And feed her as much as she would eat before bed.
After she'd had dinner and played awhile, we brought a box of Cheerios up to her room and listened to nighttime songs while she snacked. We dressed her in heavier footie pajamas with panda bears on them, in case it had been the cold that had woken her so early that morning. She plunged her entire dimpled fist into the box and stuffed whole handfuls of Cheerios into her mouth at a time.
"Chew and swallow what's in your mouth first before you get another handful," I advised.
"Every Cheerio is two and a half minutes more of sleep tomorrow morning," Simon postulated. He had not been able to go back to sleep the morning before and had been stumbling around in a fog all day.
She went to sleep at 9:30 pm. But at 5:35 this morning I heard her moaning in the next room. I went to get her and brought her downstairs for more Winnie the Pooh. When I laid her down to change her diaper, I had a thought...and finagled her jaw open to look inside. She had two points of a new molar on her lower right jaw, and a big, red bulge on her upper left.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Dog
Simon and I have been wanting a dog for years.
When we first started dating, neither of us had a dog because we lived in apartments that prohibited them. Simon bought me a guinea pig named Marshall instead. Marshall traveled the length of the United States with us when we moved back to Idaho. After a lifelong diet of organic veggies and deluxe guinea pig food, he died at an unexpectedly young age. Since we were living in an apartment, we had to bury him in a friend's backyard. We put him to rest in a velvet-lined Johnny Walker Blue Label whiskey box. I donated his angel Halloween costume and sporty pink leisure outfit to the Salvation Army soon afterwards.
Clara has inherited our affinity for pets. She especially loves dogs. Now that we have a house of our own, along with a backyard, it's time for a dog.
We will probably end up getting one from the Humane Society, but we still talk about breeds we'd like. When we first started talking about dogs, I imagined getting a really big one. Maybe a lab or a German Shepherd, like my Aunt Judy has. Or maybe a Mastiff or Saint Bernard. A big bear of a dog that the kids can sleep with. I see big dogs and I want to hug them.
Simon wants something like a Scottish terrier. He grew up with small dogs-a Bichon Frise named Scarlett and a Peekapoo named Zoee (although his first dog, Napoleon, "Nappie" for short, was a medium-sized mutt). To Simon, lap dogs are comfy. You can hold them while you read a book. They don't take up too much room in the bed.
Soon after we moved into our house, we visited a neighbor with a big dog. There were bunny-sized tufts of dog hair in the corners of her living room and dirty smears across her hardwood floor that could only have come from a wet, filthy dog sliding with joy into his owner's lap. I started thinking of the cost of feeding a big dog, and all the exercise it would need. And all the poop I'd have to pick up in the backyard.
"That's why you need a small dog," my mother-in-law said, when I expressed this last concern to her. "They just leave little Tootsie Rolls in the grass."
In spite of my alarm at the thought of poops camouflaged as Tootsie Rolls on my lawn (after all, I know a little girl who would be delighted to find candy in the grass), I am now sold on the idea of a small dog. The smallest dog. A Yorkie, to be specific. When I told Simon this, he said,
"A Yorkie is a piece of gristle with fur."
Perhaps, but a piece of gristle that doesn't eat a fifty-pound sack of dog food each week or need a nightly five-mile walk.
When we first started dating, neither of us had a dog because we lived in apartments that prohibited them. Simon bought me a guinea pig named Marshall instead. Marshall traveled the length of the United States with us when we moved back to Idaho. After a lifelong diet of organic veggies and deluxe guinea pig food, he died at an unexpectedly young age. Since we were living in an apartment, we had to bury him in a friend's backyard. We put him to rest in a velvet-lined Johnny Walker Blue Label whiskey box. I donated his angel Halloween costume and sporty pink leisure outfit to the Salvation Army soon afterwards.
Clara has inherited our affinity for pets. She especially loves dogs. Now that we have a house of our own, along with a backyard, it's time for a dog.
We will probably end up getting one from the Humane Society, but we still talk about breeds we'd like. When we first started talking about dogs, I imagined getting a really big one. Maybe a lab or a German Shepherd, like my Aunt Judy has. Or maybe a Mastiff or Saint Bernard. A big bear of a dog that the kids can sleep with. I see big dogs and I want to hug them.
Simon wants something like a Scottish terrier. He grew up with small dogs-a Bichon Frise named Scarlett and a Peekapoo named Zoee (although his first dog, Napoleon, "Nappie" for short, was a medium-sized mutt). To Simon, lap dogs are comfy. You can hold them while you read a book. They don't take up too much room in the bed.
Soon after we moved into our house, we visited a neighbor with a big dog. There were bunny-sized tufts of dog hair in the corners of her living room and dirty smears across her hardwood floor that could only have come from a wet, filthy dog sliding with joy into his owner's lap. I started thinking of the cost of feeding a big dog, and all the exercise it would need. And all the poop I'd have to pick up in the backyard.
"That's why you need a small dog," my mother-in-law said, when I expressed this last concern to her. "They just leave little Tootsie Rolls in the grass."
In spite of my alarm at the thought of poops camouflaged as Tootsie Rolls on my lawn (after all, I know a little girl who would be delighted to find candy in the grass), I am now sold on the idea of a small dog. The smallest dog. A Yorkie, to be specific. When I told Simon this, he said,
"A Yorkie is a piece of gristle with fur."
Perhaps, but a piece of gristle that doesn't eat a fifty-pound sack of dog food each week or need a nightly five-mile walk.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Playground Chatter
Today we went to Home Depot. Of course, we had to stop by the park on our way. There were groups of people having picnics and a birthday party with bunches of pastel-colored balloons.
We played on the swings for a while. The girl next to us--who looked just like Miley Cyrus-- was giving underdogs to her daughter. She counted every push in a loud voice. It inspired me, and I gave Clara an underdog. Simon tried to give her one, too.
"You don't know how to give underdogs," I said coolly.
"I know how to give underdogs."
"That was a side-dog."
"You have to understand, I'm much taller than you."
"That's why you have to bend over as you run underneath," I said, demonstrating.
"I don't want her to get hurt."
"You don't know how to give underdogs."
We walked over to a section of the playground that has a little picnic table. We sat down at the little table and I asked Clara to make me a pancake. She put a pile of beauty bark in front of me and I pretended to gobble it. She made one for Simon. A little blond girl, about five years old, wandered over. She had very sharp incisors. She bent down and took Clara's hands. She smiled and talked to her. Then she stood back up.
"I'm the cook," she announced.
"Great," I said. "I'd like some french fries." Simon sat Clara down next to him and she nodded and smiled.
"Okay, this is McDonald's," the little girl said.
Suddenly another little girl appeared. She was maybe six, but very tall, with long, dark hair and an unhappy expression.
"I'm the cook," she said.
"No, I'm the cook," Blondie said.
"Okay, I'm the chef. You're the cook," replied the dark-haired girl. She looked at us. "What do you want me to make you?"
"Mmmmm...I'd like a hamburger," Simon said.
"And I want a tuna fish sandwich, please," I said.
The brunette girl turned her back and fiddled around and then turned back and pretended to give Simon his hamburger.
"But you only get pickles," she said to me.
"What? Only pickles?"
"Okay, maybe a rattlesnake."
"Yum, rattlesnakes are delicious," Simon said.
"Yuck!" I said.
"Rattlesnakes are poisonous," the little brunette girl said.
"I know, that's what makes them delicious," Simon replied.
"Alright, now let's play house," the brunette said. "I'm the mom."
"Okay, I'm the daughter," the blonde said.
"No, no, you're the daughter," the brunette said, pointing at me.
"Okay, so who will Clara be?" I asked.
By this time Clara had hopped down from her seat at the table and was circling the girls, observing them obliquely without looking at them. The brunette seemed unaware that she was there.
"Clara's the gramma," Simon suggested.
"Then I'm the princess," the blonde said.
"No, I'm the princess," the brunette said, stepping away. She flipped her hair and twirled her hand above her head. "I'm going searching for the prince."
