Frances Friday Presents: Masterpiece Theatre

A new episode of Radio Free Frances is up, in which Frances partially recounts If I Were a Lion from memory, with help. I threw in a gratuitous giggle, just because I love to hear her laugh, and in case you're wondering the last thing she says is: "Don't tickle me, Mummy!"

If anyone has any specific questions they would like to ask Frances in a future episode, please leave them in the comments.

~~~~~

The last time Rachel visited was with her husband just as Frances was learning to walk, last August. We went to the ROM, and I was delighted to have to chase Frances all over the place because I'd waited so long for her to walk at all. Nineteen long months, for those of you who weren't around to read my agonized wailings on the subject--nineteen long months. So while Rachel kindly did stroller guard duty I chased my newly mobile toddler all over the museum while she chuckled madly, and it was fabulous. But I didn't expect Frances to remember this.

Except that she did. When Rachel walked into the kitchen Tuesday morning (having gotten in well after Frances went to sleep the night before), Frances said, "It's Rachel!"

My genius baby.

Frances was delighted to have a sort-of new and adoring audience to impress, and did so largely by demonstrating the vast leaps in her mobility since that time--jumping, skipping, running, throwing, etc. Was she excited? What do you think? "It's Rachel!" (jump jump jump) "Rachel's here!" (jump jump jump) "That's Rachel, Mummy." (jump jump jump)

It was a nice visit--unfortunate about that fucking heat wave (pardon my language) which reached thirty-eight degrees on Wednesday, before humidity. With the humidity it was forty-eight. In fahrenheit that's about 118. I sat outside with Rachel and Erik but it just about killed me. I felt like the world's dampest human salt lick. Even at 7:00, when they were saying, "Now, see? This is nice! If only it were like this all day," I shook my head and said, "NO. No. Too hot. Waaaaay too hot. Ugh. Can't think. Must go inside. Going to die."

I don't understand how people live in climates where it's like that more than one or two days each year. My Norwegian blood must be showing.

Frances, on the other hand, didn't even seem to notice it was hot. She skipped and jumped and splashed in the kiddie pool and threw her ball around and laughed and ran just like it was any other day. She didn't get that from me.

The only effect of the heat on her play has been a new tendency to stop sometimes, walk to the front step, sit down and say, "I need a break."

~~~~~

On Tuesday, when I was out with Frances trying to get Erik a birthday present at the bookstore, I said, "Can you say, Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Happy Birthday Daddy!" said Frances.

When we got home, the books tucked safely into my sweater drawer, Frances ran up to Erik. "Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you!" he said. "But my birthday is in two days."

"Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you."

"Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you."

And on. And on and on and on. He had at least one "Happy Birthday Daddy" for each of his forty-one years on Tuesday alone.

Thursday morning, she woke up at the ungodly hour--for Erik, who had the day off--of 6:20 am. She had been sleeping in until 8:00; Erik was up until after 11 the night before. This was probably not the birthday present he'd been hoping for, so I went to get her and brought her downstairs with me while I was getting ready for work, so he could sleep a bit more.

"Today is Daddy's birthday," I said.

"Yeah."

"What do you say to Daddy on his birthday?"

"Happy Birthday, Daddy!" She looked around, as if wondering where he was.

"He's upstairs asleep, kiddo."

She cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled, "Happy Birthday Daddy!"

When I went upstairs to brush my teeth, she clambered up on the bed and woke him.

"It's your birthday, Daddy!"

"Yes, it is."

"It's your birthday, Daddy!"

"What do you say to Daddy on his birthday?" I asked her.

She snuggled down against him. "Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Oh, thank you."

"Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you, sweetie."

"Happy Birthday, Daddy!"

When I left--after an emergency snuggle to calm a little bean who was suddenly distraught at the idea of Mummy going to work--they were still snuggled together on the big bed, and Frances was still saying, "Happy Birthday, Daddy!"

~~~~~

There have been other thunderstorms during Frances's two-and-a-half years, but Wednesday was the first night-time thunderstorm she was awake for and had the language to talk about. It was huge: lightning flashed once per second for thirty minutes or more, and the rain fell in sheets.

"That's the thunder monster," said Frances.

She was too excited to sleep through it--and who can blame her?--so when the power went out, we snuggled in the big bed and read Max's ABCs by flashlight, frequently interrupted by, "Ooooh, did you see that one, Mummy?" and "Can I hold my flashlight?"

When the book was done we went into the guest room (known as the upstairs front room in Frances-speak) with the big windows and opened the blinds so we could watch the lightning.

"Oooooh. Did you see that one, Mummy?"

"Yeah."

"That was a BIG one. Oooh. Another one!"

"Wow. Look at all the lightning."

"Yeah. Oooh. That was another one! Did you see that one?"

For some reason (I can't think why) I've been thinking about Frances when she was a baby; so as I watched her caper and jump and point and gasp, and listened to her adult-like sentences, the contrast to that tiny little preemie girl I brought home from the hospital was so stark it almost hurt. "Do you know, Frances, when you were a tiny little baby who was brand new, you used to sleep on my tummy."

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did. Every night. You didn't want to sleep in your crib or anywhere else, you would only sleep on my tummy."

"No!"

"It's true. You were much smaller then, so your head went here," I pointed to my chest, "and your feet went here." I pointed to my lower stomach.

"Can you sleep on my tummy?"

I laughed. "I'm a little too big, and your tummy is a little too small. But you can sleep on my tummy."

"Yeah." She climbed on top of me, and rested her head near my collarbone. "I can sleep on your tummy."

"You sure can."

"I'm a little tiny baby."

I laughed. She's not, even though I still call her my baby girl and when I call her a big girl she protests and says, "I'm LITTLE." According to the growth chart on the closet door in her room, she's almost thirty inches which means she is, for the first time, actually larger than an average one-year-old. Which doesn't make much of a change to our daily lives, except to open up some additional fashion options for Frances and make it psychologically a bit easier to have her in the forward-facing car seat. She's not heavy enough for it and won't be probably for another year, but at least she's tall enough.

~~~~~

Today she has a follow-up appointment with the opthalmologist to see if her lazy eye is getting stronger. It is; she doesn't cross her eyes anything like as much as she used to. It's wonderful to see such steady progress, after being so worried for so long. Here's for medical professionals who finally figure it out and try something that works.

Posted by Andrea at August 4, 2006 8:56 AM under Frances Friday

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