Painting Pumpkins for Halloween

     Last Wednesday was pumpkin-painting day for Play Group.  Also run-around-like-crazy in the church gym day, make a deliciously-messy-mess in the bathrooms day, and eat-lots-of-sugar-cookies day.
     We had 12-14 kids show up for pumpkin painting.  I had envisioned the kids painting lots of pumpkin faces, complete with "hair," the yarn I'd brought.  However, I'd forgotten that toddlers, apart from not really seeing faces like adults, also have little hand dexterity, no idea about complimentary colors, and little interest in confining their paint to one surface.
     The result was a lot of impressionist, abstract-expressionist pumpkins.  And interesting combinations of paint smeared on table, chairs and many, many articles of clothing.
     Prize for most creative painting went to Shar, who not only painted a pumpkin, she also painted Dylan's cheek.

     Dylan was a little taken aback.  We can safely assume his astonishment kept him from retaliating.    
     The prize for being most experimental went to Flora.  Shortly after the picture below was taken, Flora crammed a fistful of white paint into her mouth (delicious).  They say Vincent Van Gogh also ate his paint.  Of course, Vincent was crazy.  Flora is the most sane person I know.  In her defense, the white paint did look a little like vanilla pudding.

     Here she is again, enjoying something truly delicious: one of Kamilla's iced sugar cookies.

     Here is our most pragmatic artist.  He was fully prepared for whatever paint hurricanes might come his way in a stylish smock.

   
     Other notes:  In spite of feeling a little out-of-sorts when he arrived, Liam (below) did a great job on his pumpkin.  When I asked him to smile for his picture, he did me one better.  He simultaneously smiled, took a bite of cookie, and posed like a ballroom dancer.

     Dylan ate approximately 1/3 of his cookie before taking off to play in the gym.  Shortly after, the rest of Dylan's cookie disappeared. Rowan (below), who was sitting next to him, loves cookies.  He ate all of his cookie.  He may or may not have any information regarding the missing cookie.  He's not saying.

     You'd think it would be hard to smile with cookie in your mouth, but these kids did it with aplomb.  They are truly photogenic.  Watch out, Baby Gap models.

     A quiet pall came over the gym while the kids ate their cookies.  Ray (sitting with Dylan, below) decided all those phone calls she needed to make could wait while she enjoyed her treat.  

     Meanwhile, these two were completely lost in sugarland.