Clara had stopped paying attention to the brunette. She focused on cars going by on the street across the park. Her expression held something of endurance in it. Suddenly she ran away towards the slides.
We played on the swings for a while. The girl next to us--who looked just like Miley Cyrus-- was giving underdogs to her daughter. She counted every push in a loud voice. It inspired me, and I gave Clara an underdog. Simon tried to give her one, too.
"You don't know how to give underdogs," I said coolly.
"I know how to give underdogs."
"That was a side-dog."
"You have to understand, I'm much taller than you."
"That's why you have to bend over as you run underneath," I said, demonstrating.
"I don't want her to get hurt."
"You don't know how to give underdogs."
We walked over to a section of the playground that has a little picnic table. We sat down at the little table and I asked Clara to make me a pancake. She put a pile of beauty bark in front of me and I pretended to gobble it. She made one for Simon. A little blond girl, about five years old, wandered over. She had very sharp incisors. She bent down and took Clara's hands. She smiled and talked to her. Then she stood back up.
"I'm the cook," she announced.
"Great," I said. "I'd like some french fries." Simon sat Clara down next to him and she nodded and smiled.
"Okay, this is McDonald's," the little girl said.
Suddenly another little girl appeared. She was maybe six, but very tall, with long, dark hair and an unhappy expression.
"I'm the cook," she said.
"No, I'm the cook," Blondie said.
"Okay, I'm the chef. You're the cook," replied the dark-haired girl. She looked at us. "What do you want me to make you?"
"Mmmmm...I'd like a hamburger," Simon said.
"And I want a tuna fish sandwich, please," I said.
The brunette girl turned her back and fiddled around and then turned back and pretended to give Simon his hamburger.
"But you only get pickles," she said to me.
"What? Only pickles?"
"Okay, maybe a rattlesnake."
"Yum, rattlesnakes are delicious," Simon said.
"Yuck!" I said.
"Rattlesnakes are poisonous," the little brunette girl said.
"I know, that's what makes them delicious," Simon replied.
"Alright, now let's play house," the brunette said. "I'm the mom."
"Okay, I'm the daughter," the blonde said.
"No, no, you're the daughter," the brunette said, pointing at me.
"Okay, so who will Clara be?" I asked.
By this time Clara had hopped down from her seat at the table and was circling the girls, observing them obliquely without looking at them. The brunette seemed unaware that she was there.
"Clara's the gramma," Simon suggested.
"Then I'm the princess," the blonde said.
"No, I'm the princess," the brunette said, stepping away. She flipped her hair and twirled her hand above her head. "I'm going searching for the prince."
Clara had stopped paying attention to the brunette. She focused on cars going by on the street across the park. Her expression held something of endurance in it. Suddenly she ran away towards the slides.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Morning Chores
Today, after breakfast, Clara took off for the living room, where sits the enormous cardboard box that her pink overstuffed monogrammed chair came in. She likes to crawl inside the box and shut the lid, then burst out suddenly and yell, "Boo!"
I took advantage of her absence in the kitchen to furtively sweep the floor. I had just swept all the dirt into a pile, when she came running in to get her sippy cup.
"Mai wannew!" she said, grabbing for the broom handle. "Me! Me!"
"Okay, let me just finish this-"
"Me! Me!" She ran in place, letting her shoulders and arms go loose and floppy and her head fall back. Her mouth turned into a square of sorrow.
"Okay, maybe you can sweep the dirt into the dustpan while Mama holds it."
She squatted, and with my help we managed to get most of the dirt in. I was lavish with my praise. At least she hadn't eaten the Cheerios off the top of the dirt pile, which is one of her favorite things to do.
I decided to scrub out the microwave then. Earlier, I had tried to heat a tofu dog for Clara with the ketchup already on it, and it had exploded all over. I brought out soap and a sponge and started scrubbing. Clara chit-chatted with her reflection in the oven door. She pulled at my sweats and fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt.
She craned her neck towards the microwave. "Me this this mai wannew. Do. Do. Do."
"Would you like to see what I'm doing?" I asked.
Her big blue eyes shone up at me and she nodded her head so hard her curls waggled.
"Hes."
Afterwards we went upstairs. I washed my face and hers. I put some of my face toner on a cotton swab and swabbed my face. I let her have the cotton swab after, as is our custom. She tilted her head up slightly, fluttered her lashes and swiped her chin with the swab. Then, muttering softly, she took the dab of face lotion I gave her and put it on her cheek. Then she rubbed some into my cheek.
I've learned I have to monitor her closely around the bathroom counters. She once tried to rub toothpaste into her face like moisturizer. Another time she took a bite out of my deodorant stick.
I took advantage of her absence in the kitchen to furtively sweep the floor. I had just swept all the dirt into a pile, when she came running in to get her sippy cup.
"Mai wannew!" she said, grabbing for the broom handle. "Me! Me!"
"Okay, let me just finish this-"
"Me! Me!" She ran in place, letting her shoulders and arms go loose and floppy and her head fall back. Her mouth turned into a square of sorrow.
"Okay, maybe you can sweep the dirt into the dustpan while Mama holds it."
She squatted, and with my help we managed to get most of the dirt in. I was lavish with my praise. At least she hadn't eaten the Cheerios off the top of the dirt pile, which is one of her favorite things to do.
I decided to scrub out the microwave then. Earlier, I had tried to heat a tofu dog for Clara with the ketchup already on it, and it had exploded all over. I brought out soap and a sponge and started scrubbing. Clara chit-chatted with her reflection in the oven door. She pulled at my sweats and fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt.
She craned her neck towards the microwave. "Me this this mai wannew. Do. Do. Do."
"Would you like to see what I'm doing?" I asked.
Her big blue eyes shone up at me and she nodded her head so hard her curls waggled.
"Hes."
Afterwards we went upstairs. I washed my face and hers. I put some of my face toner on a cotton swab and swabbed my face. I let her have the cotton swab after, as is our custom. She tilted her head up slightly, fluttered her lashes and swiped her chin with the swab. Then, muttering softly, she took the dab of face lotion I gave her and put it on her cheek. Then she rubbed some into my cheek.
I've learned I have to monitor her closely around the bathroom counters. She once tried to rub toothpaste into her face like moisturizer. Another time she took a bite out of my deodorant stick.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Clara in the grocery store
On Tuesday we went grocery shopping. With the exception of when she was first able to ride in the front of the cart at eight or nine months, Clara hates grocery shopping. Usually we can make it at least to the dairy section before she gets antsy, but Tuesday she got restless before we were even out of produce.
"Mommy, me! Me!" she said while I bagged some apples.
"You may not hold these," I said. I gave her a yellow pepper instead. She looked at it briefly and tossed it in the back of the cart. A few minutes later, I gave her a bag of Kettle Brand Cheddar and Sour Cream Chips to hold. She shook it and enjoyed the interesting sound.
At the end of the toothpaste and shampoo aisle, she started to twist and squirm.
"Mooommmmy!" she said. I bent over to kiss her and she twined her arms around my neck and pulled until she was standing. From there it was simply a matter of wrapping her legs around my waist, and she was free of the cart. She put her head on my shoulder. Docile. Just snuggling.
We rounded the corner, and she twisted to put her hands on the shopping cart handle. "Mommy! Me! Down!"
"Alright, but you must stay right here. And no touching anything on the shelves, alright?"
"Hes," she nodded her head and smiled. I put her on the floor in front of me and she began to push the cart, holding onto the front of the basket.
I grabbed the handle to stop the cart while I examined the cereal.
"Mommy!! No! No! No!"
"I have to stop, Hon. I have to look at which cereal we want. Hey, look! Do you see the gorilla on the front of this cereal box? What sound does a gorilla make? Ooo-Ooo-Ooo."
But she wasn't paying attention. She'd found an enormous canister of Folgers and was attempting to pull it off the shelf.
"Clara!"
