Today I took Clara to the doctor's to get her diaper rash checked out. The doctor's office is on the fourth floor of a hospital. Clara wanted to carry her book, The Very Hairy Bear, through the maze of hallways to the reception area, with a few "reading" breaks on any steps that looked interesting on the way.
Our doctor shares a reception area with another office. There were, of course, several people that Clara felt should see her book, including an elderly lady who was quite charmed by Clara's intrusion of her personal space.
Next to the reception area is a large staircase leading up to who knows where. Clara, having had lots of practice on the stairs at our house, decided to climb it (with me right next to her, of course). Unfortunately, every kid in the waiting room watched her and decided it must be a fun thing to do. Toddlers and pre-schoolers herded, en masse, to the staircase. Parents shrieked out warnings and grabbed at their kids, looking at Clara with unmasked disapproval. An instigator. We decided to leave the stairs alone.
Clara enjoyed the examining room because it had some interesting books and toys, and because she could stand on the bench next to me and look out the windows. She did not, however, think very highly of the doctor.
Doctor Schaffer is a really nice lady with a great education (Northwestern Medical School). She's also very efficient and thorough, and probably not well-liked by many toddlers. Clara screamed her fury while the doctor checked her ears and throat.
"Mom! This lady is trying to kill me! And you're helping her by holding down my arms and legs!"
Clara crescendoed to her highest pitch as Dr. Schaffer shined a light up her nose.
"Now I remember! This is the same lady who gave me all those shots before!!!! How could you sacrifice me to this pathological prodder ?!!"
Dr. Schaffer finished the exam and Clara pressed her face into my neck. She was pretty sure she was going to get a shot.
"It's okay. No shots. All done," I said, putting her clothes back on. She gave a great sigh of relief as Dr. Schaffer left the room.
"Thank God she's gone. I don't know how you got her to leave, Mom, but we have to get out of here. Fast. Here, I'll take the lead."
At checkout, she got a sticker with a picture of a little green monster on it. I helped her peel the sticker off its backing and adhere it to her pants. On the way out, she tried to stick the backing on another little girl's knee.
"Honey, that side doesn't stick," I said. The little girl smiled shyly. She liked it that Clara came to share, even if all she had to offer was a sticker backing.
"Bye!" Clara shouted to the entire waiting room as we left. She raised her dimpled little fist and waved.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
It's Getting Complicated
Last week I started writing a freelance article for the Idaho Business Review. While it's fun to get back in the journalism game, I'm finding that it's an adjustment for Clara and my relationship and routine.
During the day, I periodically have to take phone calls and write up e-mails to get my reporting done for my story. Clara doesn't understand when I explain that, "Mama's working right now. I will be done with this phone call in a few minutes."
What is this thing you call work? she seems to say. You know, you don't have to do this. You can put the phone down and read me a story. Hey, do you want to color with me?
"Honey, Mama is writing. Go play. Go play with your kitchenette....I can't have you on my lap right now because I'm typing on my laptop....Okay, you can sit next to me here in the crook of my arm but don't...Yeah, don't touch that."
I think I need some sort of big timer that she can see, and that I can set for ten-minute increments. That way, I can say, "Mama will work for ten minutes more and then we can go outside." And I can set the timer and she can watch it.
I feel horribly guilty about the way I have to tune Clara out when I take phone calls or when I'm trying to write (tune her out, but also somehow keep an eye on her at the same time). A friend in a similar situation encouraged me that it might be a healthy thing, for her to have time to be an "individual" for a few minutes.
Mother guilt. It's the worst.
But there's levity in every situation, I guess. I was replying to an e-mail my editor sent me when I had to run upstairs for a minute. I left the laptop open on the couch. When I came back down a few seconds later, Clara had typed "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" in my reply. Was she trying to tell my editor I found her e-mail boring? Thank goodness she didn't accidentally send it.
During the day, I periodically have to take phone calls and write up e-mails to get my reporting done for my story. Clara doesn't understand when I explain that, "Mama's working right now. I will be done with this phone call in a few minutes."
What is this thing you call work? she seems to say. You know, you don't have to do this. You can put the phone down and read me a story. Hey, do you want to color with me?
