Sick Day

I don't know why I call in sick for Frances, ever. Sure, she has a bad cold with a nasty cough. She is also bubbling over with energy and I can barely get her to sit still long enough to watch Rudolph for the 92nd time this season.

(Superstitious Aside: This is our first significant cold of the season, though, and it's December! Hallelujah. That immunity thing is kicking in at last. Now, to appease the angry spirits, I will ritually knock on the wooden table while turning in a circle three times and humming.)

My memories of my own sick days as a child consist almost entirely of lying down on the couch, watching TV or reading stacks of novels, doing jumping jacks in bed to try to drive up my temperature before my mother appeared with the thermometer. It bears no resemblance to Frances's sick days.

She took out the Ed Emberley Christmas drawing book and did a few pages of reindeers, santas, and sleighs. She opened the princess art set she got for her birthday and did a few watercolour paintings using stencils. She opened the window clingers package and started a picture of a lamb. She made a few christmas cards, used specialty scissors to cut a few other cards into interesting shapes, and made a new shirt for baby eloise out of green construction paper, metallic crayons and sticky tape. She used snowflake stamps on the cards and scrupulously cleaned each one with the stamp cleaner. And she practiced her running stitch.

Backstory:

A couple of months ago I bought a cheap cushion form from Ikea ($5), brought it home and let it sit on the couch while I thought about cushion covers. I could buy one (for 4x the cost of the form) or make one. I had plenty of fabric. I chopped up a bunch of old t-shirts but none of them yielded big enough pieces for the cover, so instead I took out some scrap faux suede from a skirt I made a couple of years back and whipped up a quick cover with a flap-back. Then I told Frances to draw me a butterfly, transferred it on to the front panel of the cushion cover and back-stitched over it with wool yarn, and filled in the dots with seed stitches. When I was done Frances and I had a collaborative cushion which we are both very proud of. (That's the cushion at the top of the post, along with Frances's sketch and my tracing paper transfer. I wish I could take credit for the idea but I got it from Amanda Soule's The Creative Family.)

It took me probably about five hours to stitch the butterfly on to the cushion cover, and during that time Frances sat beside me, on the couch, sewing. I got her a scrap of plastic canvas, a big blunt plastic needle and a bit of tapestry thread. And we ended up with something like this.

Fast forward to this weekend: Greg and I made a pile of christmas cards, and I took the opportunity to dig out all of my christmas magazines. I also had a couple of sneaky card ideas after he left that had me digging through the cross-stitch mags, and since then I've been spending a couple of hours stitching up santas and snowmen. Frances was not going to be left out, so she picked up her plastic canvas again and I taught her how to do a running stitch

.

I even let her graduate to a metal 22-gauge tapestry needle and a bit of aida cloth (made for cross-stitching) and perforated paper. And look!

Running stitches! Nice, even, brightly rainbow-coloured metallic running stitches. She learned how to undo mistakes by going back through the hole she'd just come out of; and when I congratulated her on this, she said: "Mummy. It's just practice."

My bunny.

OK, so it's hard to see--look at the bottom of the beige perforated paper. That slightly darker dotted line is the running stitch. And yes, she did it all by herself.

But I don't care how wholesome and productive we've been today. Tomorrow, she's going to school.

Posted by Andrea at 5:17 PM | Comments (8)

To sleep, perchance to dream--of a giant snail-train monster

Two nights ago, while sleeping at her father's, Frances dreamed of Frosty the Snowman carrying her onto a refrigerated box-car headed to the north pole. Long before the train reached its destination, it turned into a giant snail and tried to eat her. Poor Frosty was transformed into a statue.

This dream terrified her, and last night she woke four times before midnight. I thought this evening was going better, until I heard a whimper upstairs. By the time I'd made it halfway up, what do I see but my wee girl tucking herself under the big duvet on my double bed.

I guess, when Mom's not upstairs to comfort you but you're really in need of some comfort, Mom's pillow-case will do.

I snuggled her and kissed her and left her there sleeping soundly. I owe the novel 2,000 words, after all. But something tells me this will be another long night.

Posted by Andrea at 9:11 PM | Comments (4)

Phonetics

I got as far as recording my conversation with Frances while we wrote out her first letter to Santa. It was a monumental event for me: she can spell! She wrote "table"! OK, so she wrote it "TBL," but the principle is clearly there, you can see it. She sounded out "Santa"! My big girl.

Then I listened to it and realized it would never do for blog fodder, because much of the conversation, as thrilling as it is to me, goes something like:

Frances: How do you spell pony?

Andrea: Let's sound it out. Pppp--

Frances: Pppp--

Andrea: Ppp-- Ppp--

Frances: Ppp-- P!

Andrea: Right! P! Then: Pooooooooo

Frances: Pooooo

Andrea: Pooooo

Frances: Poooo. Ooo. Ooo. O!

Andrea: Yes!

Frances: Ponnnnnn

Andrea: Ponnnnn

Frances: Nnn-- Nnn. N!

And so on, through several sure-to-be-tedious sentences. Her wish list this year consists of "My little pony, food, table, chairs (for the ponies, you see), adult boy fairy (to marry the adult girl fairy)." That's it. Santa should have an easier time this year than he had last year with the little yellow duckie.

Still, you know. I had to brag a little bit. She is reading! Writing! Spelling! Oh, the books I shall force upon her as soon as her vocabulary develops a smidgen more.

Posted by Andrea at 9:21 AM | Comments (8)

Extravert

"Mummy," said Frances in a loud, curious, not-the-least-mischievous voice, while eating a cheeseburger and fries at the local A&W and squishing my breast: "Why aren't you wearing a bra today?" Two greying men in business suits at the next table turned to stare.

I laughed quietly and not happily. "I am, sweetie," I replied quietly. "Please just eat your lunch."

I wonder: is there such a thing as too much closeness?

For the curious, the answer is no, my daughter does not typically grope me, either in public or private. What possessed her to do so yesterday at lunch, we may never know. Maybe I could blame the french fries. There must be some toxic preservative in them I can point to.

Shortly afterwards, we went to the library (returned: one book on Margaret Laurence; taken out: a picture book by Margaret Atwood, an Amelia Bedelia book, and three books about Canadian novelists: Carol Shields, Margaret Atwood and Miscellaneous. I am such an addict). Our local library branch is in the mall across the street, and has in it a small--very small--play area in the children's section equipped with two small round tables, a set of small red plastic chairs and a couple of cast-off toys, including a FisherPrice Little People farm playset from at least the 1970s with several pieces missing and those toys where large wooden beads have been strung on twisted lengths of thick and brightly-coloured wire. I got one of the bead-and-wire sets down off the shelf to keep Frances occupied while I browsed for books (always a dangerous idea; when will I learn?) and immediately a small boy with glossy black hair, round black eyes and a big grin sat down beside her to play with it too.

"You are a very nice boy!" said Frances to him, even before introductions had been made. "I will share this toy with you because you are a very nice boy. And I am a very nice girl!" She shifted to the chair beside her and the boy sat in front of the wire toy, still grinning, still silent. "Isn't he a very nice boy, Mummy?" asked Frances. "He seems like it," I said. "He is a very nice boy," said Frances firmly. "Aren't you? And I am a very nice girl. So we will share this toy."

The children's librarian, sitting nearby and shelving books, wearing the dour and nervewracked frown I associate with children's librarians (sorry, Mad; but after a lifetime of knowing children's librarians only through the public school system, it's true), looked at me and said, still frowning, "She's going to grow up and be a salesperson." The frown had shifted, though. It was what you might imagine a smile might look like, after it had been ground down by thirty years or so of saying SHHHHHH! to a bunch of under-supervised and under-responsive preschoolers who weren't even there for the books, but for the decades-old plastic cast-off toys. Which is to say that she meant it as a smile, and I could tell; it was, if you can picture it, a bright, wide-eyed frown.

"She'd be good at it," I said.

Twenty minutes later, Frances and the smiling and still-nameless boy were playing a game of slow and silent tag through the bookstacks, and when I'd checked out my new books and it was time to leave, he grasped the sleeve of her winter coat and said, "No, come!"

Posted by Andrea at 9:32 AM | Comments (4)

Sisterhood is Forever

Some of you might be wondering what ever happened about this. Especially since, as sibling says, I've been taunting you with the conclusion for over a week now.

I'll tell you: nothing.

Ever since, Frances's "sister" C has been snubbing her.

One Saturday Frances came back from her Dad's house and the first thing she said to me--before hello, Silly Mummy, it's me!--was, "Where is my scooter?"

The scooter in question was a pink Barbie model that lights up along the side when it's in motion. It has streamers and a little pink basket in the front and used to be C's, who gave it to Frances last summer.

"I don't know," I said. "You're right, it's not here. We'll look for it again tomorrow."

I kept my eyes open for it and sure enough, a few days later I saw it--by C's back door. C had taken it back. Since I was always taught that once you give something to someone it's no longer yours to take back, and attempts to do so are the same as taking anything else that doesn't belong to you--i.e., theft--I took it and put it in our storage room.

And then:

She never rings on our bell anymore.

Also:

Frances sometimes rang on hers. "Do you want to come out and play with me?" she'd ask C.

"Ok. I'm just finishing something up. I'll be out in five minutes."

Three hours later, I'm holding a crying Frances who wants to know why C is being mean to her and she doesn't want to go to bed because she didn't get to play with C yet. I tell her I don't know why C is being mean, and I wish I knew why, I wish I could tell her what happened. Even though I suspect it has something to do with the Little Green Alien Incident, the truth is I have no desire to imagine what goes on in that creepy head of hers.

Even more fun?

The day she rang on C's door, and noticed the "Happy Birthday" banner hung on it.

"Is it your birthday?" she asked C.

"Yes."

"Happy birthday!"

"Thanks!"

"Can I come to your party?"

"Sure!"

"Do you want to come outside and play with me? I have my horses and my Queen of all Horses."

"OK. Just give me five minutes to finish this up, all right?"

You already know that she wasn't outside in five minutes. Or at all.

But the invitation didn't come either. There is now a small pink birthday present in the front hall closet that is waiting for another recipient because whenever Frances saw it she would ask me when she was going to give it to C. "We're not going to," I'd say. "We don't give presents to people who treat us badly, sweetie, and C is not treating you nicely."

"When is C going to be nice to me again, Mummy? She is not being nice to me right now, but she is still my sister."

I imagine myself shouting obscenities at this child, and maybe in my situation you would, too. I can't imagine it shaking her, though, even if I could be the kind of person who would spew a verbal assault at a child. I can't imagine her caring, actually, that she's hurt someone or that someone else doesn't think well of her. But biting it back was not easy, especially considering that she'd still try to impress me with tall tales when Frances wasn't around, like the wild baby budgie she apparently rescued off an evergreen tree in the back. Oh yes. Brought it inside and bandaged its broken wing. She is a child of many talents, that C.

The weekend before Canadian Thanksgiving was my last straw. It was a gorgeous day, sunny and warm, and Frances went over to ask C if she would come out to play. Five minutes, said C. Forty-five minutes later, she went over to ask again, this time with me standing right there. I wanted to see if C would repeat her bald-faced lie with an adult right there watching. She did. "Five minutes," she said.

"OK," said Frances.

I imagined this perfect, beautiful Indian summer day going to waste while Frances sits inside and waits for C, who never comes. I imagined her broken-hearted at bedtime again. "C's lying," I said to Frances. "She's not coming outside in five minutes. Let's go to the farm."

"OK," said Frances.

"I'm not lying," said C, still smiling.

"Right," I said.

We went to the farm. We had a great day with a big bang at the end of it, as you've already read.

The next day, coming home after dropping Frances off at kindergarten, I passed C's grandmother walking her to school. C smiled at me and waved.

I think they are breeding a sociopath.

And now Frances is lonely and I don't know how to help her. Her friends at school are not yet old enough to just come over and play, and I hardly ever see their parents there, and when I do and mention that Frances would like visitors sometimes they beg off, which I understand--they are happy intact families in most cases with siblings so for them an evening visit is a lot of work for little reward. Frances doesn't ask me about C anymore, or ring on her bell and ask to play. I know she was bound to learn about bad and fickle friends at some point, but she is so young and has lost so much already, I can't help but be angry about this. Besides which, she simply cannot understand. She would never do that to someone else, so why would someone else--someone she loves--do that to her?

Posted by Andrea at 4:46 PM | Comments (13)

SKIP

The first thing I want to say is: thanks to all of you who answered the facebook plea. I figured it might take a day or two just to rack up the 10 confirmations I needed to claim (my own) blog; instead, it took a few minutes and a pile of you joined up as fans and gave me a bunch of very complimentary ratings. So thanks.

The second thing I want to say is tricky. Some images don't translate into words very well, and this I suspect is one of them, but I have to tell you anyway.

I want to tell you about the way Frances skips.

Girls her age skip. It's a new skill. They skip into class, they skip to the park, they skip to the bathroom. They skip. It's fun, it's cool, it's what all the heroines do on TV and in their favourite books. Most girls her age, however, skip demurely. They skip small. Their feet barely raise above the earth; it's a bop and a glide and a bop and a glide.

Not my wee Frances, oh no. You can see her skipping from half a block away.

The bop, for starters, is not a bop; she propels herself into the air. UP. The knee likewise is jacked skywards and rises to about her waist; her foot is straight out front, flexed hard. Then she rolls into the next step, and repeat. Propel UP knee high go go go!

Today I saw Frances and her daycaremates returning inside from their afternoon outdoor playtime, holding hands in pairs; I was in the parking lot and Frances was beyond the other end of the school. Of course, I recognized her bright pink fleece jacket and the mass of ash-blond hair regardless, and she stands out in any crowd of her peers because her head falls several inches below theirs. But today, in addition, I saw all her little friends demurely walking or skipping back into school--and in their midst, like an easter bunny after twenty cups of espresso, Frances skipping. UP bounce roooooll UP bounce roooooll. And I stood in the parking lot, covered my mouth with my hand, and laughed. I love her so much.

It's just so her. She gives herself over so completely to everything. To her friends, to her favourite toys, to whatever game she's playing, and now to skipping. Why skip unless you really SKIP? If you're going to skip, why not put your very heart and soul into it?

She skipped beside me all the way home, exhausting for her and very slow for me, but oh I loved it. UP bounce roooooll. "Frances bunny, I have to turn you skipping into a movie. I love your skipping."

"You do?"

"Yes. And I don't ever want to forget it."

She skipped on, UP bounce rooooll, as poised and confident as ever, taking in stride her mother's perfectly understandable decision to visually document her mobility patterns. I could almost hear her thinking, but of course, of course Mummy wants to turn me into a movie, I am loveable and important.

What I really wanted to say was, I wish you would never stop skipping this way. I wish you would skip like this for the rest of your life. What I wanted to say was, I will be heartbroken when you learn to skip small like other girls. What I wanted to say was, this is the most beautiful thing about you, how wide open you are, how you give yourself completely to everything you love; and one day it's going to break your heart, because not everything or everyone will love you back the way you love them; but don't change, don't change, don't change.

Next week I'm going to talk about characterization and the fallout between Frances and her "sister" C in the wake of the Little Green Alien Incident. But first, I had to tell you about the way she skips.

Posted by Andrea at 8:33 PM | Comments (12)

No Monsters Yet. Just another temporal anomoly.

Another day (or three), another page, another heart attack--still no monster, although something took a pretty big bite out of my savings account yesterday and I think the two might be related. It's hard to be sure.

In the meantime, here is a photo of my daughter running to school.

Yes. Running to school. I know. I thought the same thing myself. When Frances does the more expected thing and runs away from school, I promise you all will be the first to know.

As we were approaching her classroom this morning for the big drop-off, we saw her principal running here and there, helping get kids organized and find their class's meeting spot. She is tall and thin and very blond and had a huge smile on her face. You never would have guessed it was her first day back to work after a two-month vacation and already everything was chaotic. "Hi, Miss B!" Frances called out.

"Hi, Frances!" said Miss B. "Don't you look gorgeous today."

At this, Frances grew about two inches and walked off to the kindergarten door. "That's Miss B," she told me.

"I know," I said. "She's the principal."

"She's my boss," said Frances.

"Oh!" That makes sense, I thought. At about the time I'm heading back to school, Frances is going to work.

Posted by Andrea at 2:59 PM | Comments (5)

And now for some comic relief

Frances: Do you know how giraffes hug?

Andrea: No, I don't.