Mischief in Fred Meyer

     Of all the grocery stores in the Treasure Valley, Fred Meyer has the best kiddie-modified shopping carts. They are race cars, where the "engine" holds all the groceries, and the kid sits high above it, just in front of the parent. For those not familiar with Fred Meyer, it's kind of a big box department store.  It has a grocery section, furniture, clothing and outdoor stuff.  A step up from Walmart, if you will.
     Today Clara and I were doomed to spend at least three hours there.  My shopping list covered the backs of two mass-mailing envelopes whose contents I had tossed.
     My heart sank when I realized, upon arriving at Freddie's, that they had no race car shopping carts left.  The manager told me they'd pulled a bunch off the floor to service them. Doesn't she know they're not real race cars? I wondered. The manager saw my look and sighed.
     "The seat belts are being replaced."
     Ah yes.  I could see that being an issue.
     "I don't wannu! Up der! In tart!" Clara said when I told her she'd need to sit in the front of the cart.  Sitting of any kind, for any length of time, is hard for Clara, and probably lots of other kids her age.  Sitting in any grocery cart that is not modified to look like a race car, or a police car, or a fire truck, is excruciating.
     "I don't 'ike this," she reminded me, snacking from a bag of gummy rabbit treats I'd given her as a reward for letting herself be strapped in.
     We started down the hair aisle, which in Fred Meyer abuts the accessories and clothing section.  Clara took off her pink Crocs and blithely tossed them at a circular display holding marked-down blouses.  I picked up the shoes and put them in her diaper bag under the cart.  She snatched my shopping list from my hand and began to "read" it, first making muffled observations from the corner of her mouth and then archly lecturing a pretend audience from it.
      Her hair had lately gotten out-of-control, I noted.  She could use some barrettes.
     "Do you like these sparkly barrettes?" I asked, holding up a package for her inspection.
     "Oh....yes," she breathed.  "I need 'parkly betts."
     I gave the barrettes to her to hold, and continued into the clothing section.
     "I need purses!" Clara hollered, frantically gesturing towards a purse clearance rack.
     "You do not need a purse," I said, dexterously maneuvering the cart into Toddlers.
     After a few wrong turns, I finally found toddler underpants.  Clara wears a 2T.  Barely.  Most of them are still a little big.  The waist comes up over her belly button.  They're so cute they could break your heart.  I showed her a package with Minnie Mouse on them and another decorated with Dora the Explorer.
     "Choose which kind you want," I instructed.
     She held both to her chest. "Yes," she said. "Minnie Mouse pannies.  Dora pannies."
     "Which one?"
     "Yes."
     I finally had to slip the Dora underpants back on the rack when she wasn't looking.
     Next we went to look for some winter boots.
     "Yes.  I need 'inter boots," Clara said.  She found a boot display she felt needed to be re-arranged while I browsed.
     We made it back to the grocery section.  Clara was wriggling like a little worm in her seat.  I told her if she sat still through the store, I'd let her out to help me get produce.  Meanwhile, she had fun chucking things out of the cart and onto the floor.  A package of breath-enhancing bones for Wilbur.  A stick of deodorant.  I got stern with her and she stopped.
     An elderly lady brought me one of Clara's Crocs, which had fallen out of her diaper bag in the toothpaste aisle.
     Clara managed to get hold of a can of Woolite carpet cleaner and almost squirted herself in the eye with it.  She snuggled for a moment with a package of Maxi-pads from the back of the cart.  Then she dug an old receipt out of my purse and pretended it was a phone.
     We passed a display of fresh fish.
     "Mommy," she said, pointing to it.
     "It's fish," I replied.
     "I need fish!" she yelled.
     "Are you kidding me? You don't even eat the fish I cook for you at home."
     "I need fish!  I NEED FISH!"
     "Excuse me, ma'am, is this your sock?" a woman asked me, holding up one of Clara's striped stockings.
     "Yes, thank-you," I replied, glancing around for the sock's mate.  I found it draped across a package of frozen blueberries in the back of the cart.  "Clara, you need to wear your socks at least in here.  It's cold." And people will think I'm a negligent parent, I continued silently.
     Clara wiggled her naked toes delightfully.  "No, nai no nunnu socks."
     I gave her a greeting card with a picture of a puppy on it from a nearby display to distract her while I put her socks back on.  I mentally made a note to hold off on her new pink Crocs for a while longer.  They're still a little big, which is why she's able to take them off so easily.  If she hadn't taken them off, she wouldn't have surreptitiously removed her socks also. At the end of October in the frozen foods section of Fred Meyer grocery.
     We came to the artisanal cheeses, and I got a sample of gorgonzola.
     "Me! My turn!" said Clara.  I gave her a sample and waited.  In a few seconds I was rewarded.  A glob of half-chewed, slimy gorgonzola dribbled out of her mouth and onto her sweater.
     "I don't 'ike this," she said, squinting and grimacing.  In an effort to get all the taste out of her mouth, she let creamy white drool spill out of her lips and dangle in a long string down the front of the shopping cart.  I hurriedly found a Kleenex and wiped her sweater-front and mouth.  She used the Kleenex to wipe her tongue off.