She shrieked in joy and took off running. She ran out of the aisle and in front of several shopping carts. "Hi! Hi!" she shouted. She quickly came upon the bulk foods section and thrust her hand into a bin of peppermint salt water taffy.
I carried her on my hip through most of the rest of the store, and managed to get her back into the cart just before we checked out. I leaned forward until my face was close to hers.
"Clara, I love it when you help me. You are Mama's good helper. But right now Mama needs to go fast, and you can help me by sitting quietly in the cart so Mama can go fast and we can go home and play. Alright?"
I gave her a sippy cup full of juice. She watched me put groceries on the check-out belt for a minute, and then placed her sippy cup on it.
"Can you please pretend to scan it?" I asked the checker.
"Uh, sure," he said. He was too young to have kids. He smiled and asked Clara's age, but I suspected he was thinking about something else.
"Beep," I said as he passed the sippy cup over the sensor.
"Mommy, me! Me!" she said while I bagged some apples.
"You may not hold these," I said. I gave her a yellow pepper instead. She looked at it briefly and tossed it in the back of the cart. A few minutes later, I gave her a bag of Kettle Brand Cheddar and Sour Cream Chips to hold. She shook it and enjoyed the interesting sound.
At the end of the toothpaste and shampoo aisle, she started to twist and squirm.
"Mooommmmy!" she said. I bent over to kiss her and she twined her arms around my neck and pulled until she was standing. From there it was simply a matter of wrapping her legs around my waist, and she was free of the cart. She put her head on my shoulder. Docile. Just snuggling.
We rounded the corner, and she twisted to put her hands on the shopping cart handle. "Mommy! Me! Down!"
"Alright, but you must stay right here. And no touching anything on the shelves, alright?"
"Hes," she nodded her head and smiled. I put her on the floor in front of me and she began to push the cart, holding onto the front of the basket.
I grabbed the handle to stop the cart while I examined the cereal.
"Mommy!! No! No! No!"
"I have to stop, Hon. I have to look at which cereal we want. Hey, look! Do you see the gorilla on the front of this cereal box? What sound does a gorilla make? Ooo-Ooo-Ooo."
But she wasn't paying attention. She'd found an enormous canister of Folgers and was attempting to pull it off the shelf.
"Clara!"
She shrieked in joy and took off running. She ran out of the aisle and in front of several shopping carts. "Hi! Hi!" she shouted. She quickly came upon the bulk foods section and thrust her hand into a bin of peppermint salt water taffy.
I carried her on my hip through most of the rest of the store, and managed to get her back into the cart just before we checked out. I leaned forward until my face was close to hers.
"Clara, I love it when you help me. You are Mama's good helper. But right now Mama needs to go fast, and you can help me by sitting quietly in the cart so Mama can go fast and we can go home and play. Alright?"
I gave her a sippy cup full of juice. She watched me put groceries on the check-out belt for a minute, and then placed her sippy cup on it.
"Can you please pretend to scan it?" I asked the checker.
"Uh, sure," he said. He was too young to have kids. He smiled and asked Clara's age, but I suspected he was thinking about something else.
"Beep," I said as he passed the sippy cup over the sensor.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Learning about the potty
Today Clara woke up at six. Usually she doesn't stir until at least 7:30, most often eight. She was hungry, and wanted pita with almond butter and jelly and a scrambled egg with cheese. And ketchup. Lots of ketchup.
After breakfast she wanted to sit on her potty. Clara is very interested in her potty these days. Last week she dragged me into the closet by my hand and pointed up to where it was stored. I brought it down and set it up in the bathroom. We started reading books about it, and talking about it a good deal.
The very first time I asked Clara if she wanted to sit on her potty, she put her feet inside the bowl and stood up. Then she slowly lowered herself into a squatting position. Then she felt like she was stuck and asked for help.
The next time, she tried to back into it, but she missed and fell on her bottom next to it. Finally she squatted beside it and tinkled on the bathroom rug. Now she's gotten the hang of sitting on it, and sometimes she'll ask for a book to read while she's there. Once she held the book upside-down while she pretended to read on her potty.
This morning she took her potty apart, and then put it back together. She stuffed her shirt into it and shut the lid. She took the shirt out and put her play fishing pole in. She took the fishing pole out and put the tub of Aquaphor we use for diaper rashes in.
"Clara," I said, "Usually the only things we put in the potty are our poop and pee."
She looked at me, nodded, and took the Aquaphor out. She sat on the potty for a minute, then hopped off and looked inside. Nothing there.
She sat her doll on the potty and said, "oidle, oidle, oidle," which is her version of "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle."
So far, Clara has only actually gone in the potty once, and I'm pretty sure it was accidental. Simon happened to catch her making in her diaper. Her took the diaper off and sat her on the potty just in time. When she finished, she climbed off and looked inside the bowl. Wow, how did that happen? she seemed to say.
Simon and I went apeshit. We danced around the bathroom yelling, "Yay! Yay! You went poop in the potty! You went poop in the potty!" We ran in place and did jazz hands.
Clara looked at us like we were nuts.
After breakfast she wanted to sit on her potty. Clara is very interested in her potty these days. Last week she dragged me into the closet by my hand and pointed up to where it was stored. I brought it down and set it up in the bathroom. We started reading books about it, and talking about it a good deal.
The very first time I asked Clara if she wanted to sit on her potty, she put her feet inside the bowl and stood up. Then she slowly lowered herself into a squatting position. Then she felt like she was stuck and asked for help.
The next time, she tried to back into it, but she missed and fell on her bottom next to it. Finally she squatted beside it and tinkled on the bathroom rug. Now she's gotten the hang of sitting on it, and sometimes she'll ask for a book to read while she's there. Once she held the book upside-down while she pretended to read on her potty.
This morning she took her potty apart, and then put it back together. She stuffed her shirt into it and shut the lid. She took the shirt out and put her play fishing pole in. She took the fishing pole out and put the tub of Aquaphor we use for diaper rashes in.
"Clara," I said, "Usually the only things we put in the potty are our poop and pee."
She looked at me, nodded, and took the Aquaphor out. She sat on the potty for a minute, then hopped off and looked inside. Nothing there.
She sat her doll on the potty and said, "oidle, oidle, oidle," which is her version of "tinkle, tinkle, tinkle."
So far, Clara has only actually gone in the potty once, and I'm pretty sure it was accidental. Simon happened to catch her making in her diaper. Her took the diaper off and sat her on the potty just in time. When she finished, she climbed off and looked inside the bowl. Wow, how did that happen? she seemed to say.
Simon and I went apeshit. We danced around the bathroom yelling, "Yay! Yay! You went poop in the potty! You went poop in the potty!" We ran in place and did jazz hands.
Clara looked at us like we were nuts.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Socialization
Saturday was a gloriously beautiful day. We went to a park that's tucked away in a leafy corner of the North End, because our main park has become overwhelmed with kids and dogs lately.
Because Clara's pretty young still, I have to follow her closely on the equipment. This means I routinely wiggle through tunnels after her, climb up walls grasping onto a chain for support (while she sits on my hip), and go down all manner of slides. It's important that there not be too many other kids around, because they get impatient with my slowness in, for example, scaling ladders to reach the tallest corkscrew slide. Also, my larger adult body tends to cause all sorts of traffic jams on the equipment or in the beauty bark under the equipment.
At the park on Saturday, we ran into a little girl in a purple dress. She was about three. Clara smiled at her sort of shyly and said, "Hi!" The little girl smiled back faintly and grasped a nearby railing with an expert underhand.
"Stairs," Clara said, and started to climb stairs leading to a hanging bridge, dragging her doll, Baby, (Ugly Baby to us, her parents. See earlier posts for an explanation) along by the neck. The little girl in purple waited until Clara was almost to the top, then she sped up the stairs with aplomb, making sure Clara noticed. We went for the slides and the little girl whipped past us and flew down the slide, not even holding on to the sides for extra support. At the bottom, she turned, smiled at Clara and expertly climbed back up the slide.