Frances: They go like this [wiggles her head and neck] and wrap their necks around people and animals. And frogs.

~~~~~

Frances: Mabamabamabamaba!

Andrea: Stoogooboodoo.

Frances: [laughs hard] Eenaeenaeenaeena!

Andrea: Flabiffty!

Frances: [laughs harder] Eeyoeeyoeeyoeeyoee!

Andrea: baboobaboobaboodee!

Frances: [face flat] That's not funny, Mummy.

~~~~~

[playing Sorry]

Andrea: So I'll use 4 to move this guy to this slide, and the other 3 to move this guy to this slide.

Greg: Another slide! Your mommy is smart.

Frances: Yes, but I am smarter.

~~~~~

NB: Frances, do you want to play outside?

Frances: No.

NB: Noooo? Oh! But I want to play outside! Will you want to play outside later?

Frances: Maybe.

NB: In how many minutes?

Frances: Eleven?

NB: But last time you said four, so this time you have to say three.

NB's Dad: Maybe Frances just wants to stay warm, NB.

[a few minutes later]

NB: Frances, do you want to play outside?

Frances: No. I just want to stay warm.

Posted by Andrea at 9:03 AM | Comments (3)

dogs and thunder

Andrea: so...there's a few things I wanted to tell you before we go to the birthday party on Saturday.

Frances: What is it, Mummy?

A: One is that grandpa got very very sick last weekend. He spent some time in the hospital.

F: Oh no!

A: Yes. And he's feeling much better now but he is still a little bit sick, and he won't be able to pick you up for a hug. So if you want a hug you will have to sit beside him on the couch, ok?

F: OK. Is he still sick?

A: A little.

F: So he can't fix things?

A: No, right now he can't fix things. And he can't garden and he can't drive. He can't even pick up Pudding!

F: Oh!

A: The other thing I wanted to tell you is ... Lexi also got very sick last weekend. But they couldn't fix her. And she died.

F: Oh no!

A: I know, sweetie.

F: That means Mumms and Grandpa will be very very sad!

A: That's true. They are very sad. Do you want a hug?

F: (climbs into my lap.) That means I will never see Lexi again.

#

It's so like her to first think of other people. As sad as it was I do admit that my heart swelled with pride.

She'd be ok for a while--playing with spiderman in her gruff "boy voice," showing me how he casts webs from his hands--and then teary and sad and needing a hug. Bedtime was rough. She was a sad, sad little girl, who didn't want me to die. Or leave the room. Or the mattress. And I told her that Lexi was very very old and had been very sick for a long time, and I was healthy and young and I wasn't planning on dying until Frances is an old lady; of course a bus could make a liar out of me tomorrow, but some comforting half-truths seemed called upon in the instance.

I know some parents would have made up something about a farm in the country, but I don't think that would have been right. Loss and grief are such essential parts of the human condition--I think, if I had lied, it would have been to spare myself, so that I would not have had to see her unhappiness. I think that what she needs are people close by who love her and can help her make sense of it and feel ok.

But when the time had come to tell her what had happened to Lexi, I felt as if I were forcing the words out of a mouth filled with mud.

Posted by Andrea at 8:58 AM | Comments (10)

Ways Frances Has of Protesting Bedtime

1. I'm not tired! (Burst into tears) No, I'm not! I'm not tired! Really, Mummy!

2. Why am I in bed, and the sun is still up? (Sometimes, with an imperious finger pointing towards the window.)

3. But it's not even dark yet!

4. I don't want it to be bedtime.

5. But I have to finish my project. See?

6. But I didn't get to play outside today!

7. (after lying in bed for two minutes) Mummy? Mummy, I have something to tell you. I tried to sleep, Mummy, but I just can't.

8. Mummy, you forgot to say goodnight to the duck/Bella/Ella/Sishi/other stuffed sleep-time friend.

9. Mummy, my finger still hurts!

10. Mummy, I love you. Can I have a hug?

(I figure so many of you are BlogHering, even if you're not there, that I'll wait the heavy posts until sometime next week. Happy weekend!)

Posted by Andrea at 9:20 AM | Comments (5)

definitions are important

(overheard while Frances was playing with C in the backyard.)

Frances: I love my Mummy. I love my whole family!

C: That's nice.

Frances: I love you too. You are my sister.

C: Aww...I love you too. (hug)

Frances: You are my honourary sister.

C: Yeah.

Frances: Honourary means nice.

Posted by Andrea at 9:19 AM | Comments (2)

Canada Day

Yesterday we went to the free Canada Day celebrations at Downsview Park for Frances's introduction to fireworks. We got there at 4:30 so we could enjoy the shows and rides for a few hours first, and rode a small ride and went down a very big slide (that was fun), saw a person juggling knives off the top of a pole, had a small supper, and found a spot on the grass to set out our blanket. With two hours to go, Frances entertained herself (and me) by running around with her Canada flag. Tiredness was beginning to make her hyper, but not so hyper that she couldn't stop and make friends with the occasional baby and puppy when one presented itself.

We watched the sky get darker and darker, and the lights on the midway rides shone brighter and brighter, and eventually we snuggled down beneath our blanket, and the practice fireworks started going off. "Wow," said Frances. "Fireworks are cool."

Then the first real one went off. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "Wow."

For the whole show she alternately watched with her mouth open, murmured words of amazement, covered her mouth with a hand. "They look like flowers," she said. "Ooooh. Sparkles in the sky! They're so pretty." Sometimes, she would break into spontaneous applause. Watching her face was as entertaining as watching the fireworks--and they were very pretty. I put the camera away. I wanted to just watch her and remember her face as it was, and not be distracted by focus and framing.

We walked back to the car afterwards talking about which fireworks were our favourite. "Did you like our girls staying up late party?" I asked.

"Yeah."

She was asleep within five minutes of getting into the car, and it took us an hour to get home--forty-five minutes of that getting out of the parking lot. But it was worth it, to have Frances wrapped up in a blanket on my lap, fireworks lighting up her face with rose and gold and violet, all open with wonder.

Posted by Andrea at 9:04 AM | Comments (6)

Day One: Not the rousing start I'd hoped for

Today's plan was a playpark and the video store for a rental. The playpark was rained out--again, I can't remember a rainier June in Toronto. Looking at the rain I decided at the last minute to take the car rather than the subway and head to the Best Buy instead of Blockbuster, bring a new movie home (at slightly greater expense, but Frances is still at the stage where she likes to watch something new a thousand times, so this will be more satisfying for her). We picked up a few cheap movies and were out our door when there was a "Hey, guys" behind us.

It was Erik. "Daddy!" said Frances, and latched herself around his neck.

"I was doing some shopping too," he said, "but I didn't get anything."

For a few minutes we chatted by my car while Frances hugged her Daddy. Then he tried to say goodbye so we could head home. Frances's face knotted up and she sobbed.

It's hard for her to see her Daddy for just a few minutes and say goodbye again when she misses him so much. I asked her if she would like to spend some extra time with Daddy before going home, and she nodded, and he suggested going to a playpark (it was sunny by then--though it's raining again now), and she nodded again, so that was the new plan. Except that when I got up to get into my car, she sobbed again.

"What would you like to do?" Erik asked her.

"I don't think we should do that," I said. "Let's just go with our new plan." I didn't want her to feel that she was being forced to choose sides, to pick which parent she wanted to spend time with that afternoon.

Poor little bunny. When she's with her Mummy she misses Daddy; when she's with Daddy she misses Mummy; they're never in the same place at the same time except maybe when she runs into them in the middle of a Best Buy parking lot. It's hard enough for a grown-up to deal with. But she is just a little girl who must desperately wish sometimes that things were still the way they used to be.

It's freedom for me, but it's a huge loss for her.

Soon she will be here again and we will watch a new movie together on the couch, and eat some snacks. I'll snuggle her up and wonder what to say and how, and wish there was some way I could make it all right.

Posted by Andrea at 2:19 PM | Comments (5)

Half-Birthday Celebration

When your birthday is just before Christmas, as Frances's is, half-birthdays take on a greater importance; and for a while now, Frances has been counting the days until she could officially be four and-a-half (and not allowing anyone to call her four-and-a-half until the magic day arrived).

"Mummy, how old am I today?" she asked me yesterday morning, sitting on the floor in her whale pyjamas, surrounded by Little People.

"You're..." I blinked. "Today is your half-birthday! You are four-and-a-half today!"

"I know!" she said. "Now I am bigger. My hands and fingers are bigger and stronger. And I can run faster!" She got up and ran across the living room and back.

"Wow, look at how fast you are."

"I know! And I can gallop faster!" She galloped across the living room and back, laughing.

"Wow!"

"I am four-and-a-half! I am strong. Look at my muscles!" She flexed her arms. "See?"

"I see!"

"Yay!" She jumped. "Mummy, when is my party?"

"Weeell, see, we only have birthday parties at birthdays, so you will have a birthday party when you turn five."

"Oh. That's a big number."

"Yes. But if you'd like, we can go out for dinner and have a special half-birthday dinner at the restaurant with the M on the door." (Montana's.)

"Can I have cake?"

"Sure. And in a little while, we can go to the flower store and get some petunias for your flower garden. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah." She played for a few minutes. "Mummy, I want Mumms and Grandpa to come to my party."

"OK. Would you like to invite them? I can give you the phone and you can call them and ask."

"Yeah!" This is a girl who frequently refuses to talk to anyone on the phone, her parents included, which is a chore because she is supposed to talk to one or the other of us every night. When I called her at her father's on Friday and asked her what she did that day, all I got from her was 'I don't know!' in a tone mixed of equal parts of exasperation, amusement and impatience. Which was almost all she would say for the entire ten minutes of the call, and that's not unusual. But not yesterday: she took the phone, dialed the number, and when my father answered said, "Hi Grandpa. Would you like to come to my birthday dinner tonight? It's at the restaurant with the M on the door."

After bringing home some purple petunias and a few other plants to round out the containers in the back yard and getting them planted and watered, and chasing her around in a game of camera tag ("you can't take my picture, Mummy! I'm running too fast! Ah! You took my picture! (giggling) I'm going to hide behind this tree, now you can't take my picture .... ah! You took my picture! Can I see?"), we came inside and she took out her craft box full of buttons and glitter glue and scraps of fabric and ribbons and began making presents for her dinner guests.

First she took a boxboard blank christmas ornament and decorated it with christmas glitter glue, scraps of white microfibre and christmas buttons and put it in a cast-off gift bag that otherwise would have gone out with the recycling. Then she made them a thank-you card, and waited impatiently for it to dry after smearing the entire centre with glitter glue. All the while I was making her a card that I didn't let her see, a light pink cardstock card with bright teal-and-pink paper and a bright green four on the front, with "and a half" lettered beside it, and some pretty sequin and felt flowers besides. Then I gave her a bath and trimmed her bangs and dressed her in an orange stripey dress (which she would later lift above her head in the restaurant so Mumms and Grandpa could get a good view of the stripes).

This was followed by a detour to the bookstore. The plan was to let her buy herself one book as a special treat--but--there was a sale, see, buy 3 get the fourth free, so we got four, but they were all small inexpensive books, two of which were Scooby Doo picture books. And then she begged for a little grey stuffed elephant in the lineup which I didn't have the heart to refuse her when it was her half-birthday. And then there was the little fairy toy I snuck on to the pile without her seeing it to surprise her with at the restaurant. And a little notebook with bright flowers on the cover. But your half-birthday only comes once a year. Right?

So: flower store, gardening with Mummy, camera tag, playing, party dress, bookstore with new presents, restaurant with favourite meal, surprises, guests, and home just in time to talk to Daddy on the phone before bed. I think that counts as a pretty good half-birthday.

And I think she agrees.

Posted by Andrea at 9:54 AM | Comments (12)

A Good Day

Any Monday that begins with a one-hour sleep-in is bound to be a good one. I actually woke before Frances yesterday, and had gone downstairs to check the weather forecast online when I heard "Good morning Mama" from the top of the stairs.

I'm not sure why I'm Mama again. I was Mummy, then Mommy, then Mom for a few days; now Mama. In any case, I carried my sleepy girl in her mermaid pyjamas downstairs and set her up with a minigo and another watching of Shrek 3 (for the babies at the end, you see. The rest of the movie is just leading up to the part where the shrek babies appear and she can ooh and aah over how cute they are) while I blogged, after which we played ("Psst," I whispered, and when she leaned in, "I love you." "Psst," she whispered, and when I leaned in, "You're a great mommy") and got dressed and then I rode her to school in the bike. It was a nice enough day that she got to wear her crinkly pink skirt and her pink t-shirt with the butterfly on the front that makes her look, as she says, like a ballerina. An especially adorable one, since the preschooler belly pushes the skirt down a bit in front so that it poofs up behind her.

I had a lot to get done while she was at school yesterday afternoon; so after dropping her off I rode my bike down to the Don for an hour (#1--exercise), then went home and changed and headed off to Ikea on foot to get some organizing things to tackle some of the messes that developed over the winter and take care of a few nagging issues that are more apparent now that we've been living there for a while, and also a bathroom mirror so that Frances can brush her own teeth (#2). Took the subway home and reorganized the front hall and the closet, and good god, I have shelf space after all, also the floor is no longer littered with shoes of various sizes (#3). Put the other organizing gizmo in my closet and got all the sweaters my Mom gave me off the floor, where they'd been living for a few months because I have nowhere else to put them, and I'm not quite sure when or if I will ever wear so many sweaters (she was downsizing after changing careers herself) but they have to go somewhere (which reminds me: anyone in the Toronto area interested in some sweaters? Or some size 8 or 10P clothes? They're nice, I'm just not short enough for them) (#4). Put the clean dishes away, cleaned the bathrooms, engaged in the never-ending battle against the sand that Frances tracks in and dumps from her shoes to the floor (#5). Off to the mall across the street for a pitstop at the toy store and to pick up a few groceries I'd missed on Saturday (#6).

There's all kinds of plans I have for organizing the apartment over the summer; like, getting all the christmas stuff into semi-attractive storage boxes and keeping them over the kitchen cupboards, since there is all kinds of space up there that is otherwise going unused. Then taking the empty storage cabinet from the storage room and putting it outside, to use as a shed for Frances's outdoors toys (which otherwise get muddy or leafy or stolen), since it is waterproof and has space for a lock. This will clear up space in the storage room, so I can keep my bike there instead of in the living room; which will clear up a handy bit of space that could be used for a small bookcase, when I get around to getting one, for all the books currently stacked on the floor of my bedroom. At which point I could entertain getting a small desk for the computer gadgets that have nowhere to go right now; and I will probably get rid of the small green desk currently in the dining area because I never use it with the kitchen table right there, and it ends up just holding crap; so I'd take that out and maybe store it at my parents' and then get a small shelving unit to hold the crafty stuff instead. But one thing has to lead to another, so the first thing is to get the storage boxes that will fit over the cabinets in the kitchen.

Anyway.

It was a busy afternoon; after which I picked up my girl from the school and we walked home. At times she would let go of my hand and run off, small legs pumping, ponytail bouncing, staring back over her shoulder at me to see how I was taking it as she laughed. "Look at you go!" I'd say. "You'll never catch me," she'd reply. "You're right. I'll never catch you. You're too fast. Look at you!" At other times she would grab my hand and kiss the back and tell me she loves me.

"I have a surprise for you at home," I said.

"You do? What is it?"

"I can't tell you, or it won't be a surprise. Let's go home quickly so I can show you."

We got home and she found the plastic bag from the toystore in the front hall, and in it, two new balls to replace the ones that were evidently stolen from our front walk in the last few weeks. "Balls!" she said. "Oooh, I like this one, it's pretty." It is, too; it's a pink-and-white-and-purle o-ball with sparkles in it. "Let's go outside and play with them!"

"OK, but now we have a new rule: we can take one ball outside at a time, and when we're done we bring it back inside so it doesn't get lost again."

She picked the blue ball with green polkadots to start with and we went out front and played catch, Frances giggling all the while, and laughing harder when she missed and went to chase it than when she caught it. Soon C and two other neighbourhood children, both older than her, came riding by on their bicycles. "We're having a party by the rocks," said C. "Do you want to come, Frances? It'll be fun. We're going to have balloons and snacks and prizes and everything."

Frances jumped. "A party! How exciting!"

The mother of the older boy was also there. After a few minutes of chatting about this very exciting party, she said, "She's so advanced for her age! My goodness, look at you, walking already."

"Actually," I said, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, "she's four."

"Oh, my goodness. Isn't she adorable. I'd just like to eat you up!"

I laughed. "See, Frances, it's not just me. Everyone wants to eat you."

"It's true." The other mother knelt down. "I'd like to eat you with salt," she said, miming a salt shaker over Frances's head; "and pepper, and ketchup, and mustard," while Frances laughed. "Can I? No? Oh." She stood, and sighed. "She is so adorable. And you can just see her personality in her face, it draws you in."

I beamed. It's true, you know, but I never mind hearing it from other people.

The party was to start at seven. We played catch for a while longer and then went inside so Frances could have a small supper and call her father before it started. Good thing she was already in her party clothes, we both agreed. We came back outside and C joined us and said she'd been fired from the party so she wasn't going anymore, so here were the prizes and they could play their own game, and they did, and Frances "won" a few of C's small toys. Her favourite was the little fairy with the orange bendy wings, from which she could hardly tear her eyes; then C's mother came outside and took her to the park.

We went to where the party was supposed to be, but while the two older kids were there, no one else was; and (without addressing either of us, I'd like to mention) they decided to postpone it. I felt like telling them that when you fire your friends from the party you can't really be surprised when no one shows up. Frances was disappointed and didn't at first believe me when I said there wasn't going to be a party after all; I could hardly just take her home to bed after such a build-up, could I? So we went to the park, too.

She ran, she climbed chain ladders and bridges that looked much too big for her while I hovered anxiously behind in case she needed help, which she didn't; she went down big slippery slides. I remember the first yellow toddler slides only about half my own height two houses ago, and the light in her eyes when she first went down them. Now here she is zipping down some contraption way over my head, fearlessly. I watched the parents of the toddlers stare at us in something like fear or amazement or both, because Frances doesn't look older than their children but there she is on the big kids' playset and there I am, letting her. Then a few minutes in the chair swing and a very, very unhappy decision to go home to bed when it was already twenty minutes past her bedtime. "We'll come back on the next nice day," I promised her, "except for tomorrow because I'm going to need to give you a bath. Look at those filthy little feet!"

At home were two more surprises: a little nightlight that looks like a ghost from Ikea that will live on her flower table downstairs (except a bulb looked to be flickering a bit this morning, so I might need to exchange it), and her new mirror upstairs, where she brushed her own teeth for the first time (with some help) in her mermaid jammies before reading Little Miss Fun all snuggled up on the big bed, and then sleep.

Then eight hundred words for the novel, more tidying up, a talk with the boyfriend, and bed.

It was a perfectly ordinary, absolutely wonderful day; the kind I wish I could somehow trap in amber so I could always go back and see it again just as it was, every detail unaltered. The way her soft little lips pressed the back of my hand when she said, "I love you Mama." Her giggly grin over her shoulder as she ran, those tiny muscled legs winking. Patting the head of the ghost nightlight. Her tiny feet all crusted over with sand, the way kids' feet should be after a beautiful summery day, and her face streaked with dirt where she had rubbed it with her grimy little fingers. Laughing while she is admired by others, and showing off her pink ballerina skirt that rides up in the back. I want every bit of it etched in translucent stone so that twenty or forty years from now, it's still there. One of those days when even if you could, you wouldn't trade your life for anyone's.

Posted by Andrea at 9:18 AM | Comments (6)

Nothing to see here. Move along.

I am way too distracted and much too tired to manage any profundity today. Sorry.

You can blame the boyfriend and the bloggers who have organized the very official and highly structured Maritime BlogHer in Halifax this weekend for my current state of mind. I'd love to write something meaningful but it's just not going to happen today.

Well, let's see what happens when I concentrate....

Yippee!

No, wait.

See, it's hopeless.

Maybe I can dredge my mind for a happy Frances story to tide you over.

...

She's cute! No, wait....

Frances says something adorable. This happens all the time, you'll just have to take my word for it. I say, "Frances, can I eat you?"

"No!"

"No? Oh... Can I nibble on you?"

"Nooooo!"

"Aww. How about, can I lick you?"

"No! I'm not a lollipop!" She laughs.

"Oh. OK. Uh, can I give you a kiss?"

"Yes." And she turns her cheek. I kiss her. She says, "You can hug and kiss me, but you can't eat, nibble or lick me."

"Oh?"

"Because I am not food. I am all covered with skin, and I have bones."

"That's true. I can feel them in your fingers."

"I am a person. Persons are not food."

"Can't argue with that."

There you have it, Dear Readers: the received wisdom of Frances. Persons are not food.

Posted by Andrea at 10:16 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Sees a Horton

I decided to take Frances to see Horton Hears a Who late afternoon on Friday. We didn't have a stroller or a car so we hoofed it to the subway station, in the slush and snow and ice, which actually wasn't as bad as I feared. Many escalators and staircases later, we were the proud possessors of a couple of tickets to watch Horton, as I'd told Frances--on a really big tv screen as big as a wall! And we'll buy popcorn! Won't it be fun?

She was so excited she begged me to leave for the movie early, so we did and got the full 20 minutes of ads and previews.

The movie was really great. You know I never do advertising or product reviews here, so that was sincere: it is easily the best full-length-feature Seuss adaptation I've seen. It was faithful to the spirit of the book; the additions made sense and weren't treacly or cliche. The mayor/jojo thing was a bit odd, but not so odd that it spoiled the movie, at least not for me. I would have liked to see more of the scientist character. But these are pretty minor complaints.

Frances and I shared a small bag of popcorn, and then a box of Reese's pieces; and for much of the movie she sat on my lap, hands on her knees, leaning forward, absolutely riveted. Toward the end when she'd returned to her own chair, she seemed a little teary, so I leaned over to see if she was ok and she grabbed my hand and wrapped my arm around her for a hug. Afterwards, she must have said, "That was so, so great!" and "I had such a great, great time!" a dozen times as we walked back to the subway station. I got a chance to introduce her to the convenience store owner who is always calling me "gorgeous neighbour" (the theatre is across from my office) when we went to get some post-movie orange juice.

It was so much fun to go see a movie with my little girl, especially a movie about an elephant she idolizes.

The frogzibitz at the Zoo was fun, and seeing our friends was fun, and seeing Mumms and Grandpa was fun, and I'm guessing today's egg painting adventure will also be fun; but I think Frances's first movie in a theatre will be the part I remember--sitting side-by-side and sharing a bag of popcorn while the Whos all shouted "We are here! We are here! We are here!"

(She liked Jojo best, if you're wondering.)

Posted by Andrea at 9:03 AM | Comments (9)

Down With Love. Sort of.

Not all of us are happily coupled on Valentine's Day, you know?

There are those of us who are happily uncoupled, unhappily coupled, or unhappily uncoupled.

