Happy Birthday, Child of My Heart

Today, on this day, at 9:16pm, your piercing cry of anger filled my ears.  They placed your slippery self on my belly and all I could do was laugh at your intense spirit.  Your eyes looked black.

Today marks your third year.

You are more than I possibly could have imagined.

You are fiercely independent even when you get frustrated and then we talk about a new solution.

You complete each task in detail (like taking an hour and a half to unwrap your gifts today).

You are generous and kind and like to take care of me just as much as I like to take care of you.

If one of us threatens a grouchy day we just remind each other “Let’s have a nice day, okay?”  And then we smile at each other and I wait until we have to be reminded again.

You can count and identify letters, if you choose.

You can jump from impossibly tall things and land in a graceful two-footed crouch.

You like to moon us.

You love going fast and swinging high.

Carol is still your favorite, but you have a growing collection of puppies and a small group of animals (usually a bunny, a llama, a unicorn, and Vanilla Lambi) whom you refer to as “The Guys.”

You make everyone talk all your toys for you in a high-pitched voice.  It’s both endearing and irritating.

Mouse and Mouse’s Sister still come to play almost every day.

Your simple  questions of “why? why? why?” have progressed to complex thoughts like “Why is the sky blue?” “How do babies get out of their mommy’s tummies?”  “What is under the floor of the tub?” and “Why does there need to be a little hole in the top of the sippy cup to let air in when I drink?”

You are in preschool five afternoons a week.

You are spirited, can carry a tune, can twirl a crazy twirl and dance a crazy dance, and I love getting to know you.

Happy Birthday.

I can’t wait to see you fly.

Avast! Talk Like a Pirate Day is Upon Us.

Oh, yes, me hearties.  Today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Arrrrr.

Any of you lubber free to stop by and swab the deck and whip up a cake?  We’re busy prepping for a distinctly pirate-free 3rd birthday party that looms on the horizon. No?  Walk the plank, I say!  Walk!

And, in case you need something with which to waste your time….

Today I go by the name

My pirate name is:

Red Grace Cash

Passion is a big part of your life, which makes sense for a pirate. You’re musical, and you’ve got a certain style if not flair. You’ll do just fine. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
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Fear of Falling

It turns out that my long-time fear of roller coasters which eventually included the scrambler and then the log flume now includes…the ferris wheel. Yes, the dreaded and terrifying ferris wheel.

How embarrassing.

Remember this photo?

See that ferris wheel in the background?  That’s the one we rode together.

But it was at least fifty years old if a day.  In order to get on, the operator had to tip the seat forward so you literally climbed in.  I had to place Avi in, hold her in with one hand so she wouldn’t slide forward, and then climb in myself.  Once we started moving, every time the ride abruptly halted, the seat would swing madly forward threatening to tip us over into an alice-in-wonderland fall.  The first time this happened, we were only 15 feet off the ground.  No biggie.  The fifth or sixth time it happened, we were at the top and I felt my heart plummet in front of me, my breath sucked in hard as I dead-ended the shock tears and I stuck out an arm to grab my child.  And that is where my arm stayed the entire time.

And my breath?  Oh, I got it back alright.

I chattered like a nitwit for the entire ride.  Anything I could think of about the view, the animals, the air, the trees.  Eventually I resorted to “And we’re going up up up up up.  Here we are at the top.  Hello World!  And we’re going down down down down down.”

And this was on a ferris wheel.

I am officially the biggest chicken I know.

Later that day, as the fair was closing, we sat to watch the rides begin to be dismantled.  We spotted a man climbing up into the ferris wheel rigging.  He was wearing a harness but he hadn’t strapped in yet.  Shirtless and carefree, he swing himself upwards into the center of the circle.  Visions of Tuck Everlasting swam through my head and I wondered if it could be true and how it would be fun to climb up into the ferris wheel itself, but riding it scared me shitless.

So, there it is.

I will gladly climb and swing as long as I’m in control.

Put me in the hands of someone else’s swing and unless I’ve got a two year old to keep me calm, I will likely burst into tears.

Bloggy Welcome: Tasty Snack Treats

Please give a warm bloggy welcome to:

Tasty Snack Treats

Written by new mom, Emma, who was my roommate for several months in my young 20’s.

I found her listing for a roomie, went to visit in the pouring rain, and we hit it off immediately.  We lived in an illegal basement apartment which we paid for in cash every month.  It was quite large, but with only the tiniest of basement windows, all linoleum flooring, and some very nosy neighborhood children.  We also adopted a bunny who would come into my room at dawn and start scratching at my pillow so I would get up.  I forget his name.  I believe he lived out the end of his days on a farm somewhere in NH.