Analyzing Wilbur's Snores

     Wilbur the dog can sit up on his haunches.  With his very short front legs dangling in the air, he looks like a T-Rex gone to seed.  He can also shake with his left paw, but not his right.  Simon, my husband, says he's left-pawed.  He also "speaks" to me, usually disgruntled yowling sounds when I chastise him for hogging my heating pad.
     Those are Wilbur's only tricks, if you don't count his penchant for cleaning out Clara's potty if I don't get to it STAT.  Strictly speaking, I don't think that qualifies as a trick.
     I wish Wilbur had other skills.  Like mental flexibility and hardiness.  He's seven, so he's very set in his ways.  He's also used to a certain amount of comfort.  He wants to nap in soft, pleasant places, with relatively luxuriant fabric against his body, and preferably a piece of my clothing to rest his snout on. He has co-opted a hideous blue recliner that I spent months and months breastfeeding Clara in, and that we had planned to get rid of.  I also just discovered he's been sneaking into the guest bedroom downstairs during the day to nap on the bed (shedding copiously on the expensive new comforter). 
     At night, Wilbur sleeps on the velour body pillow I used while pregnant, on the floor below my side of the bed.  The pillow is pushed up against the wall.  For some odd reason, he lately likes to wedge his snout between the wall and the body pillow.  With his nostrils pressed against the wall, his air passages are even more impeded than usual, making his snoring extra explosive.  Something about this arrangement also seems to give his snores vibrato. It might have to do with the wall itself, the frequency at which it vibrates, etc.  If his nostrils were pressed against the part of the wall that holds a stud, would his snores be more muted?
     I've discovered the best nighttime arrangement is for Wilbur to sleep with his jowls splayed between body pillow and wall.  It allows for maximum air flow, and minimum pinched tissue.  Sometimes you'll get a whistle as he sucks air through his teeth, but that's about it.
     An occurrence of the splayed-jowl position is almost as rare as a performance by an Amish synchronized swimming team. Such is the delicate tension between Wilbur's whiskered cheeks, that I can't actually place him there.  (By the way, Wilbur would make an excellent synchronized swimmer.  Such soulful eyes.  Such a magnificently hairy chest.)

Saturday Night

     This evening, after I got done with work, and after Clara had taken her nap, we decided to go to Home Depot.  Not the most fabulous Saturday night plans ever.  However, my Swiffer Wet Jet broke last week (I was applying too much pressure to a stain originated by Wilbur, and the Wet Jet's handle just snapped) and we needed a patio table cover and some new shelving for the play room, so it was a pretty exciting outing for me, at least.
     We decided to go to Boise Fry Company on the way for dinner.  Clara ate about a cupful of purple French Fries whilst sitting in front of an impressive array of dipping sauces: blueberry ketchup, garlic aioli, sour Thai, fry sauce, spicy ketchup, and, of course, regular ketchup. She allowed Simon to place a bite of bison burger on her tongue.  After a five-second interval, during which her baby brain presumably received unfavorable reviews about bison taste and texture, she spat it back into Simon's hand.
     After we finished eating, Simon asked Clara if she'd like to sit on the potty.
     "No!" she said irritably.
     I tossed my head breezily and said loudly to Simon, "Daddy, I'm going potty.  I'll see you outside."
     A man at the table next to us frowned and glanced quickly at me.
     Clara ran to me.  "Mommy! Baby goes potty! Too!"
     In the restaurant bathroom, Clara and I finished the elaborate dance of pulling down drawers, sitting, producing, hopping off, cleaning up, pulling up drawers, flushing toilet, yelling in ecstasy while watching the swirling water, and washing hands.
     I had just gotten her outside and strapped into her car seat when she yelled, "Poop!" Gas sounds erupted from her dainty Guess-brand, embroidery-embelished jeans like a machine gun.
     It was a false alarm.  We had two more at a coffee shop down the street, where we had stopped to get Clara some chocolate as a reward for tinkling in the potty at Boise Fry Company.
     "Let's go, Daddy," she said as we finally pulled out of the coffee shop parking lot.  "Baby needs boon [balloon]."
     "We're going to the Home Depot, Sweets," I said.  "Your balloon is at the house."
     "Yes.  Baby goes home.  Boon.  Boon home."
     "I think she thinks we're saying 'home' for 'Home Depot,'" I said.
     "Daddy, 'nop!!"
     "No, we go on a green light, Sweetie," Simon explained.
     "Oh.  I see green balls."
     "Yes, those are stoplights."
     At the Home Depot, Clara ran up and down the aisles, chasing Simon and yelling like a banshee.  They played hide and seek in the outdoor section for a bit.  Then Simon ducked inside the electric doors to hide behind a display.  The doors shut, leaving Clara alone in the dark, cold patio section.
     Of course, the doors opened immediately when she ran at them, but that didn't stop her screams of betrayal and abandonment.  I could hear the browbeating she gave Simon halfway across the store.  Looking both amused and abashed, he brought her to me.
     "I want my Mommy!!" she howled.  Her face was bright red and streaked with tears.  She burrowed her head into my neck and wiped her runny nose across my shoulder.  She tried to push her legs up under her and against my chest, making her bottom stick out like a stinkbug's.
     It was over within thirty seconds.  She bellowed a few last times to articulate her feelings of injustice and then asked to be put down so she could commence running through the store like a heathen, Simon carefully tracking her and keeping her out of harm's way.
     Tragedy struck again ten minutes later when Clara inadvertently whacked her head against the side of the cart.  Since we were finished shopping, I brought her to the front of the store and left Simon to bring along the cart.  We hadn't gotten any chocolate at the coffee shop after all because the line was too long, so I got a bag of M & M's at the checkout counter at the Home Depot.
     "Were you the one I heard just now?" the cashier asked Clara kindly, as Clara hiccoughed and rubbed her eyes with her fists.  Understanding the intensity of emotion and its various cures, the cashier quickly scanned the bag of M&M's and handed them back to me. I ripped open the bag and offered Clara a blue one.
     "Mommy, I need chocolate," she sighed as she carefully took it with her baby fingers and put it into her mouth.
   