"Honey, Mama is writing. Go play. Go play with your kitchenette....I can't have you on my lap right now because I'm typing on my laptop....Okay, you can sit next to me here in the crook of my arm but don't...Yeah, don't touch that."
I think I need some sort of big timer that she can see, and that I can set for ten-minute increments. That way, I can say, "Mama will work for ten minutes more and then we can go outside." And I can set the timer and she can watch it.
I feel horribly guilty about the way I have to tune Clara out when I take phone calls or when I'm trying to write (tune her out, but also somehow keep an eye on her at the same time). A friend in a similar situation encouraged me that it might be a healthy thing, for her to have time to be an "individual" for a few minutes.
Mother guilt. It's the worst.
But there's levity in every situation, I guess. I was replying to an e-mail my editor sent me when I had to run upstairs for a minute. I left the laptop open on the couch. When I came back down a few seconds later, Clara had typed "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz" in my reply. Was she trying to tell my editor I found her e-mail boring? Thank goodness she didn't accidentally send it.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Gardening with Clara, Part 2
This is how we get ready to garden: I put on a tank top and shorts and get a hat. I take off all Clara's clothes, and smear her with SPF 110 sunblock until she looks like I dipped her in a jar of mayonnaise. Then I spray her with aerosolized sunblock in case there's a spot I missed.
She is allowed to go down the two concrete back steps on her own, while I watch and supervise. She skooches down one step and stops to enjoy sitting on a step. She realizes it might be more fun if she had one of her babies with her, so she climbs back up the step, leaving behind a greasy sunscreen print of her bottom and thighs. She comes back with two babies. She thinks how to navigate the steps with the babies. She puts them each in a half nelson, with their heads sticking out from her armpits. This is so her hands are available if she needs them to catch herself.
Ugly Baby nearly always gives Clara trouble in this configuration, because her battery-packed abdomen is so heavy and her legs get caught on the lip of the threshold. Really, Ugly Baby gives Clara the most trouble of all her babies, and this is perhaps why she loves her the most. She always stops on her way down the steps to tenderly kiss Ugly Baby.
On a side note, Simon loves to squish Ugly Baby's malleable rubber skull in so she looks like an alien of some kind. You'd think Clara would be appalled by this violence to Ugly Baby, but she actually thinks it's hilarious. It invites discourse, perhaps, on the primal nature of parenting. Animals that eat their young come to mind.
Outside, I turn the hose on a bit so Clara can splash around. She puts her toe in the water and whispers, "Ohhhhh. Haaaahhhhht."
"No, Hon. It's cold," I say.
Playing in the hose is one of Clara's favorite things to do. She fills up an old water bottle over and over, and dumps it on the grass. She found an old measuring cup that the previous owner left in the dirt. From the looks of it, the previous owner's dog chewed on it regularly. Clara likes to fill it up with water, too, and to wash the dirt off it. I'm okay with it as long as it's outside.
Once, Simon said he saw Clara lick the chewed-up measuring cup. I was horrified, but Simon is more blase about germs than me. He says Clara must be fairly impervious to germs. Despite my constant washing of her babies, they are somehow always covered in dirt and food grime, and she makes out with them all day, he explains. Therefore she must have the constitution of a gladiator.
Clara can play in the hose for like an hour without being distracted. I always end up turning it off before then because I feel guilty about wasting water in a desert.
Immediately she comes to hang on me as I weed.
"'Nack, Mommy."
"Okay." I go inside, wash my hands, and get her a saltine cracker smeared with peanut butter. "Now, don't show this to the sugar ants," I say.
A minute passes, and I hear her shriek in horror. She's dipped the cracker in the dirt.
"Maybe I can fix it," I say, brushing at the dirt. Of course, it's sticking to the peanut butter, so brushing at it only mixes it in. Now it looks like a peanut-butter, crushed-Oreo saltine cracker. I use my finger to wipe the peanut butter from the cracker and then the edge of the concrete patio to wipe the peanut butter from my finger. Then I look down at the dirty cracker and think, "Wait. What am I doing?"
And I go inside to get her another.