Emma is a marvelous and creative cook.  She lives on her grandparents farm with her parents, husband, and daughter.  I visited her earlier this year when her first child was born.  The house is amazing.  It’s an ancient farmhouse with narrow angular hallways, close-able doors everywhere, and an instant feeling of comfort.  I don’t know anything about her family, but it’s a working farm (she just posted that there are pumpkins for sale) and if there were ever a house whose walls I wish would talk, these are the ones.  I can only dream of what it must feel like to belong to a family whose roots reach so far and wide in one rural community.

My own family is spread across the country: our Mutt-like heritage manifesting in our tendency to wander.

Anyway, go check out her blog.  The recipes are delish.  Tomorrow I will be attempting the No Nuthin’ Cake.

Lost: Reader with Dietary Restrictions

Dear Reader with Dietary Restrictions,

You sent me a lovely email a couple of months ago and we struck up a conversation about living alone with a young child and dealing with allergies.  At the time, you were so allergic to an item that almost any food at any time could push you into an anaphylactic reaction of terrifying degrees.

We talked fears and strategies.  I promised you recipes.

Please let me express my sincerest apologies for neglecting to email you back in a timely and considerate manner.  And, well, now I’ve lost your original email with its address and the list of foods you can eat.

If you read this, can you please email me again so I can send you some recipes and see how you are?

I hope to hear from you soon,

SerahRose

County Fair

In-Between Times: Summer/Autumn Infant/Child

I am In-Between Times.

There is a pang of farewell that catches me when I least expect it.

There is an expectation of promise.  Of life. Of livelihood.

They criss-cross.  Mingle.  Dance in my dreams and tread through my days.

We are neither summer nor autumn.

My daughter is neither infant nor child.

They are in-between, and so I am in-between.

It is like the moment before sunrise when the bugs go to sleep and the birds have yet to sing.  It is in-between, undefined in it’s defined in-betweenness.  It is chilling, mesmerizing, and brimming with…something.  Something grande, I suppose.

I may be in-between, but my infant/child is happily defining her now.

I will catch up when I’m ready.  For now, I’m okay drifting a bit.

Undies and Avatars

My Undies Are on Inside Out Today

I only discovered this fact in the middle of an interview when I reached back to find the cause of a tickle.  My tag, it turns out, was not designed to be on the outside of the undies.  I continued the conversation without pause.  No need to comment on the undie situation.  But I got momentarily distracted in the aftermath as it dawned on me that this was surely a sign that I needed more sleep.

You Too Can Have a Globally Recognized Avatar

Part of the reason I’m tired is that I was up late working on modifying someone elses blog.  Don’t worry, I was getting paid.  As my boss and I were picking through something, he suddenly realized that my photo was being displayed on his screen.  No one else had a photo next to their username.  Just me.  I’d forgotten I’d set up an Avatar to follow me around to various blogs so my face will show up when I leave a comment.

I thought you might like to know about it too.  Here you go.

If you still haven’t had enough of undies and avatars, watch this.  I keep getting it stuck in my head.  It makes me laugh really hard every time I watch it.

The Thinking Child

I’m finally finishing Kids, Parents, and Power Struggles.  I started reading it about a year ago when Avi and I were going through a particularly trying time.  I never finished it because I was able to apply the first half so readily that our situation improved right away and we moved on.

Life has gotten rough again.  She’s almost three.  And, boy, is she three.  All my mom-friends agree that they don’t understand why everyone gripes about the Terrible Twos when the Threes are far Worse.

For those of you who don’t remember, or are new readers, let me fill you in on my peanut:

• She is what people call a “spirited” child.
• She is absurdly precocious and has been speaking in complete sentences and holding entire comprehensible conversations for so long now that I can barely remember her as a non-speaker.
• She has the ability to remember visual details.  She never fell for “out of sight, out of mind,” even as an infant.
• She has a loooooooong attention span and can play the same game for over an hour.
• She needs to feel she finished what she’s doing before she can move on and has a very hard time with transitions.
• Emotionally, she’s exactly where she should be.  This makes it hard because the adults around her can forget that even though she can speak like a four year old and plays pretend like a five year old, she still is a two year old.
• She has really good logical thinking skills which drives me crazy because everything that can become a negotiation becomes a negotiation.
• She does not sleep readily.  At almost three, she finally sleeps through the night but can still take an hour to fall asleep and crawls into bed with me by dawn.  She does not nap.

So, now we’re back to today and the fact that I’m almost done with this book.  It’s been very helpful.  It uses the Myers-Briggs personality spectrums to help you identify your own strengths and challenges as well as your childs.  So, you can see where the interactions are beneficial and where it can cause communication (and patience) to break down.