The dreams of a baby

     This morning Clara chose a savory breakfast: Ziti with cheese.
     "What did you dream about last night?" I asked her.
     She munched thoughtfully for a moment.  "Bunnies," she finally said.
     "Oh, I see."
     "Juice, Mommy."
     "I'm sorry, Honey, we're out.  I have milk.  Do you want milk?"
     "No.  Bunnies deem milk."
     "You dreamed you were feeding the bunnies milk?"
     "Yes.  Black bunnies."
     "The bunnies were black?"
     "Yes."
     She finished eating and wanted to sit on my lap and look out the window.  It was raining, a rarity for Southern Idaho.  The wetness made the fall leaves seem extra bright.
     "Washing the grass," Clara said.
     "No, it's raining.  Not the sprinkler system.  Rain comes from the sky."
     "Washing and drying.  Washing and drying....'Bur deenks rain?"
     "I suppose Wilbur could drink the rain.  He has water in his dish, though, so he doesn't really need to drink the rain."
     "'Bur water dish."
     "Yes."
     We went downstairs to play.  The rain made me feel extra groggy.  I wanted to lean against the side of the couch and doze and just hope Clara wouldn't get into mischief.  But, like they say, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
     "Daddy working?"
     "Yes."
     "Oh." She fetched her silver sequined purse and made for her pink Kozy Coupe.
     "Where are you going?"
     "Daddy work."
     "You're going to see Daddy at work?"
     "Yes. Bye-bye!  Later!"
     "No!  Don't go!" I pleaded dramatically, as she resolutely shut the Kozy Coupe door.
     "Yes.  Baby sees Daddy. Bye, Mommy. Later."
     Awhile later, she was acting extra cranky, so I brought her upstairs for a warm bath.
     "One two three! H, I, J!!  Ashes, ashes, all fall down!" she sang in the tub.
     She didn't want to get out, and wept with gusto while I toweled her off.  She flopped against me, moaning, and summoned sobs from deep in her chest.  She experimented with different octaves.
     "Burrito baby," she finally gasped.
     I wrapped the towel around and around her until she was rolled up as tightly as a burrito.  Then I picked her up.  She caught sight of herself in the mirror and began to cry luxuriantly, making sure to reveal as many teeth as possible.