She is allowed to go down the two concrete back steps on her own, while I watch and supervise. She skooches down one step and stops to enjoy sitting on a step. She realizes it might be more fun if she had one of her babies with her, so she climbs back up the step, leaving behind a greasy sunscreen print of her bottom and thighs. She comes back with two babies. She thinks how to navigate the steps with the babies. She puts them each in a half nelson, with their heads sticking out from her armpits. This is so her hands are available if she needs them to catch herself.
Ugly Baby nearly always gives Clara trouble in this configuration, because her battery-packed abdomen is so heavy and her legs get caught on the lip of the threshold. Really, Ugly Baby gives Clara the most trouble of all her babies, and this is perhaps why she loves her the most. She always stops on her way down the steps to tenderly kiss Ugly Baby.
On a side note, Simon loves to squish Ugly Baby's malleable rubber skull in so she looks like an alien of some kind. You'd think Clara would be appalled by this violence to Ugly Baby, but she actually thinks it's hilarious. It invites discourse, perhaps, on the primal nature of parenting. Animals that eat their young come to mind.
Outside, I turn the hose on a bit so Clara can splash around. She puts her toe in the water and whispers, "Ohhhhh. Haaaahhhhht."
"No, Hon. It's cold," I say.
Playing in the hose is one of Clara's favorite things to do. She fills up an old water bottle over and over, and dumps it on the grass. She found an old measuring cup that the previous owner left in the dirt. From the looks of it, the previous owner's dog chewed on it regularly. Clara likes to fill it up with water, too, and to wash the dirt off it. I'm okay with it as long as it's outside.
Once, Simon said he saw Clara lick the chewed-up measuring cup. I was horrified, but Simon is more blase about germs than me. He says Clara must be fairly impervious to germs. Despite my constant washing of her babies, they are somehow always covered in dirt and food grime, and she makes out with them all day, he explains. Therefore she must have the constitution of a gladiator.
Clara can play in the hose for like an hour without being distracted. I always end up turning it off before then because I feel guilty about wasting water in a desert.
Immediately she comes to hang on me as I weed.
"'Nack, Mommy."
"Okay." I go inside, wash my hands, and get her a saltine cracker smeared with peanut butter. "Now, don't show this to the sugar ants," I say.
A minute passes, and I hear her shriek in horror. She's dipped the cracker in the dirt.
"Maybe I can fix it," I say, brushing at the dirt. Of course, it's sticking to the peanut butter, so brushing at it only mixes it in. Now it looks like a peanut-butter, crushed-Oreo saltine cracker. I use my finger to wipe the peanut butter from the cracker and then the edge of the concrete patio to wipe the peanut butter from my finger. Then I look down at the dirty cracker and think, "Wait. What am I doing?"
And I go inside to get her another.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Gardening with Clara
The last few weeks have been perfect for tilling up some ground in the backyard for a garden and getting the flowerbeds ready for summer. It's a big job this year, but I figured if Clara and I went out between her naps, she could play in the dirt while I cultivated.
First, we planted seeds in little containers to put on the windowsill. I made holes in the dirt with my index finger and gave a pea seed to Clara. She loves peas. The seed looked just like a shriveled pea.
"Do not eat this pea. It's yucky," I explained. "We put this pea in the little hole and cover it with a blanket of dirt."
She put it in the hole.
"Good job!" I said.
She took it out of the hole.
"No, you have to leave it in the hole so we can over it with dirt. Here, let me try."
"No! Me!"
She put it in the hole. She took it out. She looked at me as if to say, "This doesn't do anything. Why are we doing this?"
I opened a package of dill seed.
"Me! Me!"
"Hon, these seeds are really tiny."
"Me!"
I gave her a dill seed and pointed to the dirt, but she dropped it on the sidewalk. "Oh," she said sadly. "Mommy."
I found the seed and pushed the tip of my index finger against it to pick it up.
"What the?" her expression seemed to say. "That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."
I gave her another, which she promptly dropped for the express purpose of seeing if she could pick it up like I did. She pushed the tip of her teensy-tiny index finger against it, muttering softly.
It didn't work, but she shrugged it off and went to play with the garden hose.
*************************
The next day I decided to rip out part of the flowerbeds to make room for my tomato plants. Clara brought her baby out and laid her in the dirt next to me. She squatted by some dandelions and started singing under her breath.
