My four-year-old is the queen of outfit changes. She can go through a dozen outfits in a day, rotating from pants to a skirt to shorts to a dress, then back to the skirt with a different shirt, that shirt with a different pair of shorts, a second skirt, a different dress…you get the idea.
Today she had worn four different outfits by 10am. Five if you counted the PJs she woke up in and insisted on wearing for the first hour. When her grandparents showed up at 10am, she immediately began tugging at the bow behind her, untying the sash around her waist so that she could quickly change her dress before they made it into the house. Where does this desire come from? I’d say it’s a girl thing, except that I’m a girl, and I have no such thing. Likewise with her baby sister, who hates changing clothes unless the ones she’s wearing are soaked in milk or juice.
I frequently watch my kids carry on in their own unique orbits, and wonder if the habits and behaviors they’re so consistent about are hints about what kind of adults they’ll be, the types of careers they’ll pursue, or at least the majors they’ll consider in college. If that’s true, then so far she’ll be pursuing acting, fashion design, modeling, teaching, being a personal shopper, cooking, and some sort of manager/director position. Pretty much anything but food tasting.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
Bug Drama
My youngest’s bug fear continues, unabated. This past weekend we went back up to our family’s cabin in the Sierras, where bugs are just a fact of life. My mother armed the little one with her very own fly swatter, and set her on a bug-killing rampage that did not actually harm any insects, but landed several pieces of dirt and lint in the swatter’s net.
She actually seemed a little better by the end of the trip, shrieking hysterically at the sight of a bug, then calling someone to come kill it, but not trembling to the point of causing a mini-earthquake beneath her. She befriended the bug zapper, cheering up every time she heard the loud zap sound, asking repeatedly, “Does that mean a bug’s gone? Does that sound mean a bug is dead?” And she only woke up one night screaming about spiders in a dream.
Still, as soon as we arrived home, she was in bug-inspection mode, doing her careful sweep of the perimeter of each room, looking for spiders behind bookcases and desks, for flies hidden behind the curtains, or in the corners of the windows. After two days of searching, she’s only been able to find one fly, who flew out the back door as soon as I opened it. So far today she hasn’t called me in to kill any insects, real or imagined, so hopefully we’re getting past the inspection mode.
She actually seemed a little better by the end of the trip, shrieking hysterically at the sight of a bug, then calling someone to come kill it, but not trembling to the point of causing a mini-earthquake beneath her. She befriended the bug zapper, cheering up every time she heard the loud zap sound, asking repeatedly, “Does that mean a bug’s gone? Does that sound mean a bug is dead?” And she only woke up one night screaming about spiders in a dream.
Still, as soon as we arrived home, she was in bug-inspection mode, doing her careful sweep of the perimeter of each room, looking for spiders behind bookcases and desks, for flies hidden behind the curtains, or in the corners of the windows. After two days of searching, she’s only been able to find one fly, who flew out the back door as soon as I opened it. So far today she hasn’t called me in to kill any insects, real or imagined, so hopefully we’re getting past the inspection mode.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Super Smelling Powers
My youngest has a ridiculously good sense of smell. She can walk into a room, where her dad has just popped a few M&Ms into his mouth, and say, “Daddy, I smell chocolate!” I thought I had a good sense of smell, but after seeing her in action, I no longer think so. It’s like she’s got that amped-up pregnant-lady sense of smell, without the accompanying nausea from all smells.
The other day I was drinking a Diet Pepsi in the kitchen while the girls were sitting in the front window watching the world go by, when some sort of scuffle broke out. I rushed in, to pick the toddler up off the floor, where her sister had pushed her for taking up too much of the bench they shared, and she immediately looked at me and said, “I smell Grandma’s drink!” It took me a minute to understand, before I remembered that my mother has a Diet Pepsi every afternoon with lunch.
Yesterday in the car the girls were getting a little too wound-up, so we decided to give them these chewy fruit stick things that keep them quiet for a few minutes. Their dad had opened the first one maybe a millimeter, when the toddler piped up: “Daddy, I smell something! Is that for me? Is that a fruit stick to eat?” I think she has shark-sensitive smell. A drop of food a mile away sense-of-smell.
There’s always something these kids throw at you, just when you think they can’t surprise you anymore, to remind you how full of surprises they are.
The other day I was drinking a Diet Pepsi in the kitchen while the girls were sitting in the front window watching the world go by, when some sort of scuffle broke out. I rushed in, to pick the toddler up off the floor, where her sister had pushed her for taking up too much of the bench they shared, and she immediately looked at me and said, “I smell Grandma’s drink!” It took me a minute to understand, before I remembered that my mother has a Diet Pepsi every afternoon with lunch.
Yesterday in the car the girls were getting a little too wound-up, so we decided to give them these chewy fruit stick things that keep them quiet for a few minutes. Their dad had opened the first one maybe a millimeter, when the toddler piped up: “Daddy, I smell something! Is that for me? Is that a fruit stick to eat?” I think she has shark-sensitive smell. A drop of food a mile away sense-of-smell.
