A tough week

      Ah, what a week it's been.  I have seen more tantrums this week than I saw in all my years subbing junior high Spanish.  And, I confess, towards the end of the week, my parenting skills suffered.
     Clara, who I believe may be getting a molar and a couple incisors or SOMETHING, didn't eat hardly a thing for two or three days.  She was already grumpy from the pain, and not eating compounded it.
     I bought her chocolate ice cream, which in peacetime she loves.  She refused it, shot-putting the spoon out of my hand and shrieking like an incoming mortar shell.  I thought if I could just get her to taste it, she would realize how delicious it was.  I filled one of her oral acetaminophen syringes with some I'd melted in the microwave, and shot it into the back of her cheek.
     "Nooooo!!!!" she gurgled, melted ice cream running out the sides of her mouth. Death by ice cream.  The horror.
     Every morning this week she woke at 5 a.m., burrowing her head into my neck and requesting banana with peanut butter and V8 juice.  I'd feed her whatever she would eat and get her back to sleep, but not for long.
     Yesterday I couldn't take it anymore.  Her afternoon nap was cut short by tooth pain.  I gave her ibuprofen. She wanted to watch Winnie the Pooh.  Again.  
     "No," I said, putting her into her car seat.  I was deep in the hundred-acre wood of exhaustion.
     The denial of another hour with Tigger and Piglet was too much for her to bear. I turned up Toddler Tales Nursery Rhymes to distract her, but, understanding my strategy, she screamed right through each of the songs, letting her voice reach the higher decibels in the quiet spaces between tracks.
     She wanted snacks, but only so she could throw them back at me or onto the floor of the backseat.  She wanted me to turn around and talk to her at a stoplight, but only so she could shout baby obscenities back at me.
     We got to the Y, and I committed one of my more egregious parenting errors.
     "Hey," I said, unstrapping her from the car seat.  Yelling like a banshee, she bicycled her legs and flung her arms over her head so I couldn't get a grip on her armpits.  "Hey! Look!  Look at all these people around who can see you crying!!"
     Inside the Y, I handed her over (wriggling and whining) to the lady in charge of Childwatch, gave her a kiss and left for two blissful hours in the yoga studio.
     When I came back to collect her, she had been finger painting and playing with a baby doll in one of the automatic swing sets.  She smiled at me hugely and came running.
     "Mommy!"

Hair Cut, Lemon Bars

     Clara has had a fever off and on for the last couple of days.  It was 99.5, then 100.5, then normal.  I took her to the doctor's office yesterday.  Our regular pediatrician wasn't in, so we saw one of the other doctors in the practice.  Clara was quite relieved that it wasn't Dr. Schaffer who walked into the examining room, as she associates Dr. Schaffer with shots.  She held very still while the doctor checked her ears and heartbeat.
     The doctor's conclusion: Who knows?  Probably a virus.
     My conclusion: More teething.
     This morning, a friend who just graduated from hair school came over to give Clara and me a trim in our kitchen.  Clara, poor baby, was feeling pretty rotten, in spite of back-to-back Winnie the Pooh and Toy Story, warm jammies, and bread with blackberry jam.
     When my friend tried to trim her bangs, Clara hung her head, causing a slight miscalculation in the bang length.  It didn't seem to make her any less kissable.

     

      I had trouble getting Clara to eat anything as the evening progressed, buttressing my suspicion that the last of the one-year molars and the canines are coming in.  I offered her peanut butter and jelly, banana, oranges, chocolate ice cream, eggs and anything else I could think of.
     On our way back from running errands, I noticed two girls had set up a lemonade stand in front of our hedge.  Their names, I discovered, are Deana and Hallie.  They are twins, and live just down the street. Besides the lemonade (and free dog treats and water), they were selling homemade lemon bars.  I bought one to entice Clara with.  She took a bite and immediately spit it back out.  My husband and I had no choice but to gobble it up ourselves later, after dinner.  It was gooey and delicious.