   

Grody-ness and its attendant nightmares

     Sometimes it feels like having a family means periodically living in a cesspool of grody-ness.  No matter how much you clean, there is always another accident, another mess, around the corner.  I was deep-cleaning the fridge the other day and came across a small bowl of egg salad undergoing mitosis.  I'd missed it during my habitual fridge-cleaning the last couple weeks. Wilbur was dilly-dallying around my feet as I cleaned, and made me stumble and drop part of the gelid, slimy mass.  He gobbled it up with relish, leaving me gagging at the sink.
     A few days later, I was engaged in the Sisyphean task of cleaning the kitchen floor while Clara used the potty.  I'd set her potty up near the kitchen table so I'd be near if she needed help.  She finished and I grabbed the wipes for her.
     "No, Mommy!  My turn!! Baby does this!"
     She kicked off her pull-ups and dissembled the top of the potty, like she's seen me do a thousand times.  Then she reached for the purple catch-pan.
     "No, Honey, let Mommy do this.  This is yucky."
     "NO! No, no, no! MY TURN!"
     Well, maybe she could carry it, if I hovered closely. It was only liquid, and there wasn't a whole lot in there. The pan tilted a little, but she righted it.  Then, out of nowhere, she casually flicked her wrist. The contents of the catch pan sloshed in an arc across the throw rug by the front door, the floor, and part of the wall.
      I lost my ability to speak for a few seconds, but regained it when I remembered I had a new three-pack of Soft Scrub under the kitchen sink.
     It's times like these that make me feel I should fashion myself a holster for the Clorox.  Have it always handy.
     Since the potty's catch-pan was mostly empty by this time, I let her carry it to the basement bathroom, where she dumped the nonexistent contents into the toilet and flushed it.
     "Yay! Bye pee-pee! Bye!"she cheered.

   
     When we got new carpet earlier this year, we chose a kind that masks dirt and stains.  Potty training makes me paranoid.  What if something rolls out the side of an undergarment and rolls under the couch or something?  Just like that meatball that somebody lost when somebody else sneezed?  And then, because of the clever carpeting, I can't find that thing under the couch in the playroom?  And then we have guests over, and their kid goes down to our playroom and, guess what? He finds the thing I've missed under the couch and brings it up to his parents in his cute little toddler hands.

Clara Makes Pizza at the Library

     This morning Clara and I decided to go to the library.  All week long, we'd been too busy to go, and I'd been getting polite but insistent calls from the computerized overdue book notification system.  The computerized system's voice is female, and cleverly programmed to sound like a disapproving elementary-school teacher.  I'd hear her say, "Our records show you have a book that is very overdue," and the peptic acid at the bottom of my stomach would squirt like a geyser. 
     We stopped at Starbucks on the way for a treat.  Clara was wearing a new dress that her Grammy bought her.  It doesn't quite fit yet, but it is still very cute on her.
     "Stand still Honey, so I can take a picture for Grammy and Popi and Gramma and Grandpa," I said when we got out of the car and onto the sidewalk.  "That's right, just hold still for just a second longer..."

          But she looked off to the side at the last possible second.  And then she put her fingers in her mouth.  I asked her to remove them.  So she grinned impishly and then put the fingers of her other hand into her mouth, too.

     
     "Do you know why I asked you to take your fingers out of your mouth?  So I could see your pretty smile!!  I love your pretty smile!  I don't like it when you hide it behind your hands," I said.
     And that enticed her to do this:

     "Okay, okay, I get the message," I said.  I put my phone away and we went inside for some banana chocolate-chip coffee cake.

     When we arrived at the library, we found that the librarians had set up a play pizza stand in the children's section, complete with cut-out, laminated sauce, cheese, broccoli, pepperoni, and mushrooms.
A little girl wearing a pink T-shirt with a pink flower in her hair was playing chef and asked what Clara wanted on her pizza.

     "Broccoli.  Cheese," said Clara.
     The little girl carefully made a pizza for Clara and handed it across the counter.
     "Tanku," said Clara.  I was sitting on a nearby couch and she brought the pizza to me.
     "Mommy's pizza," she said.