"Wheedle-deedle-deedle. Beedle-deedle-deedle."
Very, very quietly, I brought out my spade and cultivating claw to turn the earth.
"Mommy!"
"Yes?"
"Me."
"No, you can't have the claw. It's ouchy. Would you like a spoon to turn the dirt with?"
"'poon."
I got her a spoon, but she wanted the spade. I let her have it. She wielded it in a way that she thought was expert, but that unfortunately sprayed my face with dirt. She repositioned herself to squat directly in front of me, her little diaper bottom completely obscuring my view of the weeds I was pulling.
"Sweets," I said, moving her to the side. She squawked her protest and I was tempted to toss the baby doll way out in the grass to give her something to do.
The thing about working with a toddler is, their attention span lasts a few minutes, at most.
"Jewsh," she said soon after I'd given her the spade.
"That is correct. We are Jewish," I replied, stalling for time.
"Mommy. Mommy!! Jewsh, jewsh, jewsh, jewsh!!!!"
"Alright, alright, I'll get you some juice."
I went inside, washed all the dirt off my hands, found a clean sippy cup and filled it with Naked Green Machine, a premium, vitamin-enhanced juice blend whose 20-ounce version costs as much as a brick of cheese.
Clara chugged it and tossed the cup to the side before hunkering down in the dirt once more.
A few moments passed. I was just getting engrossed in the weeding when I felt her draping herself over my crouched form.
"Hi, Sweetie," I said.
"Mommy," she crooned, twining her hands around my neck. "Mommy," she whispered, planting a huge, wet kiss right on my mouth.
First, we planted seeds in little containers to put on the windowsill. I made holes in the dirt with my index finger and gave a pea seed to Clara. She loves peas. The seed looked just like a shriveled pea.
"Do not eat this pea. It's yucky," I explained. "We put this pea in the little hole and cover it with a blanket of dirt."
She put it in the hole.
"Good job!" I said.
She took it out of the hole.
"No, you have to leave it in the hole so we can over it with dirt. Here, let me try."
"No! Me!"
She put it in the hole. She took it out. She looked at me as if to say, "This doesn't do anything. Why are we doing this?"
I opened a package of dill seed.
"Me! Me!"
"Hon, these seeds are really tiny."
"Me!"
I gave her a dill seed and pointed to the dirt, but she dropped it on the sidewalk. "Oh," she said sadly. "Mommy."
I found the seed and pushed the tip of my index finger against it to pick it up.
"What the?" her expression seemed to say. "That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."
I gave her another, which she promptly dropped for the express purpose of seeing if she could pick it up like I did. She pushed the tip of her teensy-tiny index finger against it, muttering softly.
It didn't work, but she shrugged it off and went to play with the garden hose.
*************************
The next day I decided to rip out part of the flowerbeds to make room for my tomato plants. Clara brought her baby out and laid her in the dirt next to me. She squatted by some dandelions and started singing under her breath.
"Wheedle-deedle-deedle. Beedle-deedle-deedle."
Very, very quietly, I brought out my spade and cultivating claw to turn the earth.
"Mommy!"
"Yes?"
"Me."
"No, you can't have the claw. It's ouchy. Would you like a spoon to turn the dirt with?"
"'poon."
I got her a spoon, but she wanted the spade. I let her have it. She wielded it in a way that she thought was expert, but that unfortunately sprayed my face with dirt. She repositioned herself to squat directly in front of me, her little diaper bottom completely obscuring my view of the weeds I was pulling.
"Sweets," I said, moving her to the side. She squawked her protest and I was tempted to toss the baby doll way out in the grass to give her something to do.
The thing about working with a toddler is, their attention span lasts a few minutes, at most.
"Jewsh," she said soon after I'd given her the spade.
"That is correct. We are Jewish," I replied, stalling for time.
"Mommy. Mommy!! Jewsh, jewsh, jewsh, jewsh!!!!"
"Alright, alright, I'll get you some juice."
I went inside, washed all the dirt off my hands, found a clean sippy cup and filled it with Naked Green Machine, a premium, vitamin-enhanced juice blend whose 20-ounce version costs as much as a brick of cheese.
Clara chugged it and tossed the cup to the side before hunkering down in the dirt once more.