All this balloon hearts and chocolate boxes and roses stuff--the last time I really got excited about Valentine's Day I was in highschool. More power to those of you whose hearts are fluttering as I type with wondering about what your sweetheart has planned for you today, and my sympathies to the ones who only wish their sweetheart was planning anything but you already know that despite store windows filled with pink-and-red signs for the last four weeks that you're not getting anything because s/he's somehow managed to forget.

For the rest of us, a potpourri of smug news about romance:

1. Hey, you know that old trope about how men want beautiful women and women want rich men? You know that it's hogwash? That people will say that it's true but when their behaviour is measured both men and women value attractiveness over money? Yeah, take that Bill Gates.

2. Did you know that kissing transmits information about health, intentions, willingness to commit to raising children, and genetic compatibility? According to Scientific American Mind (and really, why would they lie to us?) it might have evolved from the primate feeding tactic of chewing food for children before passing it directly to their mouths. So romantic. (Still, read the article.)

3. Of course, Frances's school is going all out. There is a Danceathon! Everyone is to wear pink or red! There will be a special snack at kindergarten! There will be the annual exchange of tacky, punny, branded cardlets! It is all too exciting for words! Valentine's Day, hurrah!

I much prefer this version.

A few nights ago we were curled up on the sofa and she started talking about getting married, for some reason. Knowing Frances it came right out of the blue, as her topics of converstation frequently do.

"Do you want to get married someday?" I asked her.

"Yeah."

"Do you know who you want to marry?"

"I want to marry my Daddy," she said. "But he told me that I can't."

"That's true," I said, lips twitching, trying not to giggle. "There are rules that say daughters can't marry their daddies. But there might be someone else one day."

She had no reply but a heartfelt sigh.

With two divorces under my belt my belief in marriage and monogamy might have been ground to a fine powder, but love is still beautiful. Even if it doesn't stay.

Posted by Andrea at 10:16 AM | Comments (13)

The Talk (which didn't go the way I thought it would)

Wednesday was a self-declared snow day. I took one look at our slushy, snow-laden, uncleared sidewalks and declared them impassable by stroller, and we stayed home. I got a fair bit of work done for someone who was being bounced on by a small child demanding repeats of hide-and-seek and Candyland, and she went only marginally stir-crazy.

While we were playing Candyland, it came out that someone at school told her Wiccans are bad guys. I can't get out who, but in the end I suppose it doesn't really matter. "I'm Wiccan," I said. "Am I a bad guy?"

"No," she said. "Are Wiccans good guys?"

"Some of them. Some of them are good, some of them are bad. Just like everyone else."

And we sat down and I gave a little speech about how wiccans and witches are the same thing, and it's not like the books or television, and if she ever has any questions about wiccans or witches or if she hears anything about them she should come and ask me. "Do you have any questions?" Her eyes were very large and blue.

She nodded, looking solemn. She pulled down the neckline of her shirt, stared at her chest and said, "Where are my breasts?"

OK. What the hell. "You'll have breasts when you're a teenager. But that's a few years away still."

"Are you a teenager?" She climbed into my lap.

"No, I'm a grown-up lady."

"Oh."

"What are you going to do when you're grown up?"

"I'm going to teach you stuff." She squirmed herself into the four inches of empty couch between me and the armrest.

I shifted over to give her more space, and put an arm around her shoulders. "Oh? That's nice. Thanks."

"Yeah. Because you don't know anything yet."

Truer words may never have been spoken.

Posted by Andrea at 7:57 AM | Comments (7)

Monday Mission: Imperative

(This week's exercise is 300 words written in the imperative. I've flouted the length requirement again because I couldn't have told this one in a short space.)

How To Run a Child's Birthday Party

First, get the date wrong when you email your friends. Put the correct date on the paper invitation and don't bother to tell them what happened. Apologize for the confusion several times. Then cancel it altogether for a snowstorm. Your daughter will be disappointed. Feel like a heel. Reschedule for January.

In the meantime, eat the snacks you'd bought for the party. Wonder why your blood sugars are high.

Re-purchase the snacks in January.

On the morning of the party, pour milk on your daughter's breakfast cereal. Realize that you are out of milk. Realize that you can't make icing for the cookie decorating without milk. Decide to be ok with this because you can go out and get milk when your ex comes over to help set up an hour before the party starts (at 1:30). Begin the frenzy of final preparations: scrub the table, scrub the snack bowls, put out coasters and napkins, sweep, mop, set out crackers, fruit and cheese. Find yourself holding a stack of half-read books, a notebook, an armful of stuffed toys, a dirty glass, two plastic forks and a half-eaten apple with no earthly idea how to put them all down again. Almost put the forks in the fridge and the apple in the sink. Knock your head against the wall. Remember: it will be over soon.

Watch the clock. Become increasingly grumpy while watching the clock. Get yourself dressed, get your daughter's outfit ready. When she asks you for the five millionth time that morning if she can get dressed now, say No, I don't want you getting your party dress dirty before your guests arrive. When she asks you for the six millionth time if she can decorate cookies yet, say No, that is for when your friends are here. When she asks you if she can dump out another bin of lego, say No, for god's sake I just cleaned up in here. When she begs you for Horton, say yes. Let her watch Horton, for the love of all that's holy, and tape up streamers. Nod your head when your daughter advises you to put them up straight, like this. Continue to let them hang. Remember to keep watching the clock. When it is 1:15, fume. Ask the air: where is he? What is taking him so long? Doesn't he know you're out of milk?

Run out to get the milk as soon as he shows up. Find three of your friends in the parking lot all arriving at exactly the same moment. Apologize. Get the milk. Run home. Pressure your guests to eat the food you set out even though they all just finished lunch.

Make far too much of four different colours of icing (pink, teal, green and white) and the sprinkles and sparkles. Set the Shrek plastic cloth out on the floor. Cover it with the decorating goodies, a bunch of plastic knives, and the brown-sugar shortbread cookies (hearts, flowers, dinosaurs and circles). When the sprinkles get dumped in moutainous heaps on the plates, and the plastic knives are scrubbed by a guest's tongue, and the round sprinkles bounce and roll across the floor like a hundred brightly coloured miniature ping-pong balls, and everyone wants to use the green icing all at once, and they insist on eating the cookies now even though chocolate birthday cake is coming, and the knife for the pink icing ends up in the blue, laugh.

Later, when all of your guests have gone home, look at the leftovers. Groan.

Posted by Andrea at 12:22 PM | Comments (6)

The advent calendar countdown is done. The advent set family stood holding hands in a circle, just like the Whos in Whoville, waiting for the big day.

Meanwhile, just because I have a family of two doesn't mean I can't bake for a family of six. Someday we are sure to finish the chocolate crackles, gingersnaps, raspberry cream sandwiches, truffle brownies and lemon squares. (But I'm willing to accept volunteers to assist us, if you are interested.)

And it's not Christmas without daisybraid, even if, at two people, there is one loaf each and only a few days to eat them.

Christmas Eve, as I mentioned already, Frances celebrated with her father at his apartment in the Swiss tradition. I'm not entirely clear on what went on yet, except that Santa came, and it must have been very exciting because when she came back, just past her bedtime, she was limp with exhaustion and happiness. She expressed firmly that Santa only liked chocolate milk, and she was not happy that we had none to offer him. We opened her Christmas pyjamas and read her Christmas book (a tradition I'm carrying on from my family), and I poured her into bed, where she slept (thank the gods) until 7:00 in the morning. It still came too early, but not nearly as early as I'd feared.

"Should we go see if Santa came?" I asked her.

We went downstairs, and she stood and looked around the room. "He did! He came!" she said. "There are snowflake presents!"

"Look at that!" I said. "And there are presents in your stocking too. Why don't you start with those, and I'll get the daisybraid on?"

I did, and she did, and she found stickers and chocolates and a Mole Sisters book and a pen with rudolph on the end and little wooden letters that spell her name. And that was fun. But later, when the daisybraid was in the oven, and I asked her if she wanted to open her presents from Santa, she said "I'll start with the little one." She began. "There's a lot of tape."

"Yes," I said. "Santa uses more tape than Mummy does."

"Yeah." She continued on, until she pulled something small and soft and yellow out of the package. "It's a duckie." She stared at it. "It's a little yellow duckie! Mummy, it's a little duckie! This is just what I wanted! See? See?" And she thrust it toward me, it's blurried and over-exposed face to be preserved for posterity by the camera.

"Yes, I see," I said. "Did Santa bring you what you asked for?"

"Yeah! This is just what I wanted!" And the look on her face--something between breathless shock and transported joy--was the highlight of Christmas.The rest of it (the craft supply restocking that I'd packaged from Mummy in the teal paper (foam sheets and construction paper and glue and markers), the little tool set that she is planning to use to build the old house and the small lego set she got from Santa, the lego sets she got from my parents, the purse that looks like a yorkshire terrier that she got from my Mom's dogs (yorkies themselves), and the little Tanzanian Dora doll and Littlest Pet Shop toy she got from my aunt (though, to be fair, the Littlest Pet Shop fascinated her for hours and I'm sure it started a new toy craze in our household)) could not match that moment when she pulled out her first present and got just exactly what she wanted.

Later, when we'd returned from my parent's house at almost ten, and I undressed and pyjamaed her with her eyes still almost shut, pulled her sheets up to her chin and turned off the light. Then I went to get her little yellow duckie from the bag in the hall, and she opened her eyes for long enough to stretch out her arms and wrap them tightly around her new baby. She fell asleep just like that and stayed that way until morning.

Posted by Andrea at 7:36 AM | Comments (8)

Tomorrow is Christmas, it's practically here!

Friday: Daycare Birthday Party

Saturday: Out to dinner with Mummy, Daddy, Mumms and Grandpa

Sunday: Mummy's friend had a Christmas party, where two other little girls came. There were presents, toys, running games, and orange juice (now I know why I water it at home).

Monday: Christmas Eve, to be spent with Daddy, whose family celebrated and opened their presents on this day.

Tuesday: Christmas, to open presents at home and then go to Mumms and Grandpa's house.

Wednesday: Crash.

Merry Christmas to everyone who celebrates it. I won't be posting the next few days, but that's ok, since almost none of you will be reading anyway. See you on the other side of the mayhem.

Posted by Andrea at 8:47 AM | Comments (2)

When you are perfect

When you are the World's Best Kindergartener Ever, Bar None, and you and your Mummy and Daddy and Mumms and Grandpa go out to dinner at your favourite restaurant (the one with the M on the door--no, not that one, Montana's), and you sit quietly and happily through the meal and eat your chicken and french fries with dipping sauce (the sauce is for the fries. I always thought it was for the chicken, but I have been set straight), and you drink your apple juice, and you don't shout or yell or bang or whine or whimper or do anything at all that detracts from the angel-blond hair and enormous innocent-seeming blue eyes, it is just possible that an elderly man you have never met will come up to the table and ask your parents if they would be offended if he gave you a birthday present. And then he might give you a toonie. Just because you're perfect, and everyone loves you.

Posted by Andrea at 7:43 PM | Comments (10)

Smile

My Mom always said that she couldn't see any resemblance between me and her side of the family--I look like my Dad. I have his height, his eyes, his skin-tone, and his sisters' build and bone structure. I'm the one who gave birth to you, she'd say; why do you look so much like your father?

I, too, told everyone who ever asked that Frances looks exactly like Erik to me. People tell me all the time that she looks "just like me," and I think they are on drugs. It's true that we have the same colouring, that her hair is about my shade of dishwater (though at her age my hair was very blonde), and our skin is similarly pale (though she is not quite as pale as I am, and can tan in the summer), and both our eyes are blue. But her blue eyes are large and glowing and expressive, whereas mine--well. If you took a picture of Frances now and a picture of me at four, and put them side by side, they would not look anything alike. So I have always maintained.

When I was in grade four, my Mom volunteered to be a group-leader on one of my field trips. I think it was Ontario Place, but it might have been Canada's Wonderland (the educational value of both excursions is apparent to all, I'll assume). While there, I spent some of my allowance money on a caricature portrait. I don't know why, I must have thought they were amusing and wanted one of my own.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" the caricaturist asked.

"An author," I said. (I've been giving that answer since I was five, with brief excursions. I still give that answer, and I'm 32.)

After our ten minutes, she handed me a large piece of paper with a sketch of me, as an adult. It was in profile, and I was holding a small book called "The Mystery of the Missing Goldfish." She'd put a male fan, panting and drooling and prostrate, in front of me, which was a nice touch, considering it would be six years from then until anyone would think I was dateable.

It's a little eerie, how well she drew what I would look like as an adult, except that my head is not ten times the size of my body. I still have that sketch, now ripped and creased and faded.

That night I showed it to my Dad, and he looked at it with my Mom; she said, "You look just like Aunt Heather in this." (Minus, I'll assume, the disproportion between the head and body.) Aunt Heather is my Mom's sister (and one who did indeed often have boys drooling and prostrate).

Somehow, this stranger found and elucidated a familial similarity between two people she'd never met. It was the first time either my Mom or myself had seen any physical resemblance between me and her side of the family.

And it must have been about eight years ago now, when my parents had just moved in to where they are living now, and were in the midst of one of their renovation projects and proudly showing it off, when I saw a Sears family portrait of the four of us that was taken when I was probably about seventeen. My brother was, by then, already taller than me; I was wearing a purple velvet dress, and my hair was long and brown, and my Mom's hair in this picture is 80's curly and highlighted blonde. We all stared into the camera and grinned. I saw, for the first time, that my brother and I had both inherited my mother's smile.

Identical. You could have cut it off of her face in that photo, if you were very careful, and pasted it onto ours, and if you could accept the idea of a fourteen-year-old boy wearing lipstick, you would not have been able to tell the difference.

A year ago I saw that smile again when I got Frances's daycare photos back. There it was, plain as anything: my mother's smile on my daughter's face. My smile.

And now, when she gives me on of those nuclear-sunrise smiles, and her eyes light up like two blue suns, and she looks like the very platonic ideal of happiness, beaming and glowing all over the place, I think--she got part of that from me. It's obvious that as is expected in the course of evolution, her version is an improvement on mine; still, there it is. One of my favourite things about that cherubic face, with its perfect round cheeks and adorably pointed chin, is something she got from me.

(Her smile makes me smile. We make quite the mutual admiration society, the two of us; where her grin gets me grinning, and we grin back and forth, each grin amplifying the other like candles by a mirror until, grinnier and grinnier, we collapse in laughter for some invented reason or another.)

And there might be something else, too--something else of me in her, though like my own mother, I can't see it. Since Frances herself is perfect (or as close to perfect as a person can be), it only stands to reason that whatever she got from me, must be good.

It's a nice antidote to what sometimes can feel like the continual ego-blows of parenting. Like the first time you realize that you have learned how to diaper a crying baby and can burp successfully--you're getting better! You don't just suck as a mom! There is something redeeming and hopeful about the first time you realize that part of this gorgeous, amazing, loving little person you made actually came from you--and you can point to it, and name it.

She got my smile.

Posted by Andrea at 6:02 AM | Comments (8)

Worry

Saturday evening I opened my front door to a sad sight: a small Frances collapsed on her father's shoulder, half-asleep, transferred to me without a sound. "She had a bad cough last night," he explained. "I think she's coming down with another cold."

"Oh, poor kiddo." I pulled off her hat and boots and mitts, took off her coat, with as much care and solicitation as I could muster, but relishing in part the feeling of her sleepy weight on my shoulder, her soft round cheek against mine. After an hour of eating and drinking and TV, I put her to bed.

Sunday was expected to be worse, and it was--she had a hard time sleeping Saturday night and was cranky and tired and coughing, which is typical for a Frances wintertime cold. But we played and made crafts and did our normal Sunday things, though at half-speed.

Another hard sleep Sunday night complete with a few feverish nightmares led to a Monday at home. She was a bit warm and had some hard coughing fits--to be expected, for a Frances wintertime cold--but played and watched TV and did her craft projects (with sparkles! and fingerpaint!) again, pretty well normally, but at half-speed.

Monday night brought the croup cough. That heavy, horrid, barking cough so hard it leaves no space to breathe. Her longest stretch of sleep was from midnight to three, and her cough kept her up from 3-5 (which ended only because I remembered that croup coughs often go away in cold dry air, so we walked outside in the snow for a minute, the little pyjamad girl wrapped in blankies and heavy on my shoulder, discussing how the snow was comign straight down like rain, and how fluffy it was, and it made the lamps and the trees pretty). Near five she finally fell asleep again, and slept until 8, waking with another fever. Higher, this time. A dose of tylenol, a drink of water, a minigo, a viewing of Rudolph the Red-Nosed reindeer later, and she was ready for a nap. I set her up on the couch with a pillow, Laura's quilt and one of her sleep-time friends (Ella the Elephant, a soft yellow elephant with a rattle inside I bought her before she was born).

She stayed there all day. Sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, but with no interest in doing anything. Tv? "No!" Snacks? "No!" Temperature drifting between 38 and the low 39s (that's 100 to 103, I think, for the Americans in the audience). Not much to drink. "I'm sick, Mummy." I know, little girl. Do you want a hug? She nods.

But she spent the night awake and coughing--surely a day napping on the couch is not excessive?

I could not, could not stay home again on Wednesday--mostly because I would be out of family leave. And Frances spent half the day telling me how much she missed her Daddy, so we arranged for him to take her Tuesday night and Wednesday, so I could at least get in to work and get something to bring home with me for Thursday. After--by hearsay this time--another bad night, and a persistent fever, and a small wilty girl who still doesn't want to play, she is going to the doctor with Daddy.

(I called her just now at her Dad's house. "How are you feeling, sweetie?" "I'm still sick," she said, in her soft, high-pitched voice, which always seems so much younger when I talk to her on the phone. "How's your tummy?" "It still hurts." "Did you eat anything for breakfast?" "No." "Did you have anything to drink?" "I had apple juice, and water, but only because the medicine was yucky.")

Every bit of instinct and experience is telling me that this is just a very bad bout of croup, but still, the Canadian taxpayers are not getting their money's worth out of me today (my apologies to those of you who count yourselves in that group). I am staring at an inbox full of emails and a desk full of paper, and wondering what the hell I'm doing here.

Posted by Andrea at 10:54 AM | Comments (24)

Going

Tuesday morning we walked to school because I wanted to take the subway to work. Frances decided to run; inevitably, she tripped hard and skinned both her knees. I had no kleenex in my purse (bad mother) and only one bandaid, and that for blisters (extra bad mother), but we cleaned her up and kissed her owwies better and continued on our way, more carefully, the small soft fingers of her right hand wrapped around my left index finger. As warm and soft as a cat's belly. I hope I remember it always, the feeling of her tiny trusting hand, the sheer pleasure of it, even if constraining my steps to her gait does feel like tripping over my feet constantly. I walked her into her classroom, and while I hung up her lunch bag she walked fearless up to a table of larger kids and asked to be included in their game. I kissed her hair and walked out--she did not even notice my leaving--and as I walked back down the hallway again, I smiled at the tempera paintings already lining the hallway (still lifes of purple flowers in a vase, childrens' families, colour wheels), and peeked through the open door of her junior kindergarten classroom. This afternoon she will sit there in a circle with her friends and learn about letters and numbers from her teacher. One day soon she will know how to read.

What hits hardest about parenting, in my experience, is how joy and loss, pride and grief, are mingled in every moment of it. Every one of their accomplishments is another step on a road that leads them away from you. We want them to be successful, we want them to grow and to learn, but oh how much we also want them to need us, to come to us when they are frightened, to put their small warm hands in ours.

One day when Frances was an infant, I decided to plop her on her tummy on the big bed for some photos. Every time I put her on her tummy, she'd stick her butt in the air, and it was so cute and funny, I wanted to remember it. She lay there, squawking and hollering and crying (but as every good mother knows, they need tummy time, so I didn't feel too guilty), writhing in helplessness, until--shift--over she rolled. I was so taken by surprise, I didn't even get a picture of the significant moment, but sat there staring until I thought, "She just rolled over. I should take a picture." Then I put her back on her tummy, and she did it again, and I took some more pictures. I was thrilled, of course. (She rolled over! No baby has ever rolled over that way before!) I was proud. I wanted to show everyone. I can't remember if I knew then, if I saw, that the first roll would become the first creep would become the first crawl, the first steps, the first jump, the first run, all leading inevitably to the moment when she has all her things packed into boxes and a moving van is in the driveway to take her away from me altogether. I can't remember if I knew, then, that every instance of her developing mastery and independence would be an instance of my loss of her.

I see it now. She comes in the door from daycare, sits down to take off her shoes and puts them by the front door. She asks for television. She plays with her friend C until it is time for supper. She climbs into her chair and drinks out of a regular cup, uses regular utensils to feed herself supper. She talks to Daddy on the phone, telling him what she did in daycare, and who her friends are, and how much she misses him. She picks out books at bedtime. She can recognize her name, written down. She can type it on the computer. Tomorrow morning she will pick out her own shirt and ask to wear her brown shoes with the flowers and decide she wants to wear the pink jacket and off we'll go. For ten hours she will be away from me, learning things, becoming bigger and smarter and stronger. Then one day, she won't pick a book at bedtime; instead, I'll come into her room that night to find her reading under the covers with a flashlight. One day, she will pick up the remote, pop a dvd in, and plop down on the couch with a handful of cookies that I specifically did not say she could eat this close to dinner. One day, she will open a free email account with some godawful handle and use it to write letters to her friends about how horrible I am. One day she will sneak out of the house to see a boy (or a girl). One day she will come home with clothes she bought with money from her own job. One day she will ask me for help with homework and I won't be able to. One day her beautiful little hands will stop making houses for the baby mole.

Everything she learns to do is a step she takes towards her true self and away from me. I was warned, you were warned, we were all warned. "Treasure every moment, it all goes by so fast." What we thought they meant was to find joy in the sleeplessness and vomit and screaming and exhaustion and tedious repetition of it all. We thought they were crazy. But that's not it. What they meant was to treasure their needing us, their belonging to us wholly, for the incredibly short time that it lasts. Already it's over. Frances is as much the world's as mine, and even more her own. It's right, it's good, and it's happening too damned fast.