     It had sauce, broccoli, black olives and pepperoni.  Not exactly what Clara had ordered, but it still tasted great.    
     After playing at the pizza stand for awhile, Clara made a beeline to the puzzles and the box full of toy dinosaurs.  She did several puzzles, and then instructed me to help the dinosaurs do puzzles.  I imagine a stegosaurus has a rough time completing a puzzle under the best of circumstances.  But when he's miniaturized, made from hard rubber, and his toes are worn to nubbins from years of play, finishing a puzzle is next to impossible.  Even when a dexterous adult such as myself is manipulating his limbs.
     Clara soon became frustrated with the dinosaur's slowness and ineptitude.  His punishment was to take a sip from my Starbucks vanilla steamer.  Further punishment was to give me several kisses on the mouth.  I discreetly sucked in my lips to keep the germies from the toy dinosaur's mouth from gaining access to mine.
     We left the puzzles to get some new music.  The last CD we checked out was Mary Poppins.  We listened to it for two weeks straight.  There was no respite.  There was no succor.  In the car, the choice was simple: Mary Poppins or sustained shrieking.  I heard the songs in my head at two and three in the morning.  Simon and I memorized all the lyrics, and replaced some of them with the name of our dog, Wilbur (or 'Bur, as Clara calls him):
      "It's a lovely holiday with you, 'Bur!  Gentlemen like you are few!  Though you're just a diamond in the rough, 'Bur, underneath your blood is blue!"
     (In the movie, Mary Poppins is actually singing the song to Bert, the chimney sweep)
     Also, we sang, "Feed the 'Bur," in place of "Feed the Birds."
     In the library this morning, Clara and I picked out the Lion King soundtrack.  We put it on as soon as we got into the car.  I pumped up the volume.  For about thirty seconds, there was only silence from the backseat.  But then, just when I had decided we'd found a viable replacement for Mary Poppins, Clara's distinctive bray sounded: "MEDICINE DOWN!  MEDICINE DOWN!"

Halloween Comes Early: Potty Training at Costco

     Sunday, a day of rest.  Except that we were out of dish soap, laundry detergent, and those little seed and fruit-laden muffin snacks that Simon loves.  Also, he needed some new shirts, Clara needed some new large footie jammies (her favorite), preferably in soft fleece, and I needed a new package of water bottles.  A trip to Costco was unavoidable.
     I packed Clara's diaper bag with two extra pairs of leggings and underpants (one with a picture of a cupcake on the front, and another with a picture of a tiara), as well as extra socks (her pee accidents often travel as far as the feet).
     "Clara, do you want to sit in the cart or walk alongside?" I asked at Costco's main entrance.
     "NO! Walk!!"
     "Okay, but you have to stay right with me.  Right next to the cart."
     I wheeled the cart to the clothing section and started thumbing through the heaps of jeans.  Simon wears a 33 x 32, a size that continuously eludes me on my shopping sojourns.  It's like trying to find a toenail clipping in a ten-gallon vat of diced onion.
     As I moved piles of jeans to get at the ones on the bottom, Clara re-arranged a heap of Mariah Carey's greatest hits on a nearby display.  Which is to say, some ended up on the floor, while others were artfully mixed in with stacks of Ann Coulter's newest book, Mugged: Racial Demagoguery from the Seventies to Obama.  Then she took off for the racks of puffy winter coats.
     "Hey," I said, running after her.  "Now you have to sit in the cart." I plopped her down in the back of the cart.  She stood, holding onto the cart's sides. "On your bottom," I said.  She grinned and squatted very low. "All the way on your bottom," I warned.  She giggled and finally sat down on a three-pack of Soft Scrub at the bottom of the cart.
     I grabbed two loud Hawaiian shirts for Simon (he's a quiet guy, and it's getting to be winter, but the price was right), while Clara pulled a T-shirt off a display and used it to assiduously wipe down the rungs of the cart.  "Wash, wash, wash," she muttered.
     "Hey, I need to go potty," I said. "Would you like to come with me?"
     "YES."
     The bathroom stalls at Costco are stainless steel and rather narrow for a matron with a wriggling toddler and a bulging diaper bag.  Plus, Costco has these Dyson hand-driers that sound like they have a jet-propulsion engine.  They practically make the skin on your hands flap, the air pressure is so high. Due to the roar of the hand driers, I couldn't tell if she was really going or not.  I dipped my head between the side of the stall and the side of the toilet.  My discomfort at being that close to the porcelain receptacle of Costco's female masses was out-weighed by my need to discern, through the crack between the seat and the toilet's rim, if there was a stream going into the toilet or not.
     There was not.  Fifteen minutes later, after a tour through shampoo and pharmaceuticals, there was a stream, albeit a very trickly one.  Most of it had already soaked her striped leggings while we waited in line for a toilet.  And a half hour after that, after Clara had raided all the sample counters in canned goods and meats and drank a styrofoam cup of water, there was not even a chance of a stream.  Her leggings were thoroughly soaked.  A flowered pair this time.
     She did not want to go into the bathroom to change leggings this time.  She tried to escape my grasp and run into the men's restrooms, where it was relatively quiet.  I quickly changed her leggings in an alcove between the two bathrooms.
     She was feeling very badly, I could tell.  She was trying to explain something in worried tones.
     "Oh, mess.  Oh, accident."
     "It's okay.  It's not a big deal.  And look! I have more dry leggings to make you comfy and dry. Do you want to try to sit on the potty some more?  Do you have a little more to let out?"
     "No. Nai no. This mess. Oh.  Loud. Oh, loud."
     "The pottys are too loud?"
     "Huggie.  Huggie, Mommy."
     "Of course I will give you huggies.  Huggie, huggie, huggie.  Are the hand driers too loud?"
     "YES."
     "The hand driers are only machines that dry your hands.  They're loud in this store, it's true.  Really, really loud.  Does that scare you?"
     "YES.  Baby scare machines."
     I held her for awhile. Then, after we checked out, I bought her a piece of pizza.  We ate sitting in a booth.  I gave her a bottle of water all her own, an indulgence I paid for when she twice tipped it over.
     "Machine scare," she said, pointing to the bathrooms.  But a mouthful of cheese and mushroom seemed to make it all better.
   

