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.