~~~~~

(This is my contribution to Julie's "Hmm" for this week, reinterpreted from "A good thing going" to "A good thing, going.")

Posted by Andrea at 6:49 AM | Comments (11)

Taking the Advanced Course

Frances's new daycare sent home a helpful note about resiliency, and how to cultivate it in children:

Resiliency has been defined as the "ability to persevere and adapt when things go awry." It is also the ability to deal with stressful situations and be accepting to new challenges. ... "Resiliency thinking skills can be absorbed by children starting from a very early age. Children as young as two years old can mimic the thinking style of the adults around them. Resiliency thinking skills can promote development of strategies that can help children bounce back from life's inevitable pressures and prevent them from developing life views that can lead to depression."

I'd say Frances could use some resiliency thinking skills, all things considered, wouldn't you agree?

During your child's daily interaction with other children, they may encounter challenges that trigger a multitude of emotions. Conflicts as common as sharing can be very stressful for children to deal with. A change in their regular routine is another challenge that creates stress in childhood. Supporting children to identify their emotions and control their impulses are foundational resiliency abilities and a cornerstone to developing resilient thinking habits.

Sharing is a tough one.

At this time of year many children are facing the stressful challenges of changes to their regular routines; starting school, new teachers, new child care centre, etc.

Sure. And watching your Mom and Dad split up, moving, getting used to a new neighbourhood, getting used to living in an apartment after you've spent your whole life in houses, losing all your old daycare friends, your old neighbour friends, hardly seeing your Dad anymore. Lots of changes to one's regular routine.

How can we help children become more resilient?

Don't ask me. Frances just does it.

All this. All this. Such a heavy load to carry for someone much much older than she is. Three years old, and she just does it. Still greets every day with an "oh boy!"; still skips and jumps for joy all day long. Still rushes to embrace new people as close friends, even though she knows what it means to lose them. No temper tantrums, no regression, no nightmares, no crying fits.

I think the school board should hire Frances on to teach everyone else how to be resilient, adults included.

She doesn't just persevere and adapt when things go awry. She keeps joy tightly clenched in both fists. She keeps smiling.

She doesn't just bounce back from life's inevitable pressures.

She just bounces.

Posted by Andrea at 6:38 AM | Comments (10)

Wherein I Try to Keep a Straight Face

Frances is graduating today.

She is going to wear a cap and get a certificate and have a ceremony and everything. There will be treats and, of course, Mummy and Daddy will be in attendance.

(mouth twitching, trying not to giggle)

Frances will be wearing a special party dress we bought for the occasion yesterday evening, when I discovered that the only dress she has right now is sized nine months and is actually noticeably too small. Mummy is wearing a skirt; Frances requested that I dance "like a ballerina" in it. And we have been told that she wants to be a "beyooootiful princess." So she may be wearing a crown when she is not wearing her cap.

I will try very hard to take a blog-safe photo, Dear Readers.

Posted by Andrea at 7:21 AM | Comments (9)

Monday Mission: Mountains and Molehills

If there is one thing I need to teach Frances, it is that her size says nothing about what she can do or how high she can reach. This is important for all children to know; but especially for her, when her size will make mountains out of molehills, when she will constantly confront a world that has been built for larger and stronger people.

I question my ability to teach Frances this. I believe in change, that people can change if they want to, if they're determined to; I believe that hard work will win out over talent almost every time, and that it's the combination that makes geniuses. I don't enjoy tasks or settings that are too easy. But I also was educated in an Enhanced Program that took intellectual and other abilities as givens that education could prevent us from throwing away, but nothing could really increase or develop. School was a place for showing off how smart you already were, not learning how to become smarter. And so, while I believe in change and the value of determination, I know there are large swaths of my mental habits that also believe that our destinies are written in the stone of our innate abilities. This would be a disastrous habit for Frances to learn.

It's true that her social precociousness, an inborn gift if ever there was one, will stand her in good stead for life. But what she needs more than a talent of making friends is the determination to overcome obstacles and barriers--because there will be obstacles and barriers, and she will have to work harder than other kids to master things that they find easy. She will not be the fastest runner; climbing stairs and opening doors will present challenges; the long-jump will not be her forte. She needs to believe that hard work is what will make the difference in her life--because it is. Fortunately, she already knows this, as was beautifully demonstrated to me at the park last week.