Clara saw her again at the bottom of the stairs. She hurried over with Ugly Baby, eager to show she could keep up. But Ugly Baby's foot got caught in her legs. Clara made an exasperated sound in the back of her throat. Huffing with impatience at Ugly Baby, she tossed her up a couple of stairs and attempted to mount the bottom step with flair. But the little girl in the purple dress was already on to the next thing.
Some older boys were piling beauty bark on the bottom of another slide and trying to make spinning tops go down the slide and crash through the piles. The tops were released by some sort of launcher. Clara, eager to extend a helping hand, began to furiously pile beauty bark on their piles. The boys paused, clearly waiting for intervention. I could tell by their resigned patience they had younger siblings at home.
I pulled Clara away and told her we'd watch for awhile.
"You didn't make it! Watch this! Back up!" said one boy in black high-water jeans to another. He got into a crouching action stance halfway up the slide and released his top with the same wrist technique that Spiderman uses to shoot out a strand of web.
Clara was in awe.
Because Clara's pretty young still, I have to follow her closely on the equipment. This means I routinely wiggle through tunnels after her, climb up walls grasping onto a chain for support (while she sits on my hip), and go down all manner of slides. It's important that there not be too many other kids around, because they get impatient with my slowness in, for example, scaling ladders to reach the tallest corkscrew slide. Also, my larger adult body tends to cause all sorts of traffic jams on the equipment or in the beauty bark under the equipment.
At the park on Saturday, we ran into a little girl in a purple dress. She was about three. Clara smiled at her sort of shyly and said, "Hi!" The little girl smiled back faintly and grasped a nearby railing with an expert underhand.
"Stairs," Clara said, and started to climb stairs leading to a hanging bridge, dragging her doll, Baby, (Ugly Baby to us, her parents. See earlier posts for an explanation) along by the neck. The little girl in purple waited until Clara was almost to the top, then she sped up the stairs with aplomb, making sure Clara noticed. We went for the slides and the little girl whipped past us and flew down the slide, not even holding on to the sides for extra support. At the bottom, she turned, smiled at Clara and expertly climbed back up the slide.
Clara saw her again at the bottom of the stairs. She hurried over with Ugly Baby, eager to show she could keep up. But Ugly Baby's foot got caught in her legs. Clara made an exasperated sound in the back of her throat. Huffing with impatience at Ugly Baby, she tossed her up a couple of stairs and attempted to mount the bottom step with flair. But the little girl in the purple dress was already on to the next thing.
Some older boys were piling beauty bark on the bottom of another slide and trying to make spinning tops go down the slide and crash through the piles. The tops were released by some sort of launcher. Clara, eager to extend a helping hand, began to furiously pile beauty bark on their piles. The boys paused, clearly waiting for intervention. I could tell by their resigned patience they had younger siblings at home.
I pulled Clara away and told her we'd watch for awhile.
"You didn't make it! Watch this! Back up!" said one boy in black high-water jeans to another. He got into a crouching action stance halfway up the slide and released his top with the same wrist technique that Spiderman uses to shoot out a strand of web.
Clara was in awe.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Clara's Books
Clara has more books than any baby I know. This is due to several factors. Her parents and grandparents on both sides are avid readers; both her grandmothers are educators with a high degree of knowledge about literacy in particular; and Grammie Shifrin, Simon's mom, kept pretty much every book from his childhood to pass on to Clara.
Her Grandpa Hooley, my dad, is especially good at buying books for her. Three of her favorite books came from him. One is a big board book about dogs, with tabs you can pull to make the dogs' tails wag, or make their wet heads shake, or make their legs lift to go pee against a tree. Another book is called "Moonlight Animals." Each page has a different scene in the dark, with an illuminating strip, a "flashlight," that you can maneuver around to see nighttime animals. There are foxes on the prowl, owls looking for a mouse snack, and foraging deer.
Grandpa Hooley also gave her "Goodnight Goon," a Halloween parody of "Goodnight Moon." Clara is too young to get the satirical aspect of the book. She loves the monsters, and the page with "Three little mummies rubbing their tummies." I think she gets, "mummies" confused with, "mommies."
But Clara's favorite book right now, by far, is called, "Baby Dear." It's about a little girl whose dad brings her a doll because her mom has a new baby. The little girl gives the doll a bath while her mom is giving the new baby a bath. She puts the doll in a little cradle while her mom puts the new baby in her basinet. They take their babies on walks together. The little girl's doll's name is, "Baby Dear."
I'm guessing "Baby Dear" was written in the fifties. The mommy in the book could easily be an extra on the set of Mad Men. Around the house, she wears heels and dresses that accentuate her small waist (unless she's in her starched nightgown or Chenille bathrobe with matching slippers). Her legs and feet are always gracefully posed, like she went to a finishing school. Her head, with its tasteful upsweep, is always tilted just so, to show adoration or gentle surprise.
I can see why Clara loves "Baby Dear." The illustrations are wonderful. The new baby's round cheeks and fists are sweet enough to kiss on the page (which Clara does, repeatedly). We get to see all sorts of details about Baby Boomer babyhood, too. There are old-fashioned looking bottles and bottle holders, glass jars of cotton balls, containers of baby powder, strange-looking rattles and round, tin baby bathtubs.
Today Simon read "Baby Dear" to Clara four times.
Her Grandpa Hooley, my dad, is especially good at buying books for her. Three of her favorite books came from him. One is a big board book about dogs, with tabs you can pull to make the dogs' tails wag, or make their wet heads shake, or make their legs lift to go pee against a tree. Another book is called "Moonlight Animals." Each page has a different scene in the dark, with an illuminating strip, a "flashlight," that you can maneuver around to see nighttime animals. There are foxes on the prowl, owls looking for a mouse snack, and foraging deer.
Grandpa Hooley also gave her "Goodnight Goon," a Halloween parody of "Goodnight Moon." Clara is too young to get the satirical aspect of the book. She loves the monsters, and the page with "Three little mummies rubbing their tummies." I think she gets, "mummies" confused with, "mommies."
But Clara's favorite book right now, by far, is called, "Baby Dear." It's about a little girl whose dad brings her a doll because her mom has a new baby. The little girl gives the doll a bath while her mom is giving the new baby a bath. She puts the doll in a little cradle while her mom puts the new baby in her basinet. They take their babies on walks together. The little girl's doll's name is, "Baby Dear."
I'm guessing "Baby Dear" was written in the fifties. The mommy in the book could easily be an extra on the set of Mad Men. Around the house, she wears heels and dresses that accentuate her small waist (unless she's in her starched nightgown or Chenille bathrobe with matching slippers). Her legs and feet are always gracefully posed, like she went to a finishing school. Her head, with its tasteful upsweep, is always tilted just so, to show adoration or gentle surprise.
I can see why Clara loves "Baby Dear." The illustrations are wonderful. The new baby's round cheeks and fists are sweet enough to kiss on the page (which Clara does, repeatedly). We get to see all sorts of details about Baby Boomer babyhood, too. There are old-fashioned looking bottles and bottle holders, glass jars of cotton balls, containers of baby powder, strange-looking rattles and round, tin baby bathtubs.
Today Simon read "Baby Dear" to Clara four times.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
At the dealership
Yesterday I had to take my car in to get a yaw installed. The technician explained to me that "yaw" comes from "yee" and "yaw," which were terms spoken to horses to get them to turn one way or the other, back when horses were a main tool of labor. The yaw for my car is a turning sensor.
We were just at the dealership a month ago, to get the car serviced and have the brakes checked. That time there were some delays, and we ended up staying there for two hours. Someone had thoughtfully placed a coffee carafe on an end table in the waiting room, with a tray of plastic spoons and sugar packets. A courtesy phone was located at knee level, on another end table. Magazines were elegantly fanned on a coffee table. The glass doors were sparkling and smelled faintly of Windex.
Clara could not believe her good fortune.