For example, we both feel the need to “finish” things.  I can find it hard to set something down and pay attention to Avi even when she needs it most.  However, now that I’ve identified this issue, I can consciously say to myself “my child needs attention.  If I give it to her for these two minutes, she will feel loved and satisfied and then I will return to this task.”  And, voila, it has worked wonders.  This step alone has meant far fewer time struggles.

And then there was today.  The elongated steps of my Thinking Child:

1. She spent the morning in a new situation with a babysitter and then we went to two different grocery stores before we came home for lunch.  We were both tired.  I promised her that after I picked up the kitchen clutter we would play.
2. She became a bunny and hopped around my feet, chipped in a little, and then climbed under the table to make it her home.  All was good.
3. She then tried to “tie” the cushions back on the two kitchen seats.  She actually does manage to tie things sometimes so she did one successfully and was close enough with the second that she was okay with it.  But then she got to the second cushion and lost.her.shit.
4. I responded that she needed to use her big girl words to ask for help, “Mama, can you please help me tie the cushion?” but screaming and yelling was not a choice.  And so it began.
5. She whined, “puhhleeassse?!?!”
6. I replied, “please, what?”  Saying the word ‘please’ in a whiny voice isn’t enough.  Use your big girl words and ask for help, “Mama, Please help me tie the cushion.”
7. And she exploded.  And I negotiated and she kept intermittently screaming.  I proclaimed I’d had enough with the crying.  And she kept going.
8. It was then I remembered that there is a difference between ‘negotiating’ and ‘coaching’ so I knelt down in front of her, made eye contact and gave her three choices, “I see that you are angry.  1 – You can go to your room and keep crying.  2 – You can take a break by sitting on the couch, playing, take a breath, or read a book and come back and try the cushion when you’re ready.  3 – You can use your big girl words and ask for help. “
9. She responded by saying she didn’t like choices and breaks.  “I can see that you are angry and having trouble making a decision.  If you need it, I can help you decide.”  I re-iterated the options to which she said she’d read a book with me.
10. I stuck to my guns and said that she would have to read alone because I wasn’t done in the kitchen to which she replied that she would take a break on the couch watching a movie.
11. “You may not watch a movie.  You may read a book.”
12. This went on for I don’t know how long.  I’m sure I also threatened to make the choice for her, of course, that’s not what this book advises nor does it ever work but it always comes out of my mouth.  Eventually, we ended up on the couch reading a book after I assured her she had already used her big girl words to express the need for me to be with her.
13. We read a book together, which I prefaced with the fact that I would have to finish the kitchen after this book and then we would play as promised.  Which I did.
14. Here’s where it gets funny:  It is now an hour later.  We are upstairs playing together.  I have taken a minute to put a shirt in a drawer while she is lacing some beads.  She gleefully proclaims, “I have decided to use my big girl words and ask for you to tie on the cushion!”
15. I said, “great!  Let’s do it!  Ask away!”
16. She leads me down the stairs, explaining that as soon as we get to the kitchen she will use her big girl words to ask me to tie on the cushions.
17. We arrive in the kitchen, she races to the chair, she asks me nicely, and I tie on the cushion.
18. It took my child an entire hour to process.  An entire hour.

Now I understand how it is that I, someone who is possibly one of the most patient people alive, can lose my temper so frequently with this child.

Hottie Spotting

You know how you always hope the UPS guy really is going to be a hottie?  And how you think that it’s really just urban myth that the UPS guy is going to be a nice piece of eye-candy?  In reality, UPS guys actually are quite attractive.  I’d honestly say about 75% of the time.

I don’t really understand it.  Maybe lifting heavy boxes induces hot hormones.  Or maybe they arrive exactly at the moment you need the most distraction so they look extra attracive.

But can you say the same for Starbucks Barristas?

I can’t.  You’d think anyone handing you coffee heaven in a cup would automatically place them in the top ten for hotness.

Starbucks Barristas are friendly, because the y have to be.  Sweaty and frizzy, from slaving over steaming vats of coffee.  Acne-full, because, well, I don’t know why, they just are.

Today, however, I discovered that my local Starbucks just hired Superman.

Zit-free, over six feet tall, tan, muscular, cute, sweet, well-spoken (he asked his manager “what is the proper way to put on the sleeve when there’s a tea bag tag?”), and, ahem, huge hands.

I blushed so many times in only three minutes that I believe I now have a permanent flush.  And when he placed my tea on the counter and beamed “my first tea,” I had absolutely nothing snappy to say, so I just blushed again and let out an absurd half giggle and turned away as quickly as possible.

At least I can claim exhaustion as a viable excuse for idiocy.