It was an unnaturally gorgeous day, the kind that convinces you of the reality of global warming--when there still ought to be snow on the ground but teenaged girls are wearing tank tops. Groups of teenagers and older kids were playing a game called "grounders" all over the playset. I was not impressed. Frances didn't seem to mind, though; she'd watch them intently, then try to do what they did. They were all much, much larger than she was, and could easily jump distances that she couldn't.

She was determined to climb the ladder--the metal ladder with rungs 18 inches apart or more. She stood on the lowest rung and, straining herself to her fullest height, managed to grasp the rung over her head. I stood right behind her. "It's big, isn't it?" I said. "This is meant for big kids."

She pulled and pulled and almost made it up a rung; I put my hands on her back to give her an extra inch and she made it up. "Good job, Frances!" Repeating her straining, reaching and pulling, with just a little bit of help she made it to the top, and from there to the top of the big twisty slide. By herself. She had to work for that ladder--work hard. I've never been so proud of her.

Frances amazes me. She does not see her size as a barrier to anything she wants to do. If there is something she wants to master, she busts her ass to make it happen.

Now if only I can keep myself from convincing her otherwise.

~~~~~

(This week's mission: to write a post in the reverse of traditional blog format. Instead of anecdote-epiphany-rumination-resolution, try resolution-rumination-epiphany-anecdote.)

Posted by Andrea at 9:44 AM | Comments (8)

Another Possible Career Choice

Somebody got a digital camera today.

The picture quality is not great.

And I'm not crazy about her primary subject matter.

But does she ever love it.

And, if I do say so myself, she's very talented.

I'm not biased, either.

Posted by Andrea at 12:36 PM | Comments (11)

(Back) to School

Do you know what I'm doing this morning?

I'm lining up to register Frances for junior kindergarten.

How is this possible?

(Hmm? What's that you say? Lining up? Yes. Apparently, in our municipality, you need to show up 30 minutes before registration starts in order to get a number so you can stand in line again to get your child into junior kindergarten in the public school in your neighbourhood. And here I thought this was something that those of us who couldn't afford private school wouldn't have to deal with. So I'm taking the morning off work to stand in the snow so I can ensure that Frances can attend public school.)

Posted by Andrea at 7:19 AM | Comments (15)

Breaking News

We had Frances's three-year check-up on the 29th. Frances is now just over twenty pounds.

Fully dressed, but still. She is almost legally big enough to sit forward-facing in the car, and probably large enough that no one would think to check her size if they pull us over for something else. And also hopefully big enough that the car seat will function as designed and protect her if we are ever in an accident.

I was looking forward to them measuring her height standing up, since I gather that normally happens at three; but their height bar starts at thirty-seven inches and Frances is nowhere near that, so they measured her lying down again. On the plus side, she now lies still for it. On the minus side, it's completely inaccurate.

"Thirty-two-and-a-half inches," said the nurse.

I laughed. "On the wall chart at home, she's just over thirty."

"Yes. Well. Lying down isn't quite as accurate."

"No."

"We actually find that when we start measuring kids on the height bar, they ...."

"Shrink?"

"Just a bit. Yeah. Still, we'll take the thirty-two while we can get it."

"Sure." Which is fine in principle, but when we go back next year and they decide she hasn't grown because of this year's inaccurate measurement, I'm going to remind them of this conversation. Also, I suppose I shouldn't expect them to be able to measure her height standing up for at least another three years.

Still, even without the extra inches, being over twenty pounds means we're closer to a few other important milestones. Like cheap underwear that fits and being able to purchase non-infant medicine in the drugstore.

~~~~~

Erik and I celebrated the end of 2006 by purchasing a new piece of furniture.

Actually, we purchased it as our joint Christmas present. It's our "thing" that we don't buy Christmas gifts for each other, just stocking stuffers; then we pool a bit of money and buy something for the house. This year's was a new "entertainment centre," aka TV cabinet. It was inexpensive, but a vast improvement over what we had, which was nothing. The TV was sitting on a seventeen-year old TV stand, a broken stereo was beside it in a cabinet badly listing to port, and the DVDs and CDs were in the dining room because there was nowhere close to the TV to put them that wouldn't be hazardous with a toddler around. Even a small one.

So we tested our relationship by assembling furniture on New Year's Eve. Unlike previous experiences with furniture assembly, there was no shouting, minimal swearing, and no stomping out of the room; also, we didn't put any pieces in upside-down or backwards, and all the doors hang straight. The DVDs are now in a sensible location, and the TV stand has been relocated to the basement, where the other TV (the one for the xBox and the gym) had been sitting on the carpet.

Not that anyone cares. And honestly, neither do I. It's a cabinet. It is not going to bring about an increase in our standard of living nor will it improve our happiness (though it is nice to have the DVDs in the same room as the DVD player, and the cascade effect of moving things from one piece of furniture to another has had a beneficial impact on almost every room in the house, tidiness-wise). But it feels obscurely significant that we were able to assemble it in good humour.

~~~~~~

I feel like I should say something to mark the end of the year. 2006 had some Himalayan highs and some Marianas Trench lows. Good riddance.

Posted by Andrea at 7:08 AM | Comments (10)

And So This is Christmas

I managed to get myself up off my ass on Saturday, whipped up some truffles and cheesecake brownies and the pieces of a gingerbread house, though those are still unassembled in the dining room. But who cares? Is there a deadline? Will they turn back into raw ingredients if I don't have them decorated by a certain point? No.

Everything got wrapped (this was a concern) and I even managed to get my mother's present finished (I embroidered a Santa and turned it into a mini pillow/decoration) and Frances's backyard book, a book I made by hand, each page cut out and trimmed, the photos selected to tell a story and then the story printed on top of them, then the whole thing stitched together, covers decorated and glued to the front and back. The stories themselves aren't remarkable, just some funny things that happened in the backyard this past summer, but I thought she might like the visual reminder of what the summer could be, over the winter.

We watched the holiday specials, and I dragged myself up far enough and long enough to celebrate the opening of her Christmas Eve present (a pair of fleece pyjamas, striped like a candy cane and with buttons down the front of the shirt, and a Dora book) and read her several dozen holiday books. Or at least it felt like several dozen, though it might have been only three or four, over and over and over again. Then the stockings were stuffed and the cookies eaten and the presents laid out for Christmas morning, which came too soon because Frances was much too excited to sleep well.

She woke just after six, and by 7:30 I could hold her off no longer. We woke up Daddy and went downstairs. She took it all in, gradually--the new presents, the full stockings, the dollhouse! It's a dollhouse! Look, Mummy, a house a house! Is it for me? Did Santa bring it?

Yes indeed, Santa brought it, with a bit of help from Oma; and Santa also completely furnished it and supplied it with a doll family, because Santa went a bit overboard under the influence of your grandparents. And you were so taken with the dollhouse that for thirty minutes (while the daisy braid cooked and cooled and was drizzled with icing and eaten and while Erik and I opened our own presents) we could not persuade you to leave it and even touch your stocking. Presents? No. You didn't want presents. You wanted your dollhouse. You wanted to open and close doors and put the little girl in the bed and tuck her in and put the Daddy on the couch watching TV and then move him to the kitchen and open and close the windows and make them all go up and down the stairs again. Which is, I think, the definition of a winning present. Santa also stuffed your stocking with playdoh and playdoh toys and sticker books and chocolate Santas and a bridge for your Thomas trains. And Santa brought you a tent for the basement, which you adore, as it is like a little house all your own, and for thirty or forty minutes at a stretch you will enter and exit it over and over again, saying, "It's my own little tent!" Santa brought you a tiny mouse and a Dora game for the laptop which you can play sometimes, and a few books, and another doll--this one talks and has been named Susie, and some clothes that will fit you when you are five or six. And when we got to Mumms and Grandpas we found that Santa also brought you a fairytopia thingie and a stuffed puppy that breathes, which is kind of creepy, but you love it and have named it Hodo. I don't know why.

Santa brought Mummy some workout things and carbon offsets. Which is oddly perfect. For a short while, I can drive guilt-free.

At Mumms and Grandpa's your parents had a marvelous feast, which you disdained (except for the mashed potatoes), silly girl. And you chased the Yorkshire terriers around the living room and laughed and laughed.

Ever since Christmas Eve, you have greeted your sleep and naptimes with tears. No! No sleep! You want to stay awake and play with your bounty; and the only way we can coax you into bed is to promise that it will all still be here when you wake up and we aren't going anywhere, no work or daycare for a week. This mollifies you; but your sleeps are still disjointed and broken and very short, and you are tired and cranky, for Frances, which means you whine and pretend to be Lucy from Charlie Brown's Christmas. "Buy me something!" you say, not knowing what it means, but liking that when Lucy says it on TV the person she is talking to falls over backward. I think you could have chosen a better role model. We've been talking about how it's funny when Lucy says some of these things on TV, but it's not nice and no one should say them in real life, but I don't think you get it yet.

I love you so much, baby girl. Every minute of the last month has been worth it, to give you these wonderful, magical days.

Posted by Andrea at 2:24 PM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Chef

"Do you want to help me make Hallowe'en cookies, Frances?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I'm going to be rolling out cookie dough and making cookies...."

"No."

"...and using the special Hallowe'en cookie cutters."

"Yeah!"

"Oh. OK. Let me get ready."

"Me too me too! I want to help! I want to help!"

"Ok. I just have to tidy up. Do you want to hold the cookie cutters while you're waiting?"

"Yeah!"

She helped me roll out the dough. She tapped the cookie cutters in flour and pressed them into the dough. She sprinked Hallowe'en candies on top and patted them into the cookies. She helped for every set; her interest did not flag until we were all done. When they came out of the over, she carefully and proudly carried a plate of her very first cookies over to Daddy, and they had a snack.

I got a snapshot of her standing in front of the oven, holding her plate of cookies, grinning hugely and covered head to toe with flour. It was inevitable that she would be wearing a black top and black pants that day, wasn't it?

Then she had a cookie and declared that she would rather have chocolate chip.

~~~~~

Wednesday was "What, Presentation? You're not doing a presentation on Friday" Day, on which I attempted to convince myself that all the ironing and printing and pdfing were unrelated and frivolous activities, in order to preserve what is left of my stomach lining.

I did what I always do when I want to distract myself and reduce my stress level. I played with Frances. (You'd think, with such ready access to such a reliable stress-reducing technique, I would be less anxious than I am. This is one of they modern medical mysteries of our times.)

The first game was "throw the basketball." I threw it to her; she threw it to Erik; Erik threw it to me. "Yawn," you say. "Whatever, Andrea." But no. First of all, she can really throw. For a 30" girl, she's got a great arm--and she puts herself into it, lifting the ball above her head and heaving it across the room while jumping off the ground. Sometimes, after a particularly energetic pitch that bounced off Erik and sent him mock-crumpling to the ground, she would laugh and say, "Did I scare you, Daddy?" Then run over to give him a hug for comfort.

Sometimes, she would jump off the ground and heave the ball--only for it to dribble out of her fingers and bounce off her head. At this she would laugh so hard it made her fall down; which got Erik and I laughing, increasing the volume of Frances's laughter, and on and on in a merry circle.

Then it was time for extreme hide-and-seek. There were no decorous ten-second countdowns in this version, boys and girls. No coy seeking of calm hiding places. No peeking around corners or behind doors. No. There was running, and standing behind walls, and jumping out from behind while shouting, and shrieking, and laughing, and more running, and getting dizzy, and falling over, and uproarious laughter. There were two parents crumpled in exhausted heaps watching Frances race around the basement, careening around obstacles, tipping this way and that, shouting "Come catch me, Daddy! Come catch me, Mummy!"

It did my stomach lining a world of good, though I can't say it did much for my energy level.

Posted by Andrea at 6:02 AM | Comments (11)

Frances Says

Frances had something very important to tell all of you.

Here it is:

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ JJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJJ.,BO0NMKXPCOQUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU UR"

Translation:

"Hello! I'm so happy that all of you come here to read Mummy's stories about how cute I am. I know she writes about a lot of other boring stuff too, but you can ignore that.

"And isn't that a lot of Js?"

(Marla, I told you Frances had a thing for keyboards these days. Guess what's going in the letter to Santa?)

Posted by Andrea at 6:00 PM | Comments (1)

This might give you an idea of the division of household labour around here

Edited to add: Comments seem to be functional again. Please let me know if you are trying and it's not working.

~~~~~

Said Frances to Mummy this morning while I was sweeping the kitchen floor in anticipation of a friend's visit:

"That's Daddy's broom! Give it back to Daddy!"

By the shock and dismay in her voice, I think her entire universe may have crumbled around her ears for a few minutes.

~~~~~

It seems comments are down for some reason. I can't figure out why, and I won't be able to look at it probably for a day or two. Sorry about that! If you are trying to reach me re: WHOYC, Annika, WholeMom, or Radio Free Frances from yesterday, feel free to email me.

andrea AT athenadreaming DOT org

I'll let you know when it comes back up.

Posted by Andrea at 8:08 AM | Comments (2)

PINK!

How does it happen? Is it contagious? If it's viral, how does it afflict only girls? What is the method of transmission?*

Yes, you've guessed it: Frances has come down with a bad case of Pinksis. This dread illness is characterized by frequent and insistent dressing in a single colour, consistent preferences of toys in the same shade and random exclamations of "Pink!"

Symptom 1:

Frances has a number of toy food items as part of her toy kitchen set, including two pretend ice-cream cones, a vanilla and a strawberry. During any play session involving the ice-cream cones, Frances must hold the strawberry one. Ditto for the pretend donuts, one strawberry and one chocolate.

Symptom 2:

Yesterday, Frances's mother was overwhelmed by the sudden need to view online depictions of little girl holiday clothing. The rationalization was the upcoming intensive schedule of frequent holiday and birthday-related gatherings, at which photographs will need to be taken. (Please note: This may or may not be related to the subject's involvement in a viral hobby known as "scrapbooking.") Photographs taken at holiday gatherings necessitate holiday clothing that is neither red nor green, or the photographic subject will blend into the background (this is especially true for Santa photos).

Fortunately for the subject, there were many online depictions of little girl holiday clothing to be found, and Frances was brought in to voice an opinion.

"Would you like a skirt, or a dress?"

"A dress!"

"Maybe some nice pants?"

"No! A dress."

"OK. Which dress would you like?"

"That one!" A small finger jabbed into the laptop screen, causing it to waver.

"The ... the pink one?"

"Yeah!"

"You don't like the blue one?"

"No."

The mother was visibly deflated, as blue brings out the colour of Frances's amazing eyes.

Symptom 3:

Andrea: So I told Frances were were going to go shopping for party clothes and shoes this weekend.

Frances: Yeah!

Erik: Oh? That sounds ... fun.

Andrea: What did you want to get, Frances?

Frances: A pink dress.

Andrea: Do you want a purple dress?

Frances: No.

Andrea: How about a blue dress?

Frances: No.

Andrea: An orange dress? Maybe a yellow dress?

Frances: No! NO!

Andrea: Well, what colour of dress do you want, then?

Frances: PINK.

Andrea: And the party shoes? What about them?

Frances: PINK!

It's clearly a severe case of Pinksis.

Sadly, there is no known cure for Pinksis; only time will resolve it.

