Story-Telling Girl

String Bean, in addition to her general obsession with princesses, has developed a fascination with fairy tales. She has the standard Disney fairy tale collection, and a Barbie fairy tale book and movie, but her favorite fairy tales are the ones she makes up herself, starring herself and her sister, often with her step-cousin and the neighbor boy playing roles as princes.

She’s given up having me read bedtime stories from books, instead preferring that we take turns telling each other stories about these two princess sisters and their adventures in a kingdom where mystical, magical things happen every day. We’ve had stories about magical fish in a lake behind the castle, that cast rainbows as they jump out of the water, talking unicorns that invite the girls to a hidden orchard for the best fruit ever, and castle balls where everyone dances until an evil witch comes to break up the party, is defeated by the princesses and their princes, who then become engaged and life happily ever after.

As a story teller myself, I probably don’t have to tell you how much I adore this new side of her always active imagination. Watching her string together words, images, and concepts, her eyes wide with amazement at her own story’s development, I can plainly see myself as a young girl, developing this same fascination at a similar age.

Dog TV

The dog has found something in a wood pile out back, something small and quiet that we’ve never seen, but can see evidence of in the tiny burrows beneath the pile of twigs we cut off our mulberry tree in vain efforts to keep it from taking over then entire deck with its long, low-slung branches. We have a variety of wildlife around us, from the horses that live up on the hill behind us, to a variety of hawks, smaller birds, and squirrels that like our maple tree, to nightly visitors of raccoons, opossum, the occasional skunk, and, for one horrible summer, these tree-scaling rats that would scurry up the fence after dark.

Whatever this current resident is, we’re guessing a vole, it has captivated our dog like no other creature. He’ll stand out back, ears pricked forward, tail wagging, just studying this small pile of tree limbs. He never barks or digs at it, seeming content just to watch, sometimes for hours. Our dog, a Vizsla (so not a calm breed by anyone’s standards), will be 6 in October, and he seems to be mellowing out ever so slightly now. He can still go pretty nuts when we have company, jumping and wriggling so exuberantly that you’d think he might squirm right out of his skin, but after such an episode of excitement, he’ll nap for a good hour to recover. So it’s only recently that he could muster the kind of focus he seems to be showing the wood pile.

Personally, I like the new guest. I gave up on my vegetable garden years ago, when all of our nightly visitors stripped my plants clean each day, so the vole can have the planter box he’s living in. And I like how his presence is keeping me from tripping over the dog all day. I get a little worried during heat waves, when the dog is outside panting like mad in 105 degree weather, refusing to abandon his newfound entertainment to come in and cool off. But who am I to deny him his favorite show?

Bubbles

I’m amazed by the simple pleasures that never fail to entertain my children: stickers, coloring, and bubbles. For all of the fancy, complicated, high-tech or trendy toys they have, there is nothing in the toy box that can compete with this triad of irresistible entertainment.

Over the weekend, when they were both going stir crazy inside and starting to turn on each other, I gave up trying to set them up with projects or games, grabbed the bubble blowing hippopotamus that has become their latest addiction, and headed out back. Within minutes, squawks had turned to squeals of laughter, and sisterly competition had turned to shared glee. What is it about chasing a trail of bubbles across a yard that can bring such instant bliss? Even the dog loves the bubble machine, trying to catch each iridescent ball with such reckless abandon that I feared for his safety.

While the girls screeched and spun, basking in the puffs of bubbles spewing from the hippo’s mouth, I vaguely remembered a time when such simple things could make me so happy, too. These days, it’s a little hard to block out all of the chores and responsibilities to feel that sense of pure joy, but when I’m with my girls, watching them laugh and run together, I get pretty close.

Little Ears Hear Everything

Peanut’s the best eavesdropper you’ve ever seen. She can be engaged in a game of her own, talking to herself or her toys the entire time, and still hear everything adults are saying in the next room. I have a pretty good filter for String Bean. I remember being four years old, so I figure she’ll remember the stuff she experiences now, and I should be careful not to say things around her that I don’t want her to know or share. But I didn’t realize I needed to be so careful around my two-year-old. My sister and I have been caught off guard by Peanut, gossiping about family stuff or friend drama, while we knew she was busy playing loud and hard in the other room, only to have her show up moments later, asking questions about our conversation topic.

