On Toddlerhood, Motherhood, and Accidental Parenting. Or, How to Duke-It-Out With Your Child Without Coming to Blows

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Life's the Pip's

Just got home after visiting one of my sisters and her 2 girls. I love visiting them, because my sister makes good food, is always whipping up another batch of cookies or cinnamon rolls or cheesecake, is fun to hang around and bitch about family with, and my daughter loves being with her daughters.
We always make lofty plans, like 'Let's do a mosaic!' or 'I'll help you make a stuffed animal/quilt/clothes!' But mostly I let her have a break and see what having a brood of kids might be like. Granted, MY potential brood of kids would be more spaced apart, so it isn't really a fair comparison. These guys are roughly a year apart. Pip, the oldest (hers) is 3; then mine, Z, (at 15 months younger) is almost 2; then 8 months younger is her 1-year-old, Pidu. I'm either playing referee all day, or being chastised because the baby is playing in the toilet while I'm starting the bath for the older two. Sometimes I tune them all out and read my book (until he screaming starts.) Sometimes I take my book into the room they're in and actually get some supervising done.
My sister has always had a bug up her butt about germs around her kids, so I taught my daughter not to touch babies, but if she did, only when the mommy said it was OK, and only touch the foot or top of the head, NEVER the face or hands. (Babies don't enjoy being poked in the eye, and since they put their fingers in their mouths, they're sure to catch whatever disease your child plants onto their hands.) So Z has spent the last year avoiding the baby, while being drawn like a moth to flame. When Pidu was in the baby swing, it was like watching the Earth orbit the Sun. Z would watch, and play nearby, and want to grab at the swing, but knew she shouldn't. Hover hover hover.
In fact, she was so well trained to not touch babies, that when Z and I were visiting a friend and her baby, and my friend asked Z, 'Would you like to hold the baby?' Z just froze in place. It was like watching life go into slo-mo. Her hands went slack. She was so excited, and didn't want to mess up this baby-touching opportunity, so she froze, and the blocks she was playing with dropped out of her hands. My friend said 'Okay, come sit over here.' but Z was unable to process that many words in all her anticipation. She must have heard the 'sit,' since her butt hit the floor! So we brought the baby to her. Ah! Toddler nirvana!
When Pidu was a blob, then a sitter, then a crawler, Z mostly ignored her, and Pip protected Pidu's toys like a mother lion. 'NO Z! That's PIDU's toy!' Mostly because she herself was told to leave the baby's toys alone. Now that the baby is walking, the older two treat her like an equal. I just spent two days yelling at both kids for grabbing from and pushing the baby. Actually, it was kind of refreshing, yelling at Z. I don't normally have to yell at my kid, and usually I spend the visit yelling at Pip. In fact, for a while, whenever I was telling someone to stop something, I'd automatically say Pip's name, even if it was Z I was talking to!
Since Z and Pidu are closer in age, they might become better friends than Z and Pip. On the other hand, Z has known Pip longer, and has looked up to Pip her whole life! Last visit, Z and Pidu were happily playing in Pidu's room, until Pip came in looking for her friend Z to pay with. Then the grabbing and screeching and crying began. Pip wants Z to play with her all the time, but won't actually share many of the toys. It's strange. Sometimes she'll hand over a previously coveted toy when I tell her she needs to find something for Z to play with if she's not going to share. But most times, she'll bring something out, like blocks, dump them out, make Z come play with her, then proceed to cry and insist that she NEEDS each block that Z picks up. I tell her to pick a color Z can play with, and then have to continually remind her the yellow ones are for Z. It's quite tiring. We've tried teaching her to trade if she wants what someone else has, but she isn't equitable about it. She wants the doll... Hmmm.... Z can have.... this block. NO! Not the other blocks! Well, Z doesn't want that block. She wants the doll. She'd be happy with a different doll, or even a nice stuffed animal, but Pip can't (usually) part with anything Z might actually enjoy!
This visit, when coloring with Z's pens which I brought for sharing, she had to have any color Z was using. Then would hoards all the others. 'I need green!' 'Okay. Z, do you want purple, so Pip can have the green?' 'Aaaugh! I need purple!' 'Okay, Pip. Let's let Z finish her turn, then you can have the purple.' 'NO! AAAAAAAAAAAH! I NEED PURPLE ONE NOW! WAAAAH!' (Slide off of chair, tantrum on floor.)
Z's favorite color currently is purple. Pip's was red, which was nice when we got there. Z wanted the purple necklace, Pip wanted red. Everyone was happy. (Except Piwu, who got the orange one tangled around her arm.) Then later, Pip told me her favorite color was red. I told her that was very convenient, and my sister bristled and got a little defensive and said that red had been Pip's favorite color lately, and not because Z wanted something. I explained that it was convenient because then they could both be happy with their different favorites. Well. Today, when Pip asked what Z's favorite color was, and I told her it was purple, Pip spent the rest of the day rounding up anything purple and declaring she NEEDED it, and purple was her favorite color. Argh. I don't know if all kids are like this, or just some. It makes me want to stop at the toy store on the way home and buy everything Pip refused to share, so that next time Z could have one too!