(Confession: I am really looking forward to our shopping trip. It will be the first time Mummy and Frances go shopping together where Frances has definite opinions about what she wants, but where she is still small enough to be easily overwhelmed should she ask for, say, a padded bra. And, because it's all for Frances, Mummy will have fun too. Also, I find her insistence on PINK for everything adorable and mostly harmless.)

~~~~~

* Several reports (McDowell, 2005 & McDowell, 2004) suspect that the method of transmission in cases of severe Pinksis might be well-meaning relatives with a mild case who, unable to resist the siren call of cute pink clothing for tiny girls, stack the wardrobe against them.

Posted by Andrea at 11:50 AM | Comments (13)

Cutest Ever

Incidentally, today was Picture Day at Frances's daycare.

Frances has one aunt in the States with exceptional taste in clothing and a good chunk of disposable income. When Frances was born, this manifested itself as a hefty package full of adorable and pricey girl clothes, sized 12 m to 2 years (depending on the outfit). At the time, we assumed she would be wearing those clothes on schedule. Not so much.

Last Christmas, she wore the fuzzy purplish-blue dress with a butterfly on it for her Santa pictures (some of you have seen it). That was sized 12 months. Today for picture day, she is wearing an outfit sized 18 months. It's a small 18 months; the important thing is, it fits.

Over top of the cream-coloured 12-month tights and turtleneck-bodysuit I bought her last winter, she is wearing the forest-green corduroy skirt with tan and cranberry flowers stitched on it, and the cranberry-coloured knit vest that her Aunt S sent her almost three years ago. I could tell they were expensive because the tags were printed on cardstock with a paragraph about how the innocence of childhood complements the use of fine fabrics and craftsmanship. I think Frances agrees.

When I dressed her in it this morning, and laced up her black patent "party shoes" and combed her hair, she ran excitedly to the mirror to admire her gorgeous self. Then she walked primly around the first floor, stepping gingerly to avoid scuffing her special shoes, until it was time to go.

Yesterday, a six-foot-tall colleague of mine wore a nearly-identical outfit: white shirt, forest-green skirt (only it was a fine plaid, not corduroy), a cranberry-coloured knit vest. This colleague clearly loves clothes and is much more up on the styles than I am, and often looks like she just stepped down from an Elle photoshoot.

This morning, Frances modeled the same look for the under-30-inch crowd. And clearly loved it. She practically glowed with pride over her special party clothes.

I am not one for dressing up. I had a phase where I wore miniskirts a lot when I was fourteen, but since then, it's been jeans. I wear jeans to work four days out of five. I dress Frances in practical, low-maintenance clothing that is easy to play in and wash. Blue jeans. T-shirts. Running shoes. Overalls. But when I give her the choice?

Skirts.

If I want her to wear pants, I have to not offer skirts. If she knows skirts are on the table, that's what she wants. One day this past summer she chose for herself a bright pink-and-yellow flowered skirt with a bright pink t-shirt, her black-and-yellow rainboots and a big floppy flowered straw hat. On another day, when we were to meet friends at the mall, she chose a flounced-and-ruffled blue dress with white polkadots.

She didn't get this from me; it came straight from my mother. Most days it's something we have to work around so she can wear clothing she likes that doesn't restrict her movements. But today, we let her inner diva out to play for picture day.

And I can't wait to see the photographs.

Posted by Andrea at 1:59 PM | Comments (12)

Carrot Soup

(On the weekend)

Andrea: So what do you want for lunch, Frances?

Frances: Soup!

Andrea: Soup?

Frances: Carrot soup!

Andrea: Did you have carrot soup at the daycare yesterday?

Frances: Yeah!

Andrea: Was it yummy?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: Well I'm sorry kiddo, but we don't have any carrot soup. Would you like to help Mummy make some carrot soup next week?

Frances: Yeah! Carrot soup is yummy.

~~~~~

(Today)

Andrea: Do you see what I bought at the grocery store today?

Frances: Carrots.

Andrea: What do you think I'm going to make with all these carrots?

Frances: I don't know.

Andrea: You don't know?

Frances: No.

Andrea: I'm going to make carrot soup.

Frances: But I don't want carrot soup!

Andrea: Tough luck, little girl. I'm going to make carrot soup, and you're going to like it.

Posted by Andrea at 6:03 PM | Comments (9)

Cheek

Andrea: You know, Frances, your birthday and Christmas are coming up.

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: In December.

Frances: Will I be able to go to the birthday party?

Andrea: Well, actually, you get to have your own birthday party. And other people will come to your birthday party.

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: And you can have party favours, and maybe even balloons. Does that sound fun?

Frances: And cake!

Andrea: And cake.

Erik: Does that sound like fun, Frances?

Frances: No, it's not big enough.

~~~~~

Frances: Daddy, are you talking to my mother?

Erik: ... no, I'm not.

Frances: Are you talking to me?

Erik: I think so.

Frances: Are you happy to see my mother, Daddy?

Erik: Yes. Yes I am.

Andrea: *heeheehee*

Posted by Andrea at 7:45 AM | Comments (5)

Another thing I never thought I'd do

I'm sitting outside, talking to acorns.

Mm hmm.

Frances went on a nice walk with her Daddy in the forest (the real forest) and came back with two pockets bulging full of acorns--ten in all--which have since been divied up according to size into family relationships. There are Daddy acorns, Mummy acorns and Baby acorns, and I have been pressed into voice duty.

"Mummy, can you talk to the Baby Acorn?"

"I don't know what a Baby Acorn would say."

"Hello!"

"Oh! OK." I put on the squeaky voice: "Hello, Frances."

"Hello, Baby Acorn. Are you little?"

"I think so."

"Are you small?"

"Yes. I'm small. Are you small?"

"I think I'm little."

Yet another thing I'd never pictured myself doing. Along with rigging kleenexes into diapers for Little People horses and making party favours for Winnie the Pooh, Mrs. Quack and Mr. Frog consisting of squares of red construction paper and stickers so that Frances can host a proper tea party.

Posted by Andrea at 5:23 PM | Comments (4)

Honesty

Frances: I have a poopy bum.

Andrea: You do? (thinking: I just changed a poopy diaper thirty minutes ago)

Frances: I have a poop in my diaper.

Andrea: Do you want to come here so I can check?

Frances: (solemn pause) I can't listen to you right now.

Posted by Andrea at 8:22 AM | Comments (2)

Collecting

Some people collect stamps. Some collect random objects. Some collect baseball cards, clothing, keychains, or shot glasses. Some people collect butterflies. I collect Francesisms--any pretty, shiny bauble of a memory that shows who she is right now; like bits of broken glass worn smooth at the beach, I bring them home and line them up on the mantle, where I can see them often.

I desperately want to pin these memories down. Like butterflies, these memories are delicate and beautiful, nearly impossible to catch, and once caught and pinned they lose their liveliness and half their beauty. Like butterflies, it is impossible to catch them all, and if you spend all your time trying, you will be so fixated on the one being pursued that hundreds of others will fly by unnoticed. I try to balance simply watching with netting and pinning, but no matter how many I capture it is never enough. And whatever is not caught is forgotten. It is only what I record of Frances's life that I remember.

There is the blog. Without it, would I remember that she was once so tiny that my left hand covered her entire torso? Would I remember that afternoon when all she did was cry, and I lost it and started to cry myself and ranted about how much I hated life as I carried her up the stairs, and for the first time she lifted her wobbly head off my shoulder and looked me in the eye, and all my fears and sadness were converted in that one moment to joy: "Look at you! You're lifting your head! What a strong baby! I'm so proud of you!"

There are the photo albums, several of them, filled with every photo I have taken of her that turned out even halfway decent; archival albums with plastic sleeves and spots for notes. The notes are mostly simple--the day, the occasion. Without them, would I remember now how round your cheeks once were? You've always been a slim baby, you never were covered with rolls of fat, but once your cheeks were like baseballs; once your hair was a fuzzy blond pixie cut, and before that, a two-inch mohawk thanks to the two crowns on the back of your head. The photos are backed up on DVD and stored in your memory box, organized by your age and the event.

There is the video. We're not as good with this. Our camera loses its charge easily, so we have to remind ourselves to plug it in. But we have enough to make a two-hour long movie for every year of your life which is then given to your grandparents at Christmas time. Without them, would I remember how you used to say "Mama" and "baw," how you used to cruise around the furniture barely able to reach the top of the coffee table, how you open your mouth like a fish and fly like a bird? Would I remember the way you danced outside of the casinos on the Strip in Las Vegas, bouncing up and down on your feet?

There are the scrapbooks; I've just filled your third and bought a fourth. You have more scrapbooks than years, despite my intention not to fill them so quickly. I never use the original photos, and they're not stored in the same place as the albums. I can't say what moves me to record one event and not another, unless it's the availability of a particularly delicious photograph. We have no page about your teething, nothing about you learning to run, nothing about toilet-training. But I have a page about how adorable you looked in that fruit t-shirt-and-skort ensemble from your Oma and two pages about how much you love to dance, not to mention the two-page spread on your love affair with Elmo. Without them, would I remember how one day I put you down for tummy time and thought you were so cute sticking your little tushy in the air that I had to get a picture, so I put you down on the bed and starting snapping away, and you flailed and writhed and flashed me anguished faces until--flip!--you rolled over on your back, and I was so shocked I forgot I had the camera in my hand so had to put you back on your stomach to catch the moment of triumph again? Would I remember that you learned to walk the weekend Kim came to visit last summer, and perfected it for Rachel's visit a few weeks later? Would I remember that the first time you danced you did so by kicking your legs in the air sideways?

There's Radio Free Frances. Without it how would I recall the timbre and pitch of your voice, the way you say "gobbo gobbo" and "I sink so" and "Baby Eloise!"

Entire rooms full of stacked boxes lined with black velvet and filled with butterflies; but when I pin them, I mangle them; I tear holes in their wings. And it still isn't enough. It's never enough. The air is thick with butterflies and all I can do is try to capture the most beautiful, the sweetest, if it hovers long enough to let me get close. Sometimes they don't, and I hope I will remember them, but I never do. Like a dream, they fade no matter how determined I am to remember.

Why do I do this? A blog and photo albums and scrapbooks and video and a podcast--surely that's overkill? I think it's safe to say that most mothers don't go so far to record their children's lives. Is it because I remember so little of my own childhood that I am determined to give you what I don't have? Is it because I am terrified of what might be back there, of why I don't remember, that I need to record how happy and carefree your childhood is so I can be sure there are no monsters lurking in the dark for you? Or am I just obsessed by the thought that it is all so fleeting, it goes so fast, you are already by tomorrow a different person than you are today, and so every day I lose you and gain you all over again, lose and gain lose and gain, and I love the gain but grieve the loss and try to lessen it by grabbing as much as my hands will hold and keeping it the only way I can?

Posted by Andrea at 8:04 AM | Comments (10)

Got Your Bucket?

Erik went to get the groceries, and Frances began improvising to the tune of Frere Jacques:

Where is Daddy?
Where is Daddy?
At the store!
At the store!
Daddy Daddy Daddy
Daddy Daddy Daddy.
Daddy Dad.
Daddy Dad.

And if that isn't so nauseatingly cute that you need to go throw up now, Dear Readers, you need to work on your gag reflex.

You might think that I'm working overtime to hide the crap. That she can't possibly be that cute, that adorable, that perfect. You can continue to think this if you'd like, but you would be wrong. You might also think that I have hell coming when she turns 13. This is very likely. All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasts; later that same evening, to the same tune:

Mommy Mommy
Mommy Mommy
Where are you?
Where are you?
Mommy Mommy Mommy
Mommy Mommy Mommy
There you are.
There you are.

And what else can I do, really, but stand stock-still with a huge goofy grin on my face while my melted heart puddles on the floor around my feet?

No one else could possibly find this interesting. I've become that annoying woman who stops random strangers and forces them to smile while I show them each and every wallet photo of my child (speaking of which, APL, I carry a photo of her feet with me. It's true), only it's not the grocery line or the bus stop, it's the internet. Say, you! Hi! I know you came here to find pictures of someone with hypochondroplasia, or what to do when an ultrasound shows a short femur, or the price of the very rare beagle beanie baby you got ten years ago, but wouldn't you rather hear about how gob-smackingly amazingly fabulous Frances is? No, really. Well, tough luck, you're going to hear about it anyway.

So for instance, sometimes she says, "Mommy?"

Andrea: Frances?

Frances: Yes, Mommy?

Andrea: Yes, Frances?

Frances: *giggles*

What shocks me most of all is that motherhood just about killed me for the first nine months. I recall many a sunny and desperate afternoon spent sobbing quietly at the window, waiting for Erik to get home, thinking, "Oh god, I want to go back to work!" Irony is a cruel goddess who will wait until you are at your most relaxed and peaceful and then stab you in the back. For the first year, the blog was filled with stories of how absolutely impossible it all was, how I was cracking apart at the seams, how all of society had to be reorganized (preferably by Tuesday following) to make mothering even remotely doable; and I took a lot of flak for it, too. "Friends," the kind of "friends" you put in double-quotation marks and sneer involuntarily when you say their names, told me I had best shut my trap because I was terrifying the pregnant girls. Equal blog time was given to documenting Frances's sure and steady march to World Domination via the achievement of developmental milestones and to the minute and fleeting daily moments that really do make it all worthwhile, even when the little satanist is waking you up every 45 minutes for weeks at a time, but I was given to understand that dishonesty in this was by far the best policy and it was best to keep pregnant women wrapped in a cotton-candy coccoon of Hallmarkese observations on the transition to motherhood. I laughed at them, drew myself up to my full internet height and declared that I would never write anything but the truth. If the truth is that motherhood both kills you and elevates you, then that's what I'll say, and anyone who doesn't want to hear it is invited to subscribe to the Lifetime Network.

Imagine my great surprise when almost immediately following this exchange Frances morphed into Perfect Child, Child Who Sleeps All Night, Child Who Never Cries, Child Who Eats Everything, Child Who Charms Everyone. Imagine when my honest portrayal of motherhood began to veer off into the hallucinogenic state of sugar trees and candy houses simply because Frances refused to be anything but angelic. Imagine when, day after day, I cracked open the blog and could only write, "Wow, she's amazing, I love being her Mom!"

It happens to be true. It also happens to be saccharine and very, very boring (and yet people keep reading it).

Andrea: *tweaking Frances's nose* I love this little nose!

Frances: *poking her own cheek* And this chubby little cheek!

I'm being spoiled rotten by this kid. It can't last. If this were a movie, deep rumbling music would be swelling to a crescendo as I type. If this were an ancient Greek play, the chorus would be singing, "Beware! Beware!" If this were a book, the pace would be slowing in anticipation of the coming climax, detailed and minute descriptions of setting would show minor and symbollic flaws to foreshadow the events to come. And, like any one of the minor blond characters of horror movies, I'm traipsing off gaily into the basement. Whatever could that strange noise have been?

If you think Beanie Baby is too sweet, too sappy, too cloying ... you're right, but it's also honest. You have two options: you can run like hell and swear never to come back, or you can wait for the other shoe to drop. Any mother of a child will tell you it can't stay this way forever.

But I really, really wish it would.

Posted by Andrea at 11:23 AM | Comments (15)

I know I've mentioned this before

I'm a sap.

Exhibit A-22: Naptime on Monday.

We did the potty (success!).

We snuggled on the big bed, onto which wee Frances climbed all by herself--a staggering feat.

We went to the bedroom.

Frances: I don't want to have a nap, Mummy.

Andrea: I know, but you're tired, baby girl. You need a nap.

Frances: No! It's not nap time.

Andrea: Yes, it is, actually.

I placed her in her crib, put her Baby Bear in one arm, the Bunny in the other, and put her blanket over top. I got my book and sat down in the rocking chair.

Andrea: Lie down, sweetie, and close your eyes please.

She did. A second later one opened a crack to eye me between the slats of her crib. A second after that she was staring at me. Another second and she was grinning and staring, and hot on the heels she was sitting up and laughing.

Andrea: Are you my wriggly monkey girl?

Frances: No!

Andrea: You're not? Where's my wriggly monkey girl?

Frances: *thumps her chest*

Andrea: I thought so! Now lie down, little monkey. It's time for sleep.

She lay down. She rolled on her back. She thumped the slats with her feet. She began to talk to Baby Bear.

Andrea: Frances!

Whereupon she grinned at me, rolled over, and began to play drums on the crib bars.

Andrea: Frances! Close your eyes, baby.

For a fraction of a second almost too brief to be seen by the naked eye, the eyes were closed. Then they were open, and she was sitting up and grinning at me.

Look at the picture of her smiling face from the other day: now imagine that grin complicated by mischief and complete and certain knowledge of her own adorableness. It is infectious, I tell you, and irresistible. A Frances grinning like that is a Frances who knows she will win.

Andrea: What are you doing?

Frances: *stands up, grabs the crib bars, and begins to bounce up and down like a rubber ball* I'm jumping!

Andrea: *laughs helplessly*

Frances: I'm jumping, Mummy!

Andrea: Yes, so I see.

I went to her and put her back on her tummy. Back went Baby Bear, bunny and blanket.

Frances: I'm not sleepy, Mummy!

Andrea: Yes, you are.

Frances: No, I'm not. Can I stay out of the bed?

Andrea: It's nap time. You have to sleep now.

Frances: No, it's not!

I sat down in the rocking chair, and returned to my book. When I looked up a few seconds later, there was Frances, sitting up and grinning devilishly at me through the bars. I grinned back, and she began to laugh--a full-throated, deep-bellied toddler laugh. The laugh of a baby girl who knows she has everyone twisted around her little finger--and a mighty tight squeeze it is for us all, on such a small little bit of bone and flesh.

I laughed back. And what else was there to do? It had been forty-five minutes, and there sat my irrepressible little child, laughing beautifully in her crib. I picked her up.

"I'm waking up!" she said.

I laughed again. "I guess you are."

On my last day of vacation, it seemed worth it to get a few more hours of precious Frances time squeezed in.