Play Group Goes Apple-picking

     Wednesday was clear and cool, but sunny.  Perfect for picking apples, that most New England of traditions.  Since Idaho is almost as far from New England as you can get in the contiguous United States, both geographically and culturally-speaking, and since all the local apple orchards are more than a half hour away, inviting all sorts of bladder mishaps and hungry tummies and grouchy babies, Play Group picked apples at Tippy's house.
     New England's got nothin' on Tippy's house. (Tippy and her great-grandson, Ashton, are frequenters of Play Group). Managing to be comfy and elegant both, Tippy's place boasts a large backyard and apple tree laden with Red Delicious fruit.  The median age of Play Group is about 2 1/2, so we didn't use any ladders.  Which meant that the moms got a fairly intense tricep workout.

Most of us brought our own containers, ranging from the unusual to the quotidian.

  (After I caught up with Penny and Hazel at the gate, Penny, who is three, outsmarted me with her fabulous blue camera.)

     After picking apples for a bit, we found a sunny spot for some "Ants on a Log," or celery sticks filled with peanut butter and sprinkled with raisins.  Some people (like Cannon, 3) got really fierce with the celery.  Celery can be hard to munch, so sometimes you have to show it who's boss.

Rowan, abut 16 months, gave intricate displays of dexterity with the water and Dixie cups.

     

     Rowan's older brother, Killian, made off with a gallon jug of water and poured it all over the concrete driveway.  Like a herd of wild horses, the toddlers stampeded the puddle, stomping and chortling with glee.

      "Who dumped my water?!" I roared, making for Killian.  "Did you dump my water?!"

      "YES!" he shouted. "Ha-ha!  Ha-ha-ha!" And, grinning devilshly, as only a three-and-a-half year old can, he skillfully evaded my tickling fingers.  (Must be his red hair that makes Killian so rascally.  Sadly, I didn't get a photo of him.  I couldn't get him to sit still long enough.)

     "What about you! Did you dump my water?!" I asked Shar, 2 1/2.

     "YES!!" she shouted. Then she thought a moment, and said, "Oh. N-o-o-o-o-o." The tip of her nose and her cheeks were rosy from the fall air. 