Within five minutes of our arrival that first time, I'd had to pry open her little fists to retrieve handfuls of sugar packets, re-fan the magazines, and explain to her the virtues of taking only one plastic spoon instead of twelve. She had approached the phone cautiously, because she could sense that it was very, very definitely off-limits.
"Clara," I'd warned, and she'd then circled it repeatedly, clasping her little hands at her chest to keep herself from reaching for it.
She'd run pell-mell through the car showroom, torn through private offices before I could grab her, made friends with all the salespeople and scored an enormous blue balloon. She'd pressed her mouth against the glass doors to make interesting designs. I'd pulled her away to wipe them clean and given her a bagel with cream cheese for a snack. She quickly discovered, however, that cream cheese drool makes even better designs on glass than regular drool.
This time when we went to the dealership, I brought a stroller. We went for a nice long walk down Fairview Avenue. The name is misleading. It's an obnoxiously busy street with very few trees. Most of the businesses are car dealerships or car washes with names like "Dirty Harry's."
One of the dealerships is called "Combs Car Corral." The jingle on their TV commercial is "We will, we will, finance you. No credit needed at Combs Car Corral," set to the hit "We Will Rock You" by Queen. When I was buying my first car fifteen years ago, I looked at some cars at Combs. My dad soon dissuaded me with sage advice: "Never buy a used car from a dealership that uses 'Corral' in the name."
We were just at the dealership a month ago, to get the car serviced and have the brakes checked. That time there were some delays, and we ended up staying there for two hours. Someone had thoughtfully placed a coffee carafe on an end table in the waiting room, with a tray of plastic spoons and sugar packets. A courtesy phone was located at knee level, on another end table. Magazines were elegantly fanned on a coffee table. The glass doors were sparkling and smelled faintly of Windex.
Clara could not believe her good fortune.
Within five minutes of our arrival that first time, I'd had to pry open her little fists to retrieve handfuls of sugar packets, re-fan the magazines, and explain to her the virtues of taking only one plastic spoon instead of twelve. She had approached the phone cautiously, because she could sense that it was very, very definitely off-limits.
"Clara," I'd warned, and she'd then circled it repeatedly, clasping her little hands at her chest to keep herself from reaching for it.
She'd run pell-mell through the car showroom, torn through private offices before I could grab her, made friends with all the salespeople and scored an enormous blue balloon. She'd pressed her mouth against the glass doors to make interesting designs. I'd pulled her away to wipe them clean and given her a bagel with cream cheese for a snack. She quickly discovered, however, that cream cheese drool makes even better designs on glass than regular drool.
This time when we went to the dealership, I brought a stroller. We went for a nice long walk down Fairview Avenue. The name is misleading. It's an obnoxiously busy street with very few trees. Most of the businesses are car dealerships or car washes with names like "Dirty Harry's."
One of the dealerships is called "Combs Car Corral." The jingle on their TV commercial is "We will, we will, finance you. No credit needed at Combs Car Corral," set to the hit "We Will Rock You" by Queen. When I was buying my first car fifteen years ago, I looked at some cars at Combs. My dad soon dissuaded me with sage advice: "Never buy a used car from a dealership that uses 'Corral' in the name."
Friday, May 11, 2012
16-month-olds can't promise
Yesterday I decided to treat myself to a workout at the gym. There's a little coffee shop inside the gym, and it seems like we can't ever get past it without buying something. Yesterday it was a bagel with cream cheese, dipped in tomato soup. One of Clara's favorite lunches, bought on our way out.
Her mouth was covered in tomato soup afterwards. I was distracted and didn't notice how messy it was until we were headed out the door, laden with diaper bag, gym bag, purse. I had her on my hip, and she was holding Ugly Baby by the head, as is her custom. I licked my thumb and tried to finagle it up to her mouth, but she turned away to look at a city bus that had just pulled up to the curb.
"Ruck," she said, pointing to it.
"That's a bus," I said. There was no one around, so I quickly turned my head and licked the side of her mouth. She thought this was hilarious, and put her mouth close to mine, giggling. She wanted me to lick her again.
"Sorry, that was a one-time thing," I said, wiping her mouth with my sleeve.
"Mowf," she said, pointing to my mouth. Sometimes she digs through my hair to find my ears. She calls them, "Ewas," or "Ehs."
"Ai," she poked at first one eye, then the other with her her baby index finger.
"Honey, I can't see. Hey, I have an idea. Do you want to walk?"
She nodded her head excitedly. "Has! Has!"("Yes, Yes")
"Okay, will you hold my hand like a big girl?"
"Hesh." ("Yes")
"Do you promise?"
"Hesh!"
I gingerly put her down, but as soon as her baby, change-color-in-the-sunlight, lime green Crocs touched the payment, she tried to take off. I held firmly to her wrist.
"You HAVE to hold Mommy's hand in parking lots and on sidewalks."
"Nai no!" She sank to the payment, and sprawled her legs out in front of her. We were on a busy section of sidewalk. People streamed past. Clara tossed Ugly Baby away from her to illustrate her frustration.
I picked her up and tucked Ugly Baby under my arm, hitting the sensor that makes her chuckle. I kissed Cara's firm baby cheeks. She put her mouth close to mine.
"Tiss," she said, and kissed me on the mouth. "Tiss, tiss," she said and kissed me again, completely blocking my vision. The wind came up and blew my hair around my and Clara's faces as I staggered to the car.
Her mouth was covered in tomato soup afterwards. I was distracted and didn't notice how messy it was until we were headed out the door, laden with diaper bag, gym bag, purse. I had her on my hip, and she was holding Ugly Baby by the head, as is her custom. I licked my thumb and tried to finagle it up to her mouth, but she turned away to look at a city bus that had just pulled up to the curb.
"Ruck," she said, pointing to it.
"That's a bus," I said. There was no one around, so I quickly turned my head and licked the side of her mouth. She thought this was hilarious, and put her mouth close to mine, giggling. She wanted me to lick her again.
"Sorry, that was a one-time thing," I said, wiping her mouth with my sleeve.
"Mowf," she said, pointing to my mouth. Sometimes she digs through my hair to find my ears. She calls them, "Ewas," or "Ehs."
"Ai," she poked at first one eye, then the other with her her baby index finger.
"Honey, I can't see. Hey, I have an idea. Do you want to walk?"
She nodded her head excitedly. "Has! Has!"("Yes, Yes")
"Okay, will you hold my hand like a big girl?"
"Hesh." ("Yes")
"Do you promise?"
"Hesh!"
I gingerly put her down, but as soon as her baby, change-color-in-the-sunlight, lime green Crocs touched the payment, she tried to take off. I held firmly to her wrist.
"You HAVE to hold Mommy's hand in parking lots and on sidewalks."
"Nai no!" She sank to the payment, and sprawled her legs out in front of her. We were on a busy section of sidewalk. People streamed past. Clara tossed Ugly Baby away from her to illustrate her frustration.
I picked her up and tucked Ugly Baby under my arm, hitting the sensor that makes her chuckle. I kissed Cara's firm baby cheeks. She put her mouth close to mine.
"Tiss," she said, and kissed me on the mouth. "Tiss, tiss," she said and kissed me again, completely blocking my vision. The wind came up and blew my hair around my and Clara's faces as I staggered to the car.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Family Night
Wednesday nights are family night at the Shifrin house. It's not as progressive as it sounds. Sometimes it involves Simon and I lying inert on the living room floor while Clara treats our exhausted bodies like a military training course.
Tonight was a true family night, though. The sun was out, the trees were green, and it seemed like all the flowers in the neighborhood were in bloom. We decided to walk to the park.
The park was filled with kids. There was a softball game going on in one corner, and a pick-up basketball game on the concrete court. After we took her out of her stroller, Clara's sat in the grass for a minute because she didn't know what to do first. Some little boys were playing Frisbee with their parents.
"Ball! Ball!" Clara yelled, taking off for them.
"Hey, Clara, don't you want to play on the equipment?" I asked. She did. But what about that kid going by on a skateboard? How did he balance without falling? And what about that little girl going past on her pink, sparkly bike, with her dad helping her stay up? And look, there was a dog over there. And a lady with a baby over there.