Purse

     To Clara, my purse is the holy grail.  She likes to unsnap my wallet and pour all my cards and driver's license onto the ground.  My purse holds my car keys (she likes to point them at the car and push the "lock" button to make it honk).  It holds pens and gum and coins and a canister of Crystal Light pink lemonade powder.  It holds granola bars and Wet Ones in an interesting package with a sticky seal on it.  It holds dangly earrings that I've found uncomfortable while wearing and tossed in there.  It holds tubes of lipstick in delicious berry colors (free samples from Clinique, five or six seasons old), and a spare tube of Desitin diaper rash ointment with a picture of a cute baby on it.
     Best of all, it holds my cell phone.  Clara likes to press it to her baby cheek and listen intently.
     Clara has a few purses, but her favorite is a small sequined one with a zipper.  She likes to hold snacks in it, like cheese and miniature boxes of raisins.  Lately she has also been putting her toy telephone in there.
     Simon and I pretend to be her press secretaries, and take calls on the telephone.
     Simon fields calls from the UN Secretary General, the Prime Minister of Britain, and Donald Trump.
     "I'm very sorry, Mr. Cameron, but she is booked solid for the next six months," Simon said into the play telephone recently.  Surely Mr. Cameron could tell there were other, more important things on Simon's agenda.  Pouring organic shells and cheese onto Madame Clara's tray, for example, or attending to her toilette. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and murmured to Clara, "He wants to know your thoughts on the upcoming United States election and the situation in Syria."
     Clara took the phone and pretended to listen.  Then she handed it back.
     "Yes, yes....I see...very urgent....," Simon continued into the phone again. "Well, we could do a Wednesday.  What's the nearest Wednesday you have available...six months from now?"
     Most of the calls I field are from Lady Gaga.  I keep trying to work in a request from Gaga to borrow a wig, which is ridiculous because Clara doesn't even own any wigs.  Lady Gaga is the best possible call to take, what with all the different scenarios that could play out.  I'm so harried and distracted, though--putting on Clara's shoes or wiping her face with the play phone wedged against my ear--that the many possibilities elude me.
     Gaga could ask Clara to borrow one of her outfits, for example.  They could talk about the meat dress Gaga wore last year and share ideas about a line of accessories made from hamburger.  Or, I could simply sing the lyrics to Gaga's song, 'Telephone,' into the receiver:
     "Stop callin' stop callin' I don't wanna talk any more.  I left my head and my heart on the dance floor."

A complicated love

     This morning at the park, Clara was determined to hold Wilbur's leash.  By herself, please!  Wilbur, thank goodness, was too tired from running back and forth across the field with an Irish terrier named Max to give her much trouble.  
     In the distance, Clara saw the slides and swings.  She pulled and pulled Wilbur towards them, but he just looked at her disinterestedly.  After a moment he saw a small puddle of water on the edge of the asphalt parking lot and made his way to it, Clara in tow (she was pretty sure she was leading him there, though).  He began to drink deeply from it.  Clara assessed his stance.  At home, when she pretended to be a dog, she crawled around on her hands and knees. Watching Wilbur drink from the puddle, it seemed like she realized, for the first time, and perhaps for only a brief instant, that Wilbur's back legs were straight.  
     She clumsily put her hands down and kept her back legs straight, too.  She looked like a bear cub.  She bent her head to drink from the puddle.
     "No!  No, no!  That's yucky water! Yucky!" I said.
     Grunting and muttering (it was hard work, getting to one's feet from that position), she righted herself, a puzzled smile on her face.  If Wilbur could drink from the puddle, why couldn't she?
     Nevermind, then, she seemed to say.  It was time for him to go to the slides and swings.  This time she didn't bother with the leash at all, but grabbed the fur on his rump and tugged.
     "Clara, we do not pull Wilbur's fur.  That's not nice."
     Wilbur turned his head and gave her a sorrowful look.  His and Clara's relationship is complex.  She often fiddles around with his snout and ears.  Her hugs are ferocious, unpredictable, and sometimes involve her lying on top of him.  She gives an ear-piercing screech of joy when she first sees him in the morning, the upper octaves of which must be at least close to the dog-whistle range.  She piles her toys on his back and tries to brush his teeth.  She tries to "dress" him in her jammies while he's napping (This involves draping her jammies over his head.  Wilbur already suffers from sleep apnea, so the extra layer of jammy must feel positively suffocating).  And yet, Wilbur can never totally renounce his love for her.  She feeds him handfuls of tuna-noodle casserole and pieces of hot dog at dinner.
   

Dinner

     Tonight we went to dinner with a friend of a friend who was new in town.
     Clara was not in top form.
     We went swimming this morning and Clara experimented with putting her head under the water, again and again.  This afternoon, after the third saturated diaper, I surmised that she had been gulping the pool water rather than holding her breath.  The wet diapers, coupled with the heat of her bedroom (insufficient ducts, apparently), kept her from napping sufficiently.
      She was also very, very hungry but the time we sat down to eat.  We initially stopped by Deli Days at the synagogue where Simon and I were married, but they were just closing shop.  So instead we drove all the way back downtown to eat at a middle-eastern grill there.
     Clara refused to sit in her high chair.  She preferred my lap.  She started fingering the beads on my necklace, examining each one thoroughly and then biting it, like a miner testing for gold.  She wanted to stand on a table at the back of the restaurant and look at her reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall there.  She rifled through the Sweet n' Low and swiped the salt and pepper shakers, objecting strenuously when I took them back.
     Somehow she filched a pen with a spoon attached to it from the cash register.  I was enjoying my chicken kabob and the dinner conversation when our dinner date abruptly stopped talking.  Clara was stirring my water with the spoon pen.  I took it away and she started dipping her French fries in my glass.
     She examined a dolma curiously and then squeezed it, as though it were a giant slug.  She ate my rice with her hands.  She got a piece stuck in her windpipe and coughed gratuitously, spewing middle-eastern cuisine all over the table.  She escaped and ran, screeching, up and down the length of the restaurant.  
     When we stood to leave, prematurely (the high-jinks had reached an unsupportable level), I had rice down my dress and tabouli in one of my shoes.
     On our way out to the car, Simon said, "We definitely need to work on our manners."