Sunday, April 25, 2010

In the Trenches

I'm a mama of one little girl. I waited a long time to meet her, and I love her to pieces. But some days, I'd prefer if those pieces were taken away by Gypsies or the circus or something! This blog will have stories, not necessarily entered sequentially, and not necessarily 100% true. I will exaggerate and embellish for the sake of humor, or to make the story more interesting. I will use initials, nicknames or change names to protect the privacy of my friends and family, since my husband would probably not prefer to have a co-worker read a post and ask him detailed questions about, say, our sex life! In this blog, I will try and keep to the time since she's been walking, or her 'toddler years.'

People told me that when you sit there looking at your little baby blob, you long for them to roll over. And when they roll over, you want them to crawl. And once crawling, you are wistful about the easily controlled blob-phase, while eager for them to reach the next milestone: walking. Then once they walk, you wish all you had to worry about was them rolling over!
Well, not me! So far, I have enjoyed seeing each new development. I love the challenges that come with her growth, since each day I get to see just who this little person is becoming! So far, I haven't looked back fondly on her blob days. To be fair though, my kid is fairly well behaved, easy to tolerate, doesn't have a lot of discipline issues or health and/or behavioral problems, plus cute as a button and smart as a whip! And I love how she has helped me to grow up too.

I'm slightly ashamed at the amount of TV I let her watch, although it isn't strictly TV. She watches DVDs or the 'watch now' stuff on Netflix (like On Demand for some cable companies.) So at least she isn't getting her shows broken up by commercials. Thanks to Elmo, she can identify the letter Y ('Y is uh YAK!') and maybe a few random others and she can almost count to 20 (1 2 3 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 16 17 18.) Despite evidence to the contrary, she steadfastly refuses to believe in the existence of the number 4. Thanks to Dora, she can say 'Ayudame' (help me,) 'Embujen' (push,) 'Abre' (open') and a few others, as well as count to 6 in Spanish. Thanks to me, she knows that my farts are 'pushin air out uh mommy'sh bah-mum.' (pushing the air out of mommy's bottom) and that the chocolate stash is reachable if she pushes her kitchen stool over to the counter!
I read somewhere that the word 'fart' is considered offensive to many adults when said by a child, so I'm teaching her to call it gas. But when SHE farts, I praise her for getting the air out of her tummy through her bottom. (We've had many restless gassy nights where she wakes up crying and/or screaming until we help her rock and massage the gas out. Now we just give her Simethicone drops at bedtime, just as I've been taking the adult version almost nightly for my gas.) So when I fart, thats the kind of thing she says to me. I joke that she inherited my husband's looks, and my bowels! At least she got my mom's long eyelashes too!