We went down one of the straight slides a few times. It had a bump in the middle. Clara went down it so fast, she caught air on the bump.
"Hi! Hi!" Clara said to a little girl with silky brown hair while climbing up the stairs to go down the slide again. "Hi," the little girl said, and turned to her friend, "That baby said 'hi' to me."
We went down a corkscrew slide and played chase on a jungle gym. The jungle gym had a captain's wheel. A little boy named Henry was monopolizing it. He wore socks with sailboats on them and Crocs like Clara's. He told her she couldn't play on the wheel.
"Hen," his dad said with a warning in his voice. Henry started to move and Clara jostled him aside, exclaiming in baby speak how fun the wheel was and smiling winningly at him. She followed him up and down the stairs next to the wheel. He scowled. She pointed at him and said, "Baby." He scowled even deeper. She showed off her jumping skills in front of him. He glowered and turned away.
We played on the swings for a while. Clara watched two little girls swinging on their tummies on the big kid swings. We found another slide we liked, but after a few rides down, a little boy with red hair asked could we please let him race his cars down it.
We wandered over to the softball game for a minute, and then we went home.
Tonight was a true family night, though. The sun was out, the trees were green, and it seemed like all the flowers in the neighborhood were in bloom. We decided to walk to the park.
The park was filled with kids. There was a softball game going on in one corner, and a pick-up basketball game on the concrete court. After we took her out of her stroller, Clara's sat in the grass for a minute because she didn't know what to do first. Some little boys were playing Frisbee with their parents.
"Ball! Ball!" Clara yelled, taking off for them.
"Hey, Clara, don't you want to play on the equipment?" I asked. She did. But what about that kid going by on a skateboard? How did he balance without falling? And what about that little girl going past on her pink, sparkly bike, with her dad helping her stay up? And look, there was a dog over there. And a lady with a baby over there.
We went down one of the straight slides a few times. It had a bump in the middle. Clara went down it so fast, she caught air on the bump.
"Hi! Hi!" Clara said to a little girl with silky brown hair while climbing up the stairs to go down the slide again. "Hi," the little girl said, and turned to her friend, "That baby said 'hi' to me."
We went down a corkscrew slide and played chase on a jungle gym. The jungle gym had a captain's wheel. A little boy named Henry was monopolizing it. He wore socks with sailboats on them and Crocs like Clara's. He told her she couldn't play on the wheel.
"Hen," his dad said with a warning in his voice. Henry started to move and Clara jostled him aside, exclaiming in baby speak how fun the wheel was and smiling winningly at him. She followed him up and down the stairs next to the wheel. He scowled. She pointed at him and said, "Baby." He scowled even deeper. She showed off her jumping skills in front of him. He glowered and turned away.
We played on the swings for a while. Clara watched two little girls swinging on their tummies on the big kid swings. We found another slide we liked, but after a few rides down, a little boy with red hair asked could we please let him race his cars down it.
We wandered over to the softball game for a minute, and then we went home.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Nine Ways to be a Better Tiger/Panther/Bear
1. When you crawl towards your prey (child), crawl on your fists, not your palms. This will make your shoulders bunch up and give you that stalking roll of the shoulders that many panthers have.
2. It helps to have lots of hair. Mess it up so it hides your face. If you don't have lots of hair, mess up your eyebrows. Don't forget to snarl.
3. It helps to have long teeth. My teeth are long because I scrubbed too hard when I brushed in the past and my gums receded a little. I'm not saying scrub extra hard from now on. I'm just asking, How dedicated are you to being a really good tiger/panther/bear?
4. Growling is important. Growl from deep in your chest. You don't even have to open your mouth to do this.
5. Let your prey (child) know you are gaining on them by taking swipes at their legs while they run away.
6. When you bring your prey (child) down, paw the air in victory over their body. Make sure you maintain powerful arms, otherwise you will look like a T-Rex. Maybe you want to be a T-Rex. Maybe you didn't know that dinosaurs are extinct, though.
7. Go for your prey's (child's) flanks first. This is where the skin is most tender.
8. Don't take big bites unless your prey (child) is wearing lots of clothes. Nibbling can sometimes produce the highest-pitched screams.
9. Be ready to morph into a dog if your prey (child) shows real fear, e.g. starts to cry. Also if they start to whale on you with an Etch-a-Sketch.
2. It helps to have lots of hair. Mess it up so it hides your face. If you don't have lots of hair, mess up your eyebrows. Don't forget to snarl.
3. It helps to have long teeth. My teeth are long because I scrubbed too hard when I brushed in the past and my gums receded a little. I'm not saying scrub extra hard from now on. I'm just asking, How dedicated are you to being a really good tiger/panther/bear?
4. Growling is important. Growl from deep in your chest. You don't even have to open your mouth to do this.
5. Let your prey (child) know you are gaining on them by taking swipes at their legs while they run away.
6. When you bring your prey (child) down, paw the air in victory over their body. Make sure you maintain powerful arms, otherwise you will look like a T-Rex. Maybe you want to be a T-Rex. Maybe you didn't know that dinosaurs are extinct, though.
7. Go for your prey's (child's) flanks first. This is where the skin is most tender.
8. Don't take big bites unless your prey (child) is wearing lots of clothes. Nibbling can sometimes produce the highest-pitched screams.
9. Be ready to morph into a dog if your prey (child) shows real fear, e.g. starts to cry. Also if they start to whale on you with an Etch-a-Sketch.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Striking the Right Tone
It has come to my attention that shrieking and letting my mouth fall open in horror when Clara sucks diaper rash cream off her fingers is an ineffective way to get her to stop. Also, waving my hands in the air, biting my lips and moaning does not keep her from grasping my potted plants by the leaves and/or blossoms to lift them. Whispering invocations to multiple deities and twisting my mouth does not keep her from licking the snot from her upper lip while I try to wipe it off.
Also, shouting in a panicked way and chasing her in mismatched shoes while she makes a run for the street does not dissuade her from trying it again. In fact, it only makes her giggle and run faster because she thinks I'm chasing her.
Simon says I have to modulate my tone and facial expressions when setting boundaries with Clara. For those of you who don't know Simon, he is a master of subtlety (but apparently even he has problems with the correct parenting tone. Whenever he tells Clara something is "yucky," she immediately puts it in her mouth and makes a gulping sound).
"Okay," I told Simon. "Maybe we need to set boundaries in a sing-song voice. Like, 'Cla-RA, we don't eat the CHEER-ios we find un-der the FRIDGE.'"
We practiced this a little bit. It sounded annoying more than anything.
A book we have on raising the perfect toddler says that toddlers are roughly analogous to Neanderthals in emotional development. The book advises speaking to a tantrum-ing toddler in a Neanderthal way. I try to do this and Simon is struck by the absurdity of it. He points out that the author was simply making a statement about simple speech, and that it's probably unnecessary for me to include grunting.
"Maybe we should just be more matter-of-fact," Simon said.
Also, shouting in a panicked way and chasing her in mismatched shoes while she makes a run for the street does not dissuade her from trying it again. In fact, it only makes her giggle and run faster because she thinks I'm chasing her.
Simon says I have to modulate my tone and facial expressions when setting boundaries with Clara. For those of you who don't know Simon, he is a master of subtlety (but apparently even he has problems with the correct parenting tone. Whenever he tells Clara something is "yucky," she immediately puts it in her mouth and makes a gulping sound).
"Okay," I told Simon. "Maybe we need to set boundaries in a sing-song voice. Like, 'Cla-RA, we don't eat the CHEER-ios we find un-der the FRIDGE.'"
We practiced this a little bit. It sounded annoying more than anything.
A book we have on raising the perfect toddler says that toddlers are roughly analogous to Neanderthals in emotional development. The book advises speaking to a tantrum-ing toddler in a Neanderthal way. I try to do this and Simon is struck by the absurdity of it. He points out that the author was simply making a statement about simple speech, and that it's probably unnecessary for me to include grunting.