~~~~~

Bonus: This morning, as I sat down to eat my cereal, Frances looked at me and said, "I really like your red shirt, Mummy!"

Posted by Andrea at 7:19 AM | Comments (3)

Thank You

Thank you for all of the comments on my last post. And a note to reassure you that I am not lost in a pit of despair--or at least, not about that. I'm trying very hard not to think about going back to work on Tuesday.

I am not too keen on spending my precious, fleeting, far-too-short vacation time on the computer, but while I sit here and listen to Frances sing herself to sleep over the monitor and print off some photos for a scrapping evening tomorrow, I want to say thank you. Thank you for not telling me I'm an immature judgemental ass who should really just get over herself.

I wonder if part of it is wondering whether or not they feel sorry for me, or for her. For Poor Frances, who has some undiagnosed genetic condition that makes her very very small and seems determined to keep her fontanelle open for life; for Poor Andrea, who sometimes has to deal with the people who think conformity is a positive life goal and that "broadening one's outlook" is some kind of hippie conspiracy meant to overthrow democracy. The kind of people who, when they ask how old Frances is and I tell them, say "Oh" and look at us with pity in their eyes. And I tell you what, that drives me crazy.

Frances is going to have to deal with plenty of shit in her life, no doubt, though so far it has made blessed few inroads and she remains the happiest person I know. But no one damned well better feel sorry for me. How could they?

So I have no idea why her six-month-size shorts are falling off of her, and neither do the finest medical minds of Canada. Look at that ponytail! Look at that back! Look how determined she was to be a Big Girl, and climb the stairs properly by herself, holding the handrails and jacking her little legs up as far as they could go to make the next step.

Look at how she crouches down to see the baby goose. It was all we could do to keep her from rushing them. And the ducks, the baby duck, the swans; the squirrels in our backyard, who are getting used to her enough that when she runs at them they simply stand very still and wait for a peanut, and the chipmunk, who runs away; the doves, who let her get within two feet before taking off for the fence, and the goldfinches and chickadees and woodpeckers and blue jays and cardinals and grackles who sensibly keep their distance but thank her very kindly for the food; and the frogs, another one of which we found in the backyard today and caught today. Frances interpreted my suggestion to give it a gentle pet by bonking it on the head, poor thing, and when we let it go she chased it until it finally found a chink under the fence by which to escape.

She adores animals, all animals, little icky crawly animals and big strange furry animals equally.

Her best friend, NB from next door, adores her; yesterday when he got home from daycare he almost ripped the shutters off of their back door to get outside to see her. When he sees her he cries, "It's Frances! It's Frances! It's Frances!" until they get to play together (and she feels the same way about him). Whenever his parents tell him it's time to go home, he throws a proper tantrum. The only thing that will get him to relent is if Frances comes along.

My little professional gardener who loves her watering can and who has yet to rip up a single one of her flowers.

My little beauty.

Who loves to go on "little trips" including for groceries or to get the mail. Whose pinky finger is just slightly longer than the first joint of my index finger. Who asks me, when she puts her puzzles together, "Do you think this goes there, Mummy?" and then answers herself: "Yeah, I think it does!" Who wraps her arms around my right arm to hug the mole and then lifts her feet off the ground so I am forced to carry her. Who cries a little when I comb her hair and asks with a quavering voice, "Is that a tangly, Mummy?" "I know, baby," I say, "I'm being as gentle as I can." And then she goes to comb Dora's hair and tells her, "I'm being as gentle as I can. Ooh, a tangly!"

Who, when we ask her how many zookies or raspberries she wants, says, "I want FIVE!" and holds up a hand of five tiny pudgy fingers. Who, when sometimes she doesn't want to eat and Erik keeps asking her what she wants and giving her different things all of which she refuses, and he gets frustrated and upset and Frances sees this and it breaks her little heart, so she says in a teary voice to him, "That makes you happy, Daddy," because she hates to make him sad. Who tells us how she's feeling: "I'm happy," or "I'm sad," or "I'm crying." Who doesn't like to go outside without wearing her hat and who reminds me that her ponytail goes through the hole. Who has anthropomorphized the sun and tells us whenever he is waking up or going to bed.

Now if they could develop an ultrasound machine that could see any one of those things in utero, that would be useful. But what we have is a medical technology that can only tell you about parts of the book's cover, and then asks you whether or not it's worth reading. I won the baby jackpot; anyone who can't see that truly has no eyes to see with.

Here is your thank you. No photos of her face, thanks to the Jackass Who Shall Never More be Named; and no photos of me, since they all inexplicably feature either my stomach flab being compressed between Frances's knee and the top of my shorts into an unflattering and unlikely roll or my underwear showing from the back, and that would hardly be a thanks, would it?

OK. One, just one, photo of her face.

I'll be spending my time between now and Tuesday looking at this, and don't expect to be able to post until then. Thanks again.

Posted by Andrea at 10:16 PM | Comments (35)

Persistence

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: What?

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: Noooo.....

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: Do you want to watch a bit of TV?

Frances: No. Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: How about if we read a book?

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: What do you want for supper?

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: Do you want some cheese? Or a minigo? How about toast?

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: How about some chocolate? Would you like some chocolate?

Frances: Do you want to play outside in the rain?

Andrea: Sweetie, it's wet outside.

Frances: Yeah. Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: (sigh)

Frances: Do you want to go play outside in the rain?

Andrea: OK. Go put your rainboots on.

Frances: Yeah!

And for the record, I have NO IDEA where she gets that from. Stubborn? Me?

Ahem.

That little anecdote was saved from last week, by the way: it's not raining right now. But she did display this trait again last night, when Erik was putting her to sleep: "OK sweetie, it's sleep time now. " "No, it's not!"

How is the training course, Andrea? you ask. Let me tell you: Tuesday we have ten hours of lectures with one fifteen-minute lunch break. How thrilled would you be? And poor Erik, he's off this week, trying to refinish our deck. He was really hoping I'd have a normal work schedule this week so I could do baby duty while he worked, and instead, he's solo Francesing in the evenings as well as working hard all day with the sander and the stains.

I do have real posts coming later this week--they're in the hopper, ready to go. Which is good because with ten hours of lectures and travel time, I'm not going to get much time for original composition, am I?

Posted by Andrea at 7:27 AM | Comments (9)

Little Miss Fun

So long, thoughtful essays, book reviews, stories and pleas to delurk won't cut it, but a semi-delirious post on my first publication makes you all pop out of the woodwork. Hmm. I'm filing that one away.

Seriously, thank you to everyone who offered their congratulations yesterday. It means a lot to me. Even if now I have a sneaking suspicion that you will all be disappointed in December when it is (maybe) published (knock on wood, kicking desk with both feet--and let me tell you, here in the office that'll get you some funny looks). Your constant cheerful messages yesterday helped me keep my head together, because the euphoria lasted all of about two hours. Then I called my parents (the idea was to get some congratulations) and got some bad news of the kind that'll make you feel nauseous for a month, and Dear Readers, this is going to be one hell of a weekend. In the worst possible sense. And I am being annoyingly cryptic but I just don't know enough yet about what's happened to say any more, except that I truly do know it's that bad and if you're spending this weekend strapped into a dentist's chair for a dozen root canals, do you want to trade?

Next week: on training from Monday to Friday. Extra-long commute (but at least I don't have to travel anywhere). No daytime computer access. Will be posting, but short entries at odd times. Promise to resume writing full sentences ASAP.

Do not be alarmed. I am not sick. I am learning about contaminated sites.

Also, I will be downtown for it, so if anyone already downtown in the area of the Eaton Centre would like to meet up for lunch or something anytime between June 12 & 16, let me know (by email at andrea AT athenadreaming DOT org).

After that I'm on vacation for a week. So, so looking forward to it. It will be a much more fun posting week, though possibly light.

And because this is a purposeless and rambling post that is about as revealing as a Victorian mourning dress, I'll leave you with some Francestime. Here she is as she reads Little Miss Fun:

Frances: I will read it! That's little Miss Fun. (turn) And that's Little Miss Fun. (turn) And that's Little Miss Fun. (turn) And that's Little Miss Fun! (turn) And that's Little Miss Fun, too. (turn) The End! Did you like that story?

Andrea: Oh yes. It was great!

Posted by Andrea at 10:14 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Goes to a Ball

Yesterday, Frances went to NB's birthday party. She was the only child there that NB wasn't related to, so Erik and I felt like outsiders--because we were--for most of it, but Frances, social butterfly that she is, just melded herself right in.

She was the smallest child there, by a large margin, even though she was not the youngest by a year, and some of the children eyed her warily. Who is this tiny interloper who looks like a baby but does not act like one? Should I treat her gently, like a little baby, or roughly, like a toddler? I can't figure it out, so maybe I will avoid her instead. Frances must be used to it by now, because it didn't seem to make any impression. She just manhandled all of NB's toys while refusing to speak one audible word to anyone she wasn't related to.

Andrea: Can you say hello, Frances?

Frances: *suspicious silence*

Friendly Party Guest: Hello, Frances!

Andrea: Can you say hello, Frances?

Frances: *suspicious silence plus a reluctant wave*

This might lead one to think that she is shy. I have no idea how to reconcile this image with the one of her dancing with abandon to the child's musician who came in to play for 45 minutes.

There were bells to ring, songs to sing, toy dogs to pet, drums to beat, colourful gauzy scarves to shake in the air, and rattles to shake. All through it, Frances danced. She wiggled her bum, jumped in the air, stomped her feet, turned in circles, leapt and ran, while the other children and the adults watched. Were the other children dancing? you ask. No, no they were not. They were sitting with their bells, toys, drums, scarves and rattles and shaking, beating, petting or otherwise abusing them. They were singing. They were laughing. Sometimes they were rolling on the ground. But they were not dancing.

"Look at her!" the other adults would say. "Look at her dance! Isn't she having a great time? What great dancing, Frances! Oh, how cute."

I would have replied but I was too busy laughing. There is nothing more adorable on this earth than the sight of my tiny 29" toddler girl in her pink plaid party dress and little green sweater, dancing like a maniac the best she can.

In the almost-nine years that I've known Erik, I have not once seen him dance. He promised me before we got married that he would dance with me one day, but I have long since given up trying to collect on that promise because he simply refuses. He doesn't dance. Actually, that's not entirely true--he will sometimes sort-of dance with Frances, bopping up and down while holding her. But he still won't dance with me.

On the other hand, I have always been the first one out on the dance floor--stone cold sober, too. I like dancing, and whether I look like an idiot or not has always been beside the point. I can't help it. If there's music playing and I don't despise it, I'll dance.

And so will Frances, apparently.

Frances, my snippet, being the first out on the dance floor is something that will stand you in good stead. It won't just help you have a good time on social occasions; it won't just help you have more dance partners. Being willing to get out there and do something you love whether or not you're any good at it (though you are a wonderful dancer) and even if you're out there by yourself is a good trait. I'm proud of you.

I'm also going to make more time and space in our lives for you to dance. A cd player in the front room ought to do it. We'll turn on something with a good beat and dance till we get dizzy and fall over, then get right back up again.

Posted by Andrea at 7:02 AM | Comments (8)

First Annika, then Administrative, plus Francestime

Annika: The last raffle was held and winners were notified. Our donations total as of about 10 days ago was $5,600. Which is great! And thanks to everyone who has contributed to that. However, as you'll notice, it's slowed down a bit since the last time I posted a total (of $4,200). I think it's a combination of three things: Annika's not in the hospital, the insurance situation is no longer as pressing, and you're all getting raffled out.

Of course, ideally the raffles would be for people outside of Moreena's circle of acquaintance, since those of you who already know her are already donating, without a bribe (I mean, prize). And I've found that outside of Moreena's circle of acquaintance, and with a few notable and fabulous exceptions, people seem far more inclined to open their mouths than open their wallets. So the raffles are taking a summer break, both so you can have a rest from my constant harping to buy a ticket, and so I can think about the strategy a little more deeply and hopefully come up with a more promising route for fundraising. The raffles are set to resume in September. (If you are a donor and have a problem with that decision, please write me at andrea AT athenadreaming DOT org.)

Of course, if you want to donate to Annika's COTA account you can. The Virtual Casserole Campaign is still in full gear.

I'd really appreciate it if those of you who have linked to Annika's account could post this update on your own blogs to spread the word. Not everyone reads Beanie Baby. Thanks!

Administrative: I updated the links on the left the lazy way: If you've linked to me, I linked back to you. Unless I don't know that you've linked to me, in which case you are feeling slighted and annoyed. If you leave a comment to that effect, I'll rectify it the next time I am updating my links.

I will also be adding a few other widgets and links to the sidebars over the next week or so, probably without fanfare. For example, someday soon I'll be adding a LibraryThing widget that links to all the books I've reviewed for the Green Toddler, or the ones I've read.

Francestime: Why do I always make you wait until the very end? What's wrong with me? Why do you put up with this?

Frances has become complimentable. She now understands enough of what we say that when we compliment her, she lights up like a candle: bit smile, twinkling eyes, shy ducking of the chin. It's adorable, so of course, I'm complimenting her even more than before.

Andrea: Are you beautiful, Frances?

Frances: *smile, twinkle, duck, nod*

Andrea: Are you smart and strong?

Frances: *bigger smile, more twinkle, duck, nod*

Andrea: Are you my sweet girl?

Frances: *giggle, nod*

Sometimes, it doesn't work out quite the way I expect.

Andrea: Are you my fabulous Frances?

Frances: *looks thoughtfully into middle distance* No, I'm not.

Andrea: You're not?

Frances: *shakes head*

And then there's last night, when we put her to bed--at 8:30!--and thirty minutes later I heard her babbling and bouncing in her crib. AS I came up the stairs, she smiled at me through the crack in her door. I went in.

Frances: I'm waking up!

Andrea: No, you're not. You have to sleep before you can wake up. First sleep, then waking up. OK?

Frances: *puzzled silence*

Frances: We go sit in the rocking chair?

Andrea: *sigh* OK. But just for a minute.

Frances: I go down.

Andrea: Noooo, you don't.

Frances: I go downstairs, and see Daddy.

Andrea: No. It's bedtime. We stay upstairs, and you sleep.

Frances: *wiggling* Where is the mole? Oh, there it is! There's the mole. What a cute little baby mole!

Andrea: Yes, there's the mole.

Frances: I LOVE you, baby mole! My mole!

Andrea: Uh....

Frances: There's my happy bee! There's the window. There's my books! There's my dresser! There's the door. There's the funny monkeys! Oh, what funny monkeys!

Andrea: *laughing* I love you Frances.

Frances: I ... am poking my tongue.

Posted by Andrea at 7:32 AM | Comments (5)

First a frog, then a rabbit

Note: Today is the draw for the raffle for Annika. Use the button on the left to go to the website and view the items, and let me know before 8:00 pm if you are going to buy a ticket. Thanks! Now on to the post proper:

No, really. Yesterday evening, while sitting in the front room reading board books, a rabbit ran into our garden, snacked on some grass, and ran off again. (I'll bet it's the same furry devil responsible for the slaughter of the strawberry plant I put out front.) I scooped up Frances and we walked a few houses down, and saw it again sitting in a neighbour's backyard, munching on some greens. Is it a pet or a wild rabbit or a pet-gone-wild? I have no idea. It's a brown rabbit, fairly large with short ears, and a white tail. Clearly comfortable maneuvering outside in a suburban environment and feels entitled to snack on my garden. But Frances likes it, so the loss of a few leaves is well worth it.

It was quite a weekend for wildlife chez Andrea.

We also went sandal shopping, which as you might be able to guess was a source of much excitement and anticipation for the WBBE, BN. After trying on her sandals from last year only to have her toes curl around the front edge, we obviously needed to (though this didn't stop Frances from adoring the ones she had and spending lots of time putting them on and taking them off and putting them on again, just for fun), so we went to the local discount mall and started looking. We walked into PayLess and Frances took off while I was checking out the women's size 7s--I walk over two aisles and there she is, awestruck in front of a display of Dora sandals.