A few moments passed. I was just getting engrossed in the weeding when I felt her draping herself over my crouched form.
"Hi, Sweetie," I said.
"Mommy," she crooned, twining her hands around my neck. "Mommy," she whispered, planting a huge, wet kiss right on my mouth.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Waking Up Clara
When she wakes up in the morning, the only thing Clara wants to do is come to my bed to breastfeed. I am in the process of slowly weaning her, and the morning feeding was the next feeding to get cut. It is sad for both of us. I love snuggling with her, of course, but the morning breastfeeding also gave me a few minutes more to doze.
My strategy for the morning weaning is simple: instead of bringing her to my bed when she wakes up, I'll put on my slippers and we'll go for a walk around the neighborhood.
This morning she sensed a change in the air.
"Beast," she said, smacking my chest as we left her bedroom. "Beast," she repeated more urgently, smacking her own chest as we headed down the stairs.
"Honey, when you do that, it sounds like you're calling yourself a 'beast,'" I replied.
"Best," she tried again, putting her hand lightly over her chest. I could hear the grogginess in her voice mixing with the strain of trying to present her needs logically to me.
"Now it looks like you're just full of yourself," I replied.
"Mommmmmmmyyyyy!!!!" she yelled in frustration. I want the breast! You know my words for "breast!" And you're ignoring me and talking in grown-up language I don't understand! And apparently taking me on a strange tour of the house!!!! And--
"Ohhhhh," she said as I opened the front door and the fragrant, early-morning world greeted us.
"Bus," she said, pointing to a Lowe's delivery van parked next door.
"Close, very close. It's long, but not as long as a bus."
We walked for a block, I in my sweats and she in her pink gingham jammies, her hair flying all over the place. There are four dogs that we know of on our block. We can see them in the backyards. The blond lab next door put her front paws up on the fence to bay at us. The mutt across the street barked and wagged his tail.
In front of a house with a chainsaw sculpture of St. Francis de Assisi, there was a flock of quails.
"Bird," Clara said, pointing to them. For the longest time, she called birds, "dogs." I was surprised and delighted she knew the word for birds, and I told her so.
We looked at some plants next door, and a multi-forked tree perfect for a tree house. The street cleaner passed.
"Bus," Clara said, pointing at it.
"Pretty close. It's loud like a bus, but it's not a bus."
We got back to the house and she had a delicious breakfast of cheerios and yogurt.
My strategy for the morning weaning is simple: instead of bringing her to my bed when she wakes up, I'll put on my slippers and we'll go for a walk around the neighborhood.
This morning she sensed a change in the air.
"Beast," she said, smacking my chest as we left her bedroom. "Beast," she repeated more urgently, smacking her own chest as we headed down the stairs.
"Honey, when you do that, it sounds like you're calling yourself a 'beast,'" I replied.
"Best," she tried again, putting her hand lightly over her chest. I could hear the grogginess in her voice mixing with the strain of trying to present her needs logically to me.
"Now it looks like you're just full of yourself," I replied.
"Mommmmmmmyyyyy!!!!" she yelled in frustration. I want the breast! You know my words for "breast!" And you're ignoring me and talking in grown-up language I don't understand! And apparently taking me on a strange tour of the house!!!! And--
"Ohhhhh," she said as I opened the front door and the fragrant, early-morning world greeted us.
"Bus," she said, pointing to a Lowe's delivery van parked next door.
"Close, very close. It's long, but not as long as a bus."
We walked for a block, I in my sweats and she in her pink gingham jammies, her hair flying all over the place. There are four dogs that we know of on our block. We can see them in the backyards. The blond lab next door put her front paws up on the fence to bay at us. The mutt across the street barked and wagged his tail.
In front of a house with a chainsaw sculpture of St. Francis de Assisi, there was a flock of quails.
"Bird," Clara said, pointing to them. For the longest time, she called birds, "dogs." I was surprised and delighted she knew the word for birds, and I told her so.
We looked at some plants next door, and a multi-forked tree perfect for a tree house. The street cleaner passed.
"Bus," Clara said, pointing at it.
"Pretty close. It's loud like a bus, but it's not a bus."