"Maybe we should just be more matter-of-fact," Simon said.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
ABC Puzzle
Today when I got home from work I did my customary thing: stick my leg through the doorway leading to downstairs and waggle it until Clara sees it and starts to giggle. Then stick my arm through the doorway and wiggle my fingers until she giggles more. Then finally stick my head around the corner and say, "Heeeyyyyy!"and pick her up and kiss her all over her face and neck.
She was in the middle of a diaper change, so she was running around in only a T-shirt or, as we like to say in the Shifrin household, she was "Donald Duckin' it."
"Why don't you let me put your clean diaper on?" I asked.
"Nai no wanew," she replied.
"I know you don't want to, Sweets, but I don't want your bottom to get cold."
"Nai no wanew!"
She brought out her ABC puzzle and turned it upside down so all the pieces fell out. She put the "A" and "B" in, and the "F" and "K." She put the "E" in backwards. She put her finger in the "T" space. She found the "T," but put it in slightly askew so it didn't fit.
"No!" she squealed. She turned around. "Daddy."
"You don't need Daddy's help. You can do it! Look, it's almost there!"
"No!" She flung the "T" aside and found the "L" and tried to force it upside-down into the "T" spot.
"No, no, no!" she yelled, discarding the "L" and collapsing backwards against Simon. "Nai no! Nai no!"
Mom, it's impossible!! Nothing fits in the "T" space!! EVER!! Why do I even try?! It's impossible!!! It can't be done!!!!
"Okay, let's put it aside and try again later," Simon said to her. She slumped to the ground with relief.
We finally got her into her jammies and brought her upstairs to her crib. She put her head on my shoulder and I said, "You are my favorite girl in the whole world," into her hair. She picked her head up and smiled, and then put her ear close to my lips to invite me to say another nice thing. "I love you so, SO much," I said. She smiled again, presented her cheek for a kiss, and pointed to my mouth.
"Tin," she said.
"We were learning about chins tonight," Simon explained.
"Tin," she said, pointing to her chin. And she put her chin up to my mouth for a kiss.
She was in the middle of a diaper change, so she was running around in only a T-shirt or, as we like to say in the Shifrin household, she was "Donald Duckin' it."
"Why don't you let me put your clean diaper on?" I asked.
"Nai no wanew," she replied.
"I know you don't want to, Sweets, but I don't want your bottom to get cold."
"Nai no wanew!"
She brought out her ABC puzzle and turned it upside down so all the pieces fell out. She put the "A" and "B" in, and the "F" and "K." She put the "E" in backwards. She put her finger in the "T" space. She found the "T," but put it in slightly askew so it didn't fit.
"No!" she squealed. She turned around. "Daddy."
"You don't need Daddy's help. You can do it! Look, it's almost there!"
"No!" She flung the "T" aside and found the "L" and tried to force it upside-down into the "T" spot.
"No, no, no!" she yelled, discarding the "L" and collapsing backwards against Simon. "Nai no! Nai no!"
Mom, it's impossible!! Nothing fits in the "T" space!! EVER!! Why do I even try?! It's impossible!!! It can't be done!!!!
"Okay, let's put it aside and try again later," Simon said to her. She slumped to the ground with relief.
We finally got her into her jammies and brought her upstairs to her crib. She put her head on my shoulder and I said, "You are my favorite girl in the whole world," into her hair. She picked her head up and smiled, and then put her ear close to my lips to invite me to say another nice thing. "I love you so, SO much," I said. She smiled again, presented her cheek for a kiss, and pointed to my mouth.
"Tin," she said.
"We were learning about chins tonight," Simon explained.
"Tin," she said, pointing to her chin. And she put her chin up to my mouth for a kiss.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Fun with Friends
Today our friends Jake, Clavin, and Grace came over to play for a few hours. Grace is six, Jake is nearly five, and Calvin is three and a half.
Grace has a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, is good at drawing and making new friends, and lost a few teeth recently.
Jake has bright orange hair, is a whiz at building things, and likes to fry pretend eggs in Clara's play kitchenette.
Calvin manages to be incredibly loud and incredibly quiet at the same time. He's also incredibly sweet. He also has big cheeks.
Clara loves all three, but especially Calvin, since he is closest in age to her. She admires him because he is bigger, faster, and more street-smart than she. I imagine that, to really young toddlers, Calvin projects the world-weary image of a late toddler/early little boy:
"Hey Kid, I see they got you eating salmon. It's all a sham, Kid. Don't believe 'em when they tell you it's delicious. Salmon is the grossest thing around."
Clara has taken her share of knocks from all three. She's been launched into a wall while trying to jump on Gracie's bed with them. Calvin lovingly head-butted her when she was a mere six months old, and wind-milled her into a tile floor at a restaurant just a few months ago. Jake has flown into serious rages when she wrecked his train tracks and toppled his Lego towers, but managed, with heroic effort, not to pummel her.
Clara is still pretty small, but she's getting to the age where she can give as good as she gets. She doesn't hit or push yet (a good sign--she values her physical well-being), but she can shriek like a banshee.
She was finishing two tofu-dogs with melted cheese when the kids showed up. Strapped into her booster seat, she wasn't able to participate as joyfully in their arrival as she would have liked. Nor was she able to wrest her baby away from Gracie, who had found it in a corner and took it for a spin on the pink Barbie Big Wheel. I couldn't successfully communicate to Clara the subtle points of politeness and sharing because she was yelling and thrashing around so much. I finally asked Gracie if she would mind giving Clara her baby so we could have some peace.
We watched movies, did an art project and had Greek yogurt with Cheerios (Jake thought the Greek yogurt tasted like "gross baby slime" until I explained the Greeks were big, strong, handsome men who lived across the ocean. Then he thought it was delicious.).
We played hide-and-seek. Of course, I was the seeker a disproportionate number of times, and my pelvis nearly cracked in half running up and down the stairs with Clara on my hip. The screams and the look of terror on Jake and Grace's faces when I threw open the closet door to growl at them was worth it, though.
Grace has a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, is good at drawing and making new friends, and lost a few teeth recently.
Jake has bright orange hair, is a whiz at building things, and likes to fry pretend eggs in Clara's play kitchenette.
Calvin manages to be incredibly loud and incredibly quiet at the same time. He's also incredibly sweet. He also has big cheeks.
Clara loves all three, but especially Calvin, since he is closest in age to her. She admires him because he is bigger, faster, and more street-smart than she. I imagine that, to really young toddlers, Calvin projects the world-weary image of a late toddler/early little boy:
"Hey Kid, I see they got you eating salmon. It's all a sham, Kid. Don't believe 'em when they tell you it's delicious. Salmon is the grossest thing around."
Clara has taken her share of knocks from all three. She's been launched into a wall while trying to jump on Gracie's bed with them. Calvin lovingly head-butted her when she was a mere six months old, and wind-milled her into a tile floor at a restaurant just a few months ago. Jake has flown into serious rages when she wrecked his train tracks and toppled his Lego towers, but managed, with heroic effort, not to pummel her.
Clara is still pretty small, but she's getting to the age where she can give as good as she gets. She doesn't hit or push yet (a good sign--she values her physical well-being), but she can shriek like a banshee.
She was finishing two tofu-dogs with melted cheese when the kids showed up. Strapped into her booster seat, she wasn't able to participate as joyfully in their arrival as she would have liked. Nor was she able to wrest her baby away from Gracie, who had found it in a corner and took it for a spin on the pink Barbie Big Wheel. I couldn't successfully communicate to Clara the subtle points of politeness and sharing because she was yelling and thrashing around so much. I finally asked Gracie if she would mind giving Clara her baby so we could have some peace.
We watched movies, did an art project and had Greek yogurt with Cheerios (Jake thought the Greek yogurt tasted like "gross baby slime" until I explained the Greeks were big, strong, handsome men who lived across the ocean. Then he thought it was delicious.).
