Frances Friday: Hey, wait a second: I'm in a bed!

In August we changed Frances's crib into a daybed.

It took her until last weekend to figure out that she could leave it. But now that she's learned this delightful new trick, she's really learned it.

Our first inkling of trouble in paradise came at 7:30 Saturday morning, my sleep-in day, when I was jolted awake by a "Hi Mummy!" much too much too close to be coming from the next room.

"Oh, hi. You figured out how to get out of your bed, didn't you?"

"I was just going to get her!" said Erik, coming out of the bathroom.

So thrilled was she at the magical new power of just getting out of bed when she didn't feel like being there that she did it again Sunday morning, and then Sunday naptime too; I was lost in thought and balancing a cup of hot tea and a paperback while coming up the stairs to check on her, and almost dropped everything to see her hanging off the gate at the top of the stairs.

"Are you supposed to be sleeping?" I asked.

"Nooooooo," said Frances.

"Yeeeeeees."

"But I want to play! I want to go downstairs!" She bounced. I was done for. Oh it was a horrible precedent, but we had to leave for the Santa Claus parade in an hour, and there didn't seem much point in forcing her to fall asleep only to wake her up in 45 minutes.

That night, though, when the morning's sore throat had developed into a cough and headache and deep need to sleep, and I was bundled up in bed, lights out, eyes closed:

"Hi, Mummy! I'm coming up to snuggle you!" She clambered on to the bed, climbed under the blankets and snuggled in for a few minutes while I dozily kissed her head. At least I didn't have to get up, right? "OK. Now I have to go back to my own bed. It's my sleep time, you know." And off she went. Then she came back. And went back to bed. And came back again.

She's like a kid who's just figured out how to use a lighter, and can't help herself from flicking that switch over and over and over just to see that magical bit of flame jump up again and again. I can just ... leave! I can get up. If I'm not asleep, I can just get out of bed and leave the room. What a clever girl I am for figuring this out all on my own.

I am letting myself in for heaps of trouble by not being more disciplined about this, but she is so adorable when she creeps up to the bedside in her jammies that I have to at least give her a hug before I send her away again. It is teaching her all the wrong lessons. I will never sleep again.

~~~~~

"Santa Claus parade?" You ask. "I thought you weren't going?"

No, this was different: this was our small local Santa Claus parade. We left 20 minutes before it started and still found prime street-side locations to set up our folding lawn chairs. Frances was wearing fleece-lined jeans, a sweater, a winter coat, lined mittens and a warm hat; once plopped into her mini sesame street lawnchair and wrapped with blankets, there was only the barest pink sliver of face visible, with a reddened nose prominent. Eventually she ended up on Erik's lap, still all wrapped up, while I took pictures of them and of the parade.

It was your typical We're Not Toronto's Santa Claus Parade parade, with floats featuring christmas trees and inflatable snowmen on flatbed trucks, highschool marching bands, and troops of brownies and sparks marching proudly by while waving to their fans. It was odd to watch it from the sidelines--part of one of my co-op jobs involved dressing up as a giant stack of recyclable newsprint and waving to the crowd from a giant blue box in other small town Santa parades, and why am I telling you this? Anyway, there I was, on the sidelines, not dressed up as a large inanimate object with an important yet feel-good message for local families.

Do you think Frances noticed the difference between this parade and the other one?

Actually, it was hard to tell, what with the mere sliver of face visible and a determinedly grim mien. Yes, grim. The World's Happiest Baby sat wrapped in her blankets and coats and fleece-lined jeans and barely moved, except once or twice she removed a hand to take a proferred mini-candycane. She did not smile, she did not exclaim, she did not point. She sat, stoically.

Once the Big Float was in sight, I took her from Erik's lap so we could jump up and down on the curb. Oh, all right, so I could jump up and down on the curb. She still wasn't having any of this enthusiasm business. But she did deign to smile and wave and say "Hi, Thomas!" when the Thomas the Tank Engine float went by (and it was fairly impressive, too, especially by We're Not Toronto's Santa Claus Parade parade standards). And then Santa! It's Santa! Look, Mummy, it's Santa! And Rudolph! And reindeers! What are the reindeers doing, Mummy? Oh, they're flying? Oh! It's Santa! Hi, Santa! Hello! Hi! It's Santa!

Frankly, after all the grim stoic sitting, the air of endurance she evinced through almost every second, I thought she would be relieved to go home. Instead, "No, I want to watch Santa again!" she cried.

"Sorry, kiddo, but Santa has another parade to go to today. But we can go home and watch it on TV, after your nap. Would you like to go watch it after your nap?"

"Yeah!"

And after we actually got her to have that nap (see above), she immediately demanded to watch Santa on TV. Which we did. And inside, without all of the binding and wrapping, the enthusiasm was more obvious. "Look, it's another marching band! Another marching band! Those are cymbols. Those are drums. It's Dora! It's Clifford the Big Red Dog! It's clowns!" Oh, sure, her patience for sitting still ran out halfway through, and for the second hour she zipped around the lower floor between the appearance of each new float: "You can't catch me!" Zip zip zip. "It's clowns!" Zip zip zip. "You can't catch me!" Zip zip zip. "Where's Santa?" Zip zip zip.

~~~~~

In advance of the parade, I tried to find out what she might like for her birthday or Christmas in the guise of writing a letter to Santa (postal workers collect letters at the parade). It didn't work so well.

She understands the concept of writing letters. She understands Santa; at least, I think she does. She does not understand the concept of asking for things she doesn't already have.

Which is great! But it does make the letter-writing process difficult:

"OK, what would you like Santa to bring you for Yule?"

She looks around the room, then excitedly points to her craft supplies: "Those foam shapes! Can I play with my foam shapes?"

"Sure. But is there anything you don't already have that you would like to have? Any toys you see at daycare you would like to have at home?"

And she just cocked her head and stared at me, as if I'd spoken to her in Greek.

It's not like I want to teach her acquisitiveness, by bringing her to a store or showing her a catalogue and encouraging her to point to everything she wants. Which is a skill I know she will pick up later in life, and I see no need to hasten it.

So I'll have to guess. And so will her relatives and friends. Which is fine, because I know my wee girl, she will be thrilled with whatever she is given.

Posted by Andrea at November 24, 2006 6:39 AM under Frances Friday

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