Soccer

     Yesterday we got up early and went to a nearby park that has off-leash hours until 10 a.m.
     A club soccer team was using half the field for practice.  It was the same team that had practiced there in the days before.
      The other dogs at the park stayed away from the soccer practice.  Murphy, a big labradoodle that reminds me of David Hasselhoff in his early, golden days, played catch on the half of the field that was free.  Mia, a sweet French bulldog puppy, hassled the adult dogs and stole kisses from Clara.  Two border-collie mixes assiduously and elegantly chased Frisbees.
     After greeting the other dogs, Wilbur reasoned the best way to maximize belly scratches was to run into the thick of soccer practice.  This was the second day in a row that he had done this. I suppose he wouldn't be Wilbur if he wasn't friendly and lovable.
    'Wilbur!" I shouted, running after him, Clara jouncing on my hip, sunglasses on my shirt collar, knocking against my chest. Clara echoed my sentiment, furiously scolding "Ilbur dog" while we ran. I was wearing red fleece Guitar Hero parachute pants.  The weight of my car keys and cellphone in the pockets was threatening to de-pants me with every stride.  We loped past a cluster of soccer balls.
     "Ball!" Clara noted, wriggling ferociously.  Clara would very much like to collect every ball on the planet and horde them under her crib.
     "Dog!" warned one of the soccer players as Wilbur made his way into the action.  The girls stopped playing, laughing and cooing at him. When Wilbur saw me running towards him, breathless, he trotted over amiably.
     I leashed him up and took him to the other side of the park.
     Clara generally feels that she is the boss of Wilbur.  She insisted on holding the leash, alone.  On other mornings, Wilbur has made a run for it as soon as her dimpled little hand closed around the handle.  Yesterday he was docile, thank goodness.
    Clara wanted to make sure I understood that this was Wilbur's pile of poop.  Right there.  Right here.  Did I have a sack?  Did I want her to--?
    "No, Honey.  Mommy will do this.  This is yucky."
    Did I need her to hold the poop sack?  Did I understand that there was poop in that sack?
     "I'll do it, Hon," I told her.  I tossed the poop in the trash and turned to find Wilbur in the thick of the soccer game again.
     The girls on the sideline started cheering.
     "Go, Wilbur! Go, Wilbur!" they shouted.  Wilbur ran for them at full tilt, obviously showing off.  His ears flapped in the breeze, his chunky legs churned.  He looked like a bratwurst with fur.  He made it to them before I did and let them lavish him with affection.

 
   
   

   
   

Two Against One

   Yesterday for breakfast I gave Clara a piece of Hawaiian sweet bread with butter, torn into small pieces.  I turned from pouring myself some water to see her flick a piece of the buttered bread off her tray and into Wilbur's eager jaws.
    "Clara! You know we don't feed Wilbur people food! People food is not good for Wilbur!  It puts an ouchy in his stomach!"
    A flash of defiance crossed her face.  She quickly flicked another piece of bread at Wilbur.
    "Hey!" I said.
    "Ha-ha!" she laughed triumphantly, sticking out her legs and flexing her little pink toes.  She flicked the third and final piece at Wilbur.
     "Do you want to sit in time-out?" I said.
     "Hes," she replied cheerfully, nodding her head.  I sighed inwardly and unlatched her from her booster seat.  She arranged herself in the time-out corner and, understanding that time-out was about punishment, gave me her very best fake cry.  A big, square-mouthed yowl, with squinted eyes.  She stopped mid-cry because she saw Wilbur in the kitchen, licking the floor under her booster seat.
    "Dog," she said, pointing, and then threw her head back and fake-cried again with gusto, watching Wilbur out of the corner of her eye all the while.
     She sat in time-out twice more yesterday, once for giving Wilbur prunes and--more egregiously--for giving Wilbur a whole chunk of salmon at dinnertime.
     After the salmon time-out, Simon came from the kitchen, where he had been finishing up the dishes.
     "Clara, do you know why you were sitting in time-out?" he said.  "We can't give Wilbur people food. It's yucky for him."  Then he said, "Do you want a hug?" Of course she did.
    A few minutes later, Simon devised a game where he "cymbal-ed" her between two couch pillows.  I caught a glimpse of her, sweaty and shrieking, wearing only the red bloomers that went with her dress, thundering across the living room floor.
     Today Clara didn't give Wilbur any food until dinnertime.  Then she gave him all the peas and corn from her booster tray while I was rummaging in the refrigerator for some cheese.
     We sat together in time-out briefly and she cried remorsefully.  When I put her back in her booster seat, she pointed at Wilbur and sternly said,
     "Mommy!  No, no, dog!"
     "That's right.  No people food for Wilbur."
     But five minutes later I caught her holding out her yogurt-covered spoon for Wilbur to lick clean, giggling wildly. This time I sighed out loud.  Deeply.
      "Wilbur, come here," I said.  I took him by the collar and put him out in the garage, locking his dog door from the inside.
     "Ilbur?" Clara asked, pointing at the door.
     Wilbur was in time-out.