     "Did you dump my water!?" I asked Flora, 16 months.  She looked at me like she had serious doubts about my mental stability.

Then she continued with her important work:

     "Clara! Did you dump my water!?"

     "Um-one dump water," Clara, 21 months, agreed, shrugging and turning her hands palms-up. "Mess.  Oh, mess," she lamented.

     "She didn't do it," Hazel said matter-of-factly.  Hazel is three, or "free," if you ask her. Her little face was very serious. 

     "And she didn't do it," Hazel continued, pointing to Flora. "And she didn't either," she said, pointing to Shar.  "He did it !!" Indignant and outraged, she pointed to Killian.

     By the end of the morning, Rachel, 2, had managed to keep her bucket completely empty (preferring to put apples in a grocery sack her mom held), and had successfully blocked the copious UV rays,

while Liam, 3, led his mother on several merry chases,

 and Clara found a new idol in Ashton, 4.

The next day, there were Tippy's delicious apples for lunch.

Daddy, Music, Clara

     Last night after Simon came home from work I went grocery shopping.  When I got home, he and Clara were in his office, watching vintage concert footage on the Desktop.

      "Is that Slash?" I asked, nodding to the guitarist onscreen working his way through a complex riff.  He had sweaty, curly black hair.

     "Jimmy Page," Simon replied.  Usually Simon finds some sort of Youtube video of sweet cartoon characters singing nursery rhymes for Clara to watch.  Either that, or he and Clara watch their favorite Youtube video--an appalling montage of cows dancing to electronica.  Clara will often run around the house yelling, "'Ancing tows!"

     "Boom band, boom band," Clara said, sliding off Simon's lap and sitting down next to his Gibson guitar on the floor.

     "What's 'boom band'?" I asked.

     "You know, from the Dr. Suess book, Oh, the Places You'll Go? 'Bright places where the boom bands are playing...'?  She thinks it's another name for music."

     Clara sat on the floor next to the guitar and strummed the strings.

     "Boom band, Mommy," Clara said, making as if to hand me the guitar.

     I picked up the guitar and pretended to play while I sang the first few lines of "Sir Galahad" by Joan Baez.  Simon winced.  Clara was mesmerized.  She thought I was fantastic.

                                                                             II.

     Yesterday when Clara and I got into the car to go grocery shopping, "Miss You" by the Rolling Stones was playing.

     "Medicine down!" Clara yelled from the back seat.

     "No, we're going to listen to Mommy's song first," I replied evenly, flipping open my sunglasses.

     "Medicine down!!!!" Clara roared.

     I backed the car out of the driveway, studiously ignoring her.

     "Mommy, Nai nunnu medicine down," she whined.  After a moment, she added, "Peese?  Peese, Mommy."

     I grimaced, bit my lip, and pushed the CD button.  Julie Andrews' four-octave voice sprang to life, singing "Feed the Birds." I hate the song, not only because I've heard it ten million times since we checked Mary Poppins from the library last week, but also because when I used to show up to work on a cold day wearing mis-matched sweaters, gloves, scarves and hats, my office mates would quietly sing it at their desks.

     "No, no.  Nai nunnu, back," Clara whimpered. Roughly translated, this means, "Go back a few tracks."

     I punched the back-track button until I found "A Spoonful of Sugar."

     "Yeeessss," Clara chuckled delightedly from the back seat. "Spoonful....medicine down, medicine down..," she crooned. 

     The girl has inherited my lack of vocal prowess, bless her heart. 

     The song went on and on, irritatingly.  Julie started to sing about a bird that's happy even though it's stressed out, what with all the work it has to do.  Julie sang, "Though quite intent in his pursuit he has a merry tune to toot.."

     "Mommy toots," Clara said, clear as a bell, from the back seat.

     "What?!" 

     "Mommy toots."

     "No, Daddy toots."

     "Daddy toots," she agreed.  But, after a moment, "Mommy toots.  Wilbur toots.  Mommy toots."

     "Did you teach her that?" I asked Simon when he got home from work.
     He looked surprised and amused. "No," he said.