We got back to the house and she had a delicious breakfast of cheerios and yogurt.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Singing to Clara
Simon and I sang to Clara while she was in the womb, and pretty much every night of her infancy. For a while, we sang a series of songs we followed in strict order: "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," "Baaa-Baaa Black Sheep," "ABC's," "Row Your Boat," "I've Been Workin' on the Railroad," and "Home on the Range." She would listen intently while breastfeeding or sucking on her bottle. Later, she would sit up and smile a little pink smile.
Neither Simon nor I have even a moderately good singing voice. When we first started, we used to get into arguments about who was singing which song correctly. We got better and tried to get fancy. We sang "Row Your Boat," in a round, but I had to plug my ears and hunch over with my eyes squeezed shut to not get distracted by Simon's verse.
Coming from an extended family that sings in four-part harmony, I really wanted to harmonize. I discovered, if I stayed I the same note, it would eventually harmonize somewhere in the song. Simon wanted to know why I was singing like a Gregorian chant.
One night, Simon said we should try singing something else. I felt peeved at first, because I was getting really good at the nursery songs. Then I imagined this universe of new material opening up before my eyes. It was like that song in Aladdin, "A Whole New World," which I have tried to sing on occasion, usually when I enter a big bookstore or an especially ornate restaurant bathroom.
Simon started to sing, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." Really?! I said. That song is hard. We moved on to Abbey Road. I spent most of my histrionic junior high-school years listening to that album, therefore I knew the lyrics to each song perfectly. The tune was another story.
Neither Simon nor I have even a moderately good singing voice. When we first started, we used to get into arguments about who was singing which song correctly. We got better and tried to get fancy. We sang "Row Your Boat," in a round, but I had to plug my ears and hunch over with my eyes squeezed shut to not get distracted by Simon's verse.
Coming from an extended family that sings in four-part harmony, I really wanted to harmonize. I discovered, if I stayed I the same note, it would eventually harmonize somewhere in the song. Simon wanted to know why I was singing like a Gregorian chant.
One night, Simon said we should try singing something else. I felt peeved at first, because I was getting really good at the nursery songs. Then I imagined this universe of new material opening up before my eyes. It was like that song in Aladdin, "A Whole New World," which I have tried to sing on occasion, usually when I enter a big bookstore or an especially ornate restaurant bathroom.
Simon started to sing, "Sitting on the Dock of the Bay." Really?! I said. That song is hard. We moved on to Abbey Road. I spent most of my histrionic junior high-school years listening to that album, therefore I knew the lyrics to each song perfectly. The tune was another story.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Ants
Dear Sugar Ants,
My name is Clara Shifrin, and I will be hosting a feast tonight at about 5:30 next to my booster seat in the kitchen. There will be Cheerios, perhaps drizzled in honey. There will likely be peas and some scrambled eggs with cheese. For dessert, there will be orange slices and a chocolate cookie. Bring a friend!
If you can't come, don't worry. I will leave lots of crumbs all around, and my mom will probably be too harried with cleaning my hands and face to bother about them right away. Also, lots of food dribbles down my shirt. My mom is never able to get it all, so you should be able to find little pieces of food all over the house. If not, there's always the dirty clothes hamper.
By the way, I saw you found the sweet potato chip I left you in the garage. You guys were all swarming over it so completely, I couldn't even tell what it was at first!
When you come to the feast tonight, watch out for my dad with his bottle of Tilex.
Your friend,
Clara
My name is Clara Shifrin, and I will be hosting a feast tonight at about 5:30 next to my booster seat in the kitchen. There will be Cheerios, perhaps drizzled in honey. There will likely be peas and some scrambled eggs with cheese. For dessert, there will be orange slices and a chocolate cookie. Bring a friend!
If you can't come, don't worry. I will leave lots of crumbs all around, and my mom will probably be too harried with cleaning my hands and face to bother about them right away. Also, lots of food dribbles down my shirt. My mom is never able to get it all, so you should be able to find little pieces of food all over the house. If not, there's always the dirty clothes hamper.
By the way, I saw you found the sweet potato chip I left you in the garage. You guys were all swarming over it so completely, I couldn't even tell what it was at first!
When you come to the feast tonight, watch out for my dad with his bottle of Tilex.
Your friend,
Clara
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