You can imagine what happened next.

It was a choice between some red plasticy ones, some obnoxious pink ones, or some light yellow ones that light up when you walk. So nothing that would have been high on my list, but then, I'm not wearing them. They had nothing in a size 4 so I took down a size 5 and let her walk around. At this point there was nothing which could get them off her feet. She walked, she ran, she jumped, she stared entranced at the Dora picture and the twinkling lights.

"You don't happen to have these in a size 4?" I asked the saleswoman.

"No, sorry. We sold out of those right away."

"All right. It doesn't look like it's slowing her down any, so we'll take these. Frances, honey, I have to take the shoes off now. Sweetie, it's ok, I'm just going to pay for them and then we'll put them right back on again."

Took them off, paid for them, put them on, and off she went.

They are too big--her wee little toes don't even peek beyond the edges of the front portion of the sandals--so I found her another pair of smaller ones from The Children's Place, green with flowers on them, that she can also wear; and we picked up two hats, both for her, because she only has one hat and she's outside all the time and that one hat is getting filthy. One hat will now live at the daycare, and the other two will live at home, where one (a straw hat with flowers printed on it) will be for special occasions and the other one will get filthy in short order.

The whole expedition fascinated her. She stopped to check out every garbage can and every chair. She stopped at the spots in the floor made up to look like pools, with two layers or thick plexiglass and a few feet beneath some green and blue glass stones. She played with the dog in Old Navy (much to the chagrin of a sour-faced four-year-old boy in a stroller, who said loudly, "Why is she up there?" His mother said, "She's playing with the dog. Is that ok?" and smiled and rolled her eyes at me. The boy scowled. I guess he was not having a good day). She had a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries for lunch, and on the way to the car stopped to admire a cageful of those little fake puppies that walk and bark and stand on their legs.

"PUPPIES!" She squatted down. "PUPPIES!" She tried to stick her hand in the cage.

"Don't do that, sweetheart. Your hand will get stuck. Thank you."

"PUPPIES!"

It was adorable. Don't take my word for it; ask the half-dozen groups of shoppers who stopped to admire my little girl admiring the puppies, some of whom actually walked into the store so they could see her from the front before rejoining their groups and saying, "Isn't she cute? What a cute little girl."

After we got home we braved the heat for thirty minutes or so, so Frances could water her flowers and pet the Garden Elmo, and we tried to find the frog again, but no luck. Then it was nap time, and I hid in the basement for an hour to recover from the heat.

It was a great day, a perfect day (except for the heat). I don't know if it comes across here, but it was. All evening, after Erik got home (and I made supper, and cleaned the bathroom even), I kept saying, "What a perfect day. We had a wonderful day. Wasn't it great, Frances? Thanks for being so good today. We had so much fun. Didn't we, Frances?" Frances kept her own counsel, but did allow that the frog was pretty exciting. "It jumped on the garden hose," she said, "and then it jumped on Mummy's hand!"

So of course I couldn't sleep last night. I woke up at 3 and that was it, too damned hot. So it's almost 9:00 and I've been awake for almost seven hours already. The weather is breaking on Thursday. I only have to somehow function until Thursday, then I can sleep.

Posted by Andrea at 7:43 AM | Comments (2)

Tuesday: Better Than the Weekend!

Yesterday, I stayed home with Frances and waited for her to poop.

No, this isn't Marla; yes, I meant what I said. Frances's daycare has a rule that children with diahrea can't come in, so if your child has had diahrea, you have to wait until they have a normal poop before you can bring them back. Monday (the holiday) was a day of diahrea, so Tuesday, we stayed home and I waited for her to poop. Which she declined to do, by the way.

And I would have complained about Monday, except that the long weekend was lousy for so many reasons--Erik had a cold, Frances had a cold, the weather was rainy and windy and miserable--and picking just one to harp on seemed somehow unfair to the rest, who had after all tried their best to spoil our time off. At least, as I told myself, if you are going to have a spring cold, a wet, cold and windy weekend is the time to have it, since you couldn't have been outside enjoying yourself anyway. Right?

All of which explains why I was, overall, happy to be at home yesterday, waiting for Frances to poop. At least the weather was nice and we were able to spend some time outdoors and Frances was well enough to enjoy it. So she wouldn't eat lunch, took one and a half hours to fall asleep for her nap and then woke up early complaining of an empty tummy ("My tummy is very empty. I want to put something in it!"). At least it was better than the weekend.

~~~~~

Also, my clever monkey is continuing in her goal to achieve world household domination. Before bed, she resists all hugs and snuggles as a lead-in to the inevitable and hated bedtime; she will squirm down and then pick another book. But after bed--ah, that's another story. If I respond to the oh-so-realistic crying, she is only too happy to hug. Why, it gets her out of the crib and into the rocking chair!

I shouldn't give in. I know this already. You don't need to tell me. I should just tuck her right back into bed and tell her it's time to sleep. But I get the best hugs of the day then (little punk) and I am an addict. On to the rocking chair we go, where Frances treats me to her most charming performances. "Hi, mummy," she says, with her most brilliant smile. "We're sitting in the rocking chair!"

"Yes, we are."

"I'm hugging you."

"Mmm hmm. And what a great hug."

"Am I hugging you?"

"Yes, you are."

"Oh, what a super hug."

"Yes it is."

"There's the happy bee! Hello, happy bee! Oh, what a happy bee."

"Yes. Look at his smile."

"It's a big one!"

"Are you the cutest baby who ever lived?"

She snuggles in. "Yes. I am."

I giggle.

"I am a baby."

"Mmm hmm."

She straightens, and points knowingly. "And that is a wall."

So I don't care if this is reinforcing a bad habit of taking a long time to fall asleep and fake-crying to get a response. It's a fair trade for five perfect minutes of close snuggling, big smiles and adorable baby patter.

Posted by Andrea at 8:11 AM | Comments (4)

Please Please Please?

"Can I hold you?" asks Frances. "Please please please?"

"Can you read this book?" asks Frances, walking towards me holding my least favourite book from her library. "Please please please?"

"I'd like to go on the big bed," she whispers, one hand held by her ear in her imitation of how most people amplify their voices by holding their hands around their mouths. "Please please please?"

"Can I have some cheese please? Please please please?"

"I'd like to do some fingerpainting. Please please please?"

Yes. She has figured out the power of the multiple pleases, which turns Mummy and Daddy into warm putty. "Fingerpainting? Oh, sweetie, it's almost lunch time, I don't .... Oh, all right."

And it gets worse.

Babies, we all know, are not smart enough to be manipulative. All of their statements and wishes are honest because they don't know enough to lie. Yet more proof that Frances is not a baby anymore: she is capable of turning it on at any point in time to suit her own nefarious purposes.

She will cry--with real tears that require kissing--if we ask her to put down a toy she likes or leave a play area or put her down for a nap. It's partly fake crying, and partly not fake; but it's impossible to tell how much of which because she's so damned good at it. Real tears! On and off like a switch. It's amazing. If she's crying in her crib and I go in and she stops, but had real tears, and then pick her up and cosset her and give her a hug and go to put her back down again and she says to me, lip trembling, eyes wet, "I'm going to cry!" What is a mom to do?

Or this evening, when she cried after we put her to bed and Erik went in, and I listened in on the monitor downstairs.

"OK Frances, it's time to go back to bed."

A quavering Frances voice popped up, "I love you Daddy!"

Good thing it was him and not me, because that would have me absolutely paralyzed. I should put her back to bed. But she just said she loves me and she's sad and she's going to cry and how can I put her back to bed?

Clever clever girl.

Posted by Andrea at 10:12 AM | Comments (6)

Overhead on the Monitor: Drama Queen

"My blanket! It's getting horrible! What am I going to do?"

And now she is calling for me.

"Uh oh! Mummy! Uh oh! Mummy? What am I going to do?"

So I think I'd better go.

I'm so happy to be home and listening to my little girl in person.

Posted by Andrea at 8:05 PM | Comments (4)

Monsters

We've entered the age of monsters. Where previously Frances would charge unafraid into any room or corner of the house, now, if it's even a little bit dark, and if there's no one else there, she will pause.

"It's scaaaaary," she'll say; or, "It's very scary!"

Then, "There's a Monster! AAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" And out she will run.

Fortunately, she can be brave in company. If Erik or I go back with her, we can frighten the monsters away, and Frances will be bold.

"Shoo! Shoo!" I cry, chasing the monsters out, sweeping my arms in front of me.

"Shoo!" Frances cries with glee, sweeping her own arms out too.

"Are the monsters gone now?" I ask.

"Yeah!"

"Good."

Posted by Andrea at 8:16 AM | Comments (8)

Just Like Mom

Breaking my one-post-per-day rule:

Frances has known for quite some time now that I test my blood sugar before I eat. I didn't know what she made of it, but whenever I pull out my meter and strips at the dinner table, she points it out: "You're testing your blood sugar."

"That's right," I say. "Are you going to eat your dinner now?"

She nods, and eats; I get my result and prime the pump and eat; and that's all I've ever said about it. As far as I know she even figured out the phrase--testing blood sugar--just by listening to me say, "Just a second, I have to test my blood sugar," before we eat at night.

This evening we were in the basement, after playing a rowsing game of hide and seek, searching for her toy baby food jar and pink plastic fork. She has decided the jarred food is "delicious pizza," and that sounds much more appetizing to me than stewed carrots. We found them, and she sat down on the floor, put the fork in the jar, then held it to her lips.

"I have to check my blood sugar," she said.

"You have to check your blood sugar?"

"Yeah!"

"OK. Do you want to go upstairs and check in the kitchen?"

She nodded her head, so up we went, Frances carefully holding her jar of delicious pizza and the fork. I sat her in my lap at the kitchen table and put a strip in the meter, then held the pricker against her baby soft arm. I did not prime it, or plunge it; but I wanted it to be as real for her as possible, so I held it there. Then I put the strip to her arm, pretended to count down, and quickly switched it off and hit the memory switch so it would display a number.

"Six point three!" I said. "Very good, Frances. Are you going to eat your pizza now?"

She nodded, and put the fork in her mouth, while I sat there with my tears dripping on to her head.

It's sweet, isn't it? It's sweet. She doesn't know yet that it means I'm sick, she only knows that it's something special Mummy does, and I think it means she wants to be like me. Mummy tests her blood sugar; and Frances wants to test her blood sugar, too.

But I hope I never, ever have to hear her say that phrase for real.

Posted by Andrea at 6:04 PM | Comments (10)

This is for Marla

A few days ago, while changing Frances's diaper:

"I'm picking my nose!" she says.

"I see that. You really shouldn't, sweetie. You had a nosebleed yesterday."

"I got a booger." She holds it out for my inspection.

"Look at that! So you do."

"I eat it." The mouth opens; the finger moves toward it.

I catch the little hand just millimetres in front of her gaping maw. "No! No no no! Boogers are garbage. Hold still, I'm getting a kleenex."

What I want to know is:

How many has she not announced?

I know it's gross, but secretly (or not-so-secretly, since I'm about to announce it to the Internet--hello, Internet!), I'm happy she's not yet easily grossed out. Her favourite thing to do in the backyard is scoop dirt out of the flowerboxes, sending it up in fountains to rain down on her hat and her shirt; she likes to watch ants scurry across the deck and, if she steps too near one, she'll say, "Ooops! Sorry, ant." She squats down to examine all of the fresh bird poop on the driveway, and makes sure we know what it is; she giggles when Daddy burps; and yes, she likes to have the occasional snot snack.

Outside, in her overalls or jeans and shirt all brown with dirt, her blue baseball cap, her grimy fingernails, little plastic shovel in one hand and little plastic pail in the other, she looks like nothing so much as a two-foot-tall farmer girl. I not-so-secretly hope she stays that way--unfastidious, willing to be covered in mud if she's having a good time.

I know it's probably just a stage, but I'll enjoy it while it lasts.

Good thing I buy her cheap clothes.

~~~~~

And hey, we've sold 47 tickets for Peter Rabbit!

Forty-seven!

Three tickets to go, and we can hold the draw.

~~~~~

This is one of those odd times where I feel very busy, but am not sure why. It's a lot of little things, I think: another WholeMom coming (in five days, and this one is packed) which means revising and emailing and writing up snippets of my own; some writing of my own, a few essays and stories I'm in the process of revising and one which is taking some actual research; gardening--peas, tomatoes, some herbs, strawberries, and a few flowers; doing some research into local environmental initiatives, like an organic free-range local meat farm I found out about a day or so ago, which delivers, and composting, local conservation areas and wildlife parks, native plants for gardens, walks in our local woodlot, lots of birdwatching, all good Green Toddler stuff which just has to make itself into a post or two; reading--right now, Collapse and The New Canon and an issue of OnSpec, and starting to make notes on EcoKids which overall I wasn't thrilled with; I have a birthday present for Rachel sitting on my dresser that I need to get into the mail and haven't yet because I haven't finished her card; my scrapbooking has been sorely neglected lately because I haven't developed any photos for a while; plus, you know, work, Erik, Frances.

I'm also really struggling with diabetes motivation these days. It has not arrived in the mail, unfortunately, so I'll have to go the home-made route. I'm doing much better than I was, I'm testing three or four times a day now and even getting it into my Palm (where I keep the info) on a regular basis. But it's hard to work up past four when I'm doing well that way. My blood sugars are consistently between four and six. (My apologies to the Americans, I really don't know how it translates--is it multiply by 18? So between 72 and 110?) I know I need to start testing more over June if we're going to start trying in July but--it's hard when testing infrequently seems to be working so well.

It's a good busy. And you'd think, with so many things going on, I'd have more to say. And I do. But not much time to say it in.

Posted by Andrea at 9:22 AM | Comments (7)

And the Oscar goes to...

We took her to the park. We played. We planted several strawberry plants, which Frances helped to dig holes, push dirt, stir mud, and pour water. She was a great help. If you call putting small trowel-fulls of mud on the front walk, and stirring the muddy water left at the bottom of the strawberry bin vigorously, and trying to dig up a lone pea plant that is just beginning to stick its nose above the earth, "helping." And when we finished up (at almost 8:00) she was not done! Oh no.

"I dig more holes."

"Not today, baby. We'll plant some things tomorrow."

"Where's my shovel?"

"Not today. Tomorrow."

We managed to clean off her muddy arms and fingers, but instead of the traditional process of transferring the mud to the sink where it is washed into oblivion, given Frances's small size and my lack of desire to string her up by her thumbs to accomplish this, the mud ended up on the floor instead. Which is why God created brooms. I only want to know why he didn't create self-sweeping brooms. Why go halfway?

Eventually--after several readings of Once Upon a Potty and a demand for a goodnight hug from the Mole--we got her into her crib.

Then there was crying.

Now, on top of Frances's many other skills and talents, she is quite an actress. The other day we asked her to laugh, and she did, and it was totally realistic. Sometimes she will shriek: "AAAAAAAAAAH!" And then, "I scared you!" She is also very good and completely shameless with the pretend crying. So I never know. Eventually, I went in.

The crying stopped. I approached the crib.

"I'm crying," she says.

"You were crying," I say. I kneel down in front of the crib so our heads are level.

"I go in the rocking chair." She grabs my shoulders.

"No, baby. It's time for you to sleep."

"Just for a few minutes!"

"Not now. It's sleepy time."

She peered at her baby monitor. "There are two lights. They are sleepy. They need to have a nap."

"Yes. Just like you."

"Where's the nightlight?" She craned over my shoulder.

"Frances, it's sleep time." I pulled her arms away from my neck.

She grabbed my hands and started to jump, bouncing up and down like a rubber ball on a trampoline. I tried--I really tried--to look seriously at her, with gravity; I tried for at least a full minute to look serious for long enough that I could say, "time to lie down, Frances."

Instead, I laughed. I put my head on the crib railing and laughed so hard my shoulders shook.

"I'm jumping!" said Frances.

I nodded.

"You're laughing."

"Yes. Yes. I am. And now, it's time for you to sleep. Come on. Lie down. Sleepy time."

"You're such a silly girl!"

Have pity on me, readers; I know that you are laughing, reading at my daughter calling me a silly girl; so imagine how I felt.

I got her tucked in again, on her tummy with her bunny and her bear