I’ve been working on some short stories lately, and the other day, while String Bean was at preschool, I was reading one out loud as I proofread it. Peanut was busily playing with her Tinkerbell dolls, making up stories and using fairy voices as they chatted with each other and flew from room to room. Then she came into the kitchen and started asking me questions about a girl, her sister, their mother, a baby, and it took me several minutes to figure out that, even with her nonstop chatter, she had been listening to my story aloud and was asking me questions about my characters.

So, for family and close friends, the next time you find yourself in the company of Peanut, be aware of what you’re saying. Even if she’s screaming and jumping around in the next room, she’s likely hearing every word.

Bendaroos

After years of commercial-free TV (PBS, Netflix online, DVDs, and a trigger-happy kid who couldn’t wait to use the skip button on the remote to pass by any commercials, scary parts, or boring parts), I’ve taped a few G-rated movies off the Disney channel, only to realize that the types of commercials they show are not the types of commercials String Bean wants to skip. So, now, I’m being inundated with requests for special light-up shoes, jewelry making kits, baby dolls that fold in half inside their very own carriers, and the one I hate the most: Bendaroos. These plasticky wanna-be pipe cleaners have become the bane of my existence. A normal conversation with String Bean will go like this: “Can you stop bothering your sister? Now, what do you want for lunch today?” “Mommy, I think I really need some Bendaroos.” “No, no Bendaroos. Lunch. Peanut butter and honey?” “But I really think I’d like Bendaroos. You can write your name with them.” “You can write your name with the pipe cleaners you already have. Or with a pen and paper.” “But Bendaroos are so fun!” She knows this because the advertisement tells her so. She’s learning all kinds of things she never needed to know from advertisements. She now needs a Rocket fishing rod, a Bedazzler, and this automatic toothpaste dispenser that fascinates her to no end. And I need to stop taping movies off the Disney Channel.

Washing Machine TV

I have been coveting front-loading washing machines for years. The only problem was our washer was fine, a nice large-capacity number I’d bought off Craigslist when hubby and I first moved in together. But lately the old beast has been giving us trouble, with clothes seeming to get more roughed-up than they should, some even coming out with small tears from getting caught on the agitator. So, this week, as an anniversary gift to ourselves, hubby and I took the plunge, and we now have a beautiful new eco-friendly front-loading washing machine to mark six years of marriage together.

Not only is the new washing machine sleek and space-age with it’s ridiculous number of buttons and options (and yet it’s surprisingly easy to use), but it has become great entertainment for the kids. We’ve done three loads of laundry so far, and each time the girls sat before it on their miniature chairs, watching the load inside tumble around, calling out the items of clothing they recognized as they went by: “That’s my skirt! I see your purple shirt! Those are my pink shorts!” They saw me gathering sheets and towels together this morning, and made me promise not to start the laundry until after String Bean got home from preschool, so that they could watch their favorite new show together.

Big Girl

Okay, I’ll admit it, String Bean, now four years old, has always slept in her crib. She’s a stubborn child, resistant to change, and prone to nightmares. She spent maybe three naps in her toddler bed before having a bad dream that a tiger was trying to get her and deciding that her crib was the only safe place for her. Who am I to argue with a child’s sense of safety? So I didn’t push. She’s had both her toddler bed and her crib in her room for over a year now. The toddler bed has become the couch of her room, where stuffed animals and toys get discarded, where we sit side-by-side when we read her bedtime story before she climbs into her crib for the night.

Then, a week ago, she looked out her window at the house across the street, where our new neighbors live, and asked if their five-year-old daughter sleeps in a big girl bed. I said yes, I bet she does, as I got her crib ready for the night. String Bean looked from the crib to the toddler bed and announced that from now on, she only sleeps in a big girl bed herself. And she has, ever since.

Today she told me it’s time to take apart the crib and get it out of her room. She has plans for the space. And so I am reminded again, as if I needed another reminder, that this is not a girl to be pushed into anything. She’ll get there on her own, in her own time-frame, usually the moment I stop nudging her in the direction I want her to go. She’s so much like me it’s scary. And, oddly, comforting.