We played hide-and-seek. Of course, I was the seeker a disproportionate number of times, and my pelvis nearly cracked in half running up and down the stairs with Clara on my hip. The screams and the look of terror on Jake and Grace's faces when I threw open the closet door to growl at them was worth it, though.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Lunch date with Clara
Today it was raining out. We had a lunch date at a Mediterranean grill near our house with a friend named Amanda. I asked Clara if she wanted to wear her rain boots.
Did she ever!
I asked her if she also wanted to wear her raincoat.
Heck, yeah!
The boots are polka-dotted with red bows. They are a size or two too big for her, so she falls down a lot in them. Sometimes she even steps out of them completely, but she doesn't care.
I loaded her into the car and she asked for her baby. I groaned inwardly. Something is wrong with Ugly Baby's programming (Ugly Baby is Simon and my name for Clara's favorite doll. She has a battery pack in her abdomen and creepy eyes. Sometimes one of them winks. Winking is part of the doll's programming, but it's supposed to be both eyes that wink).
Today Ugly Baby kept breaking into her strange, chicken-on-the-prowl cries, only no one was pushing her tummy to activate the sounds. I think the spontaneous sounds are a mechanism meant to warn us that the batteries are about to quit. I find it very irritating.
I gave Ugly Baby to Clara and she gave her the usual smooch on her pristine rubber forehead. Then Clara held her out for me to smooch. I obliged. May it grant me immunity from any vengeance Ugly Baby plans to exact on me for my numerous transgressions against her (including my plot to kidnap her and put her through the washing machine).
When we got to the restaurant, I opened the back door to find that the child I had so carefully dressed for this outing was missing her rain boots and socks and had wedged her sippy cup upside-down between her flank and the car seat. Unbeknownst to me, the sippy cup had somehow lost its non-spill mechanism, and had voided into her pants and super-absorbent Huggies.
Well, it was only water.
I got her socks on, but her boots kept falling off. The rain coat was nowhere to be found. Clara sneezed and I reached for the Kleenex on the console. Ugly Baby fell out of the car. It started raining. As I bent to retrieve Ugly Baby, I cursed my stupidity for getting Super Low-Rise jeans (at my age!), even if they were on special at Costco. There's a reason "mom jeans" exist.
Clara wanted to walk in her boots. Okay, I said. But you have to hold my hand. Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!! she said. YES, I said. She balled up her fist so I couldn't take her hand. I grabbed her wrist. She collapsed and hung from my hand. Noooooooo!!!!!!
I sighed, squeezed my eyes shut for a second.
Do you want to bring your baby into the restaurant?
Yes!!! She straightened, took my hand, and tucked Ugly Baby under her free arm.
Did she ever!
I asked her if she also wanted to wear her raincoat.
Heck, yeah!
The boots are polka-dotted with red bows. They are a size or two too big for her, so she falls down a lot in them. Sometimes she even steps out of them completely, but she doesn't care.
I loaded her into the car and she asked for her baby. I groaned inwardly. Something is wrong with Ugly Baby's programming (Ugly Baby is Simon and my name for Clara's favorite doll. She has a battery pack in her abdomen and creepy eyes. Sometimes one of them winks. Winking is part of the doll's programming, but it's supposed to be both eyes that wink).
Today Ugly Baby kept breaking into her strange, chicken-on-the-prowl cries, only no one was pushing her tummy to activate the sounds. I think the spontaneous sounds are a mechanism meant to warn us that the batteries are about to quit. I find it very irritating.
I gave Ugly Baby to Clara and she gave her the usual smooch on her pristine rubber forehead. Then Clara held her out for me to smooch. I obliged. May it grant me immunity from any vengeance Ugly Baby plans to exact on me for my numerous transgressions against her (including my plot to kidnap her and put her through the washing machine).
When we got to the restaurant, I opened the back door to find that the child I had so carefully dressed for this outing was missing her rain boots and socks and had wedged her sippy cup upside-down between her flank and the car seat. Unbeknownst to me, the sippy cup had somehow lost its non-spill mechanism, and had voided into her pants and super-absorbent Huggies.
Well, it was only water.
I got her socks on, but her boots kept falling off. The rain coat was nowhere to be found. Clara sneezed and I reached for the Kleenex on the console. Ugly Baby fell out of the car. It started raining. As I bent to retrieve Ugly Baby, I cursed my stupidity for getting Super Low-Rise jeans (at my age!), even if they were on special at Costco. There's a reason "mom jeans" exist.
Clara wanted to walk in her boots. Okay, I said. But you have to hold my hand. Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!! she said. YES, I said. She balled up her fist so I couldn't take her hand. I grabbed her wrist. She collapsed and hung from my hand. Noooooooo!!!!!!
I sighed, squeezed my eyes shut for a second.
Do you want to bring your baby into the restaurant?
Yes!!! She straightened, took my hand, and tucked Ugly Baby under her free arm.
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
Clara's Hair
When Clara was born, she had a medium amount of hair, and it looked reddish. In retrospect, it might just have been that her scalp was red from getting squished during birth. Like all newborns' hair, it soon fell out. As an infant, she had a male-pattern baldness look that matched Popi Shifrin's (or, if you prefer, as my brother John did, Marlon Brando's).
In late infancy, Clara's hair really took off. She smeared yogurt and ketchup into it until it stuck out in all directions: it was modern art. We stood out on the patio in the wind and rain: it developed its own atmospheric pressure. She played in the dirt: it grew its own ecosystem.
I myself have a ton of hair. I've only just gotten a grasp on how to subdue it. Now I'm in charge of wrangling Clara's locks into submission every day. It's very fine, so it tangles easily. She is still a baby, so she doesn't understand about sitting still for very long. If she could sit still, I would put it into two french braids, every day. It would keep it cleaner for longer, and keep it from tangling.
For a while, I tried putting it into pigtails. I'd get her to be still for the few seconds it took to put the rubber band in by whispering breathily, "Oh, you're going to be so pretty!" And she would tilt her head a bit and flutter her eyelashes, and flash me a smile full of pearly baby teeth. Two minutes later, the pigtails would be out. Once her pigtails are out, her hair does this weird thing where it kind of stays in the pigtail shape. Kind of, but not totally. It looks like wings.
Clara has two main hairstyles: if it's rainy outside, and it's been awhile since I washed it, her hair curls in ringlets at the base of her neck. I like to twine the curls around my finger when I'm holding her on my lap. The morning after a wash, however, her hair is very Donald Trump. I'm fearful, when I take Clara to the store on Donald Trump days. I'm fearful that people will say, "Why doesn't that woman do something about her poor baby's hair?!"
In late infancy, Clara's hair really took off. She smeared yogurt and ketchup into it until it stuck out in all directions: it was modern art. We stood out on the patio in the wind and rain: it developed its own atmospheric pressure. She played in the dirt: it grew its own ecosystem.
I myself have a ton of hair. I've only just gotten a grasp on how to subdue it. Now I'm in charge of wrangling Clara's locks into submission every day. It's very fine, so it tangles easily. She is still a baby, so she doesn't understand about sitting still for very long. If she could sit still, I would put it into two french braids, every day. It would keep it cleaner for longer, and keep it from tangling.
For a while, I tried putting it into pigtails. I'd get her to be still for the few seconds it took to put the rubber band in by whispering breathily, "Oh, you're going to be so pretty!" And she would tilt her head a bit and flutter her eyelashes, and flash me a smile full of pearly baby teeth. Two minutes later, the pigtails would be out. Once her pigtails are out, her hair does this weird thing where it kind of stays in the pigtail shape. Kind of, but not totally. It looks like wings.
Clara has two main hairstyles: if it's rainy outside, and it's been awhile since I washed it, her hair curls in ringlets at the base of her neck. I like to twine the curls around my finger when I'm holding her on my lap. The morning after a wash, however, her hair is very Donald Trump. I'm fearful, when I take Clara to the store on Donald Trump days. I'm fearful that people will say, "Why doesn't that woman do something about her poor baby's hair?!"
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