There’s always something these kids throw at you, just when you think they can’t surprise you anymore, to remind you how full of surprises they are.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Miss Bossy Pants
One of the great things about having a four-year-old is finally getting past the tantrum phase. Now that we’re past the terrible twos and the thankless threes, she’s very good with her words, clear on what she’s feeling and why, and willing to talk about it. These are good things. Amazing milestones, really. The way she can turn to me and, instead of launching into an over-the-edge outburst, say, “Mommy, I’m just feeling a little frustrated because I can’t get this dress back on the doll. Can you help me?” When she handles such moments with that level of grace I grab her and kiss her until she pushes me away. Finally, a reasonable person is emerging from that feisty little body of hers!
But with the fabulous fours there comes a new phase. The bossy phase. She doesn’t just boss her sister around, she goes after me, her father, her grandparents, her friends. She puts on her best authoritative voice and says, “No! You don’t do it like that. That’s the wrong way. You have to do it like this.” I hear this all day long, and to say it drives me crazy is putting it mildly. I did my best to cut her off whenever I saw Miss Bossy Pants emerging at play dates, not wanting the sweet younger children there to be subjected to her newfound domination streak. But after a few slips, and apologies to the other mothers, I learned that all of the four-year-olds in our play group are going through the same phase.
I get it, something about using your words and your will together to achieve a desired outcome. In that way it’s a pretty impressive development. But at home, when I’ve just heard her yell at her baby sister for feeding the imaginary crocodile an imaginary fish in their imaginary game, when Miss Bossy Pants only wants the croc fed chicken, I have to step in. It doesn’t seem to drive my husband as crazy as it makes me. Either because he’s not home all day to hear it over and over, or because, unlike me, he doesn’t instantly sympathize with the unfazed toddler who’s just been scolded. You see, he’s a big brother, and doesn’t know what it’s like to be bossed around your whole life by an older sibling. But I’m the baby sister in my family, and I know all too well how that feels. So, as much as I appreciate the self-confidence evident in her bossy voice, as glad as I am that she’s able to articulate herself in a way that gets what she wants, I’m not letting Miss Bossy Pants get away with it. It’s time for Miss Temperate Pants to emerge.
But with the fabulous fours there comes a new phase. The bossy phase. She doesn’t just boss her sister around, she goes after me, her father, her grandparents, her friends. She puts on her best authoritative voice and says, “No! You don’t do it like that. That’s the wrong way. You have to do it like this.” I hear this all day long, and to say it drives me crazy is putting it mildly. I did my best to cut her off whenever I saw Miss Bossy Pants emerging at play dates, not wanting the sweet younger children there to be subjected to her newfound domination streak. But after a few slips, and apologies to the other mothers, I learned that all of the four-year-olds in our play group are going through the same phase.
I get it, something about using your words and your will together to achieve a desired outcome. In that way it’s a pretty impressive development. But at home, when I’ve just heard her yell at her baby sister for feeding the imaginary crocodile an imaginary fish in their imaginary game, when Miss Bossy Pants only wants the croc fed chicken, I have to step in. It doesn’t seem to drive my husband as crazy as it makes me. Either because he’s not home all day to hear it over and over, or because, unlike me, he doesn’t instantly sympathize with the unfazed toddler who’s just been scolded. You see, he’s a big brother, and doesn’t know what it’s like to be bossed around your whole life by an older sibling. But I’m the baby sister in my family, and I know all too well how that feels. So, as much as I appreciate the self-confidence evident in her bossy voice, as glad as I am that she’s able to articulate herself in a way that gets what she wants, I’m not letting Miss Bossy Pants get away with it. It’s time for Miss Temperate Pants to emerge.
Friday, July 03, 2009
Wedding Dress
The other day, out of the blue, my 4-year-old asked me if I still had my wedding dress. I told her I did, in that long white garment bag she’s seen in my closet dozens of times. She became obsessed with it, needing to see the big white dress she’d seen in all of our wedding photos. For the sake of sanity, I waited until her baby sister was down for a nap before showing it to her. I took her into my room and unzipped the garment bag partway, then lifted her up to see the bodice of the dress. It’s a simple A-line gown, strapless, with Swarovski crystals decorating the bodice. “Can I touch it?” my daughter asked. I checked her hands for dirt or stickiness, then told her she could. She was in little girl heaven, touching the silky fabric and the beadwork.
Of course, next she wanted to try it on. After much explaining about how, even though I let her prance around wearing one of my skirts and my black flats (an outfit she wore for three days straight last week), the dress just wasn’t going to fit her, she finally let it go. For about five minutes. The conversation has been going ever since. “Why can’t I just try it on?” “Because it’s very long, and you’re just not tall enough.” “When I’m taller can I try it on?” “Sure.” “When will I be tall enough?” Since (at 5’ 1”) I have always been one of the shortest people I know, and since she has always been around 90th percentile for height, I was tempted to tell her it would probably be very soon, but this wasn’t a time for joking around. “Ask me again in a few years,” I said.
Later, she asked if she could wear it when she gets married. I’m sure when she’s done growing it’ll come to her knees, but instead I just nodded, and promised that if she wants to wear it when she grows up, she can. Somewhere in the middle of this discussion I remembered the delicate crystal-studded tiara that I wore with the big white dress on my wedding day. I’ll save that for another day, when I can trust her with it a little more. Because I’m sure once she gets that thing on her head, it’s never coming off.
Of course, next she wanted to try it on. After much explaining about how, even though I let her prance around wearing one of my skirts and my black flats (an outfit she wore for three days straight last week), the dress just wasn’t going to fit her, she finally let it go. For about five minutes. The conversation has been going ever since. “Why can’t I just try it on?” “Because it’s very long, and you’re just not tall enough.” “When I’m taller can I try it on?” “Sure.” “When will I be tall enough?” Since (at 5’ 1”) I have always been one of the shortest people I know, and since she has always been around 90th percentile for height, I was tempted to tell her it would probably be very soon, but this wasn’t a time for joking around. “Ask me again in a few years,” I said.
Later, she asked if she could wear it when she gets married. I’m sure when she’s done growing it’ll come to her knees, but instead I just nodded, and promised that if she wants to wear it when she grows up, she can. Somewhere in the middle of this discussion I remembered the delicate crystal-studded tiara that I wore with the big white dress on my wedding day. I’ll save that for another day, when I can trust her with it a little more. Because I’m sure once she gets that thing on her head, it’s never coming off.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
Best Friends
So, after a couple of weeks off of preschool, my oldest has now started the summer session. She was a little unsure about going back, and I expected a little drama when I dropped her off yesterday, but when the teacher said it was time to sit down in circle, she rushed over to get a good seat, glancing back to wave and blow a kiss to me. It was surprisingly easy. I still kept my phone nearby the whole morning, half expecting the school to call (as they have a couple of times in the past) to say she was crying to come home. Fortunately, they never did.
At noon, my toddler and I went to pick her up. We found her with two other little girls (“my girls” she calls them), holding hands and dancing around in a circle. The teacher smiled at me and told me she’d had a great day, had laughed hard and played hard and enjoyed every second of the day. But the best part was when she looked away from her dancing group of girls and spotted her baby sister. They squealed and flung themselves at each other, arms open for a long, swaying hug. They’d been apart for all of three hours. But, after a couple of weeks of being together all day every day, that can feel like a lifetime to two little kids. Very few things warm my heart the way seeing how much my girls adore each other does.
At noon, my toddler and I went to pick her up. We found her with two other little girls (“my girls” she calls them), holding hands and dancing around in a circle. The teacher smiled at me and told me she’d had a great day, had laughed hard and played hard and enjoyed every second of the day. But the best part was when she looked away from her dancing group of girls and spotted her baby sister. They squealed and flung themselves at each other, arms open for a long, swaying hug. They’d been apart for all of three hours. But, after a couple of weeks of being together all day every day, that can feel like a lifetime to two little kids. Very few things warm my heart the way seeing how much my girls adore each other does.
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
Payback
Another fun thing about having kids is the way they make you realize what you must’ve been like as a kid. My girls have developed a habit of memorizing certain lines from movies and repeating them over and over (and over) again, until I’m ready to scream at them to stop. First it was a line from Mulan: “Get out of there, you make people sick!” which they would say, scream, sing, or shout to no end. This week it’s a line from the movie The Wild: “Goodbye Ryan, we’re gonna miss ya!” They can repeat this phrase for hours and never grow bored of it.
The only remotely funny thing about this annoying new game of theirs is remembering that my sister and I used to do the exact same thing. There was a time when we could (and frequently did) recite every word of dialogue from the movie Valley Girl (among others), and we thought it was highly entertaining. Our mother didn’t see the enjoyment in repeating the same sets of lines over and over again, and used to shush us repeatedly. At the time I thought she was a spoil sport who didn’t understand the basic joys in life. I even remember her telling me that she didn’t have any interest in seeing the same movie fifty times, and wondering how she could possibly feel like that. Now, of course, I get it. I get it well enough that the other day, I actually apologized to her for driving her crazy with my movie-line memorizations all those years ago. She, of course, just nodded toward my kids, shouting “Goodbye Ryan, we’re gonna miss ya!” in unison, and laughed.
The only remotely funny thing about this annoying new game of theirs is remembering that my sister and I used to do the exact same thing. There was a time when we could (and frequently did) recite every word of dialogue from the movie Valley Girl (among others), and we thought it was highly entertaining. Our mother didn’t see the enjoyment in repeating the same sets of lines over and over again, and used to shush us repeatedly. At the time I thought she was a spoil sport who didn’t understand the basic joys in life. I even remember her telling me that she didn’t have any interest in seeing the same movie fifty times, and wondering how she could possibly feel like that. Now, of course, I get it. I get it well enough that the other day, I actually apologized to her for driving her crazy with my movie-line memorizations all those years ago. She, of course, just nodded toward my kids, shouting “Goodbye Ryan, we’re gonna miss ya!” in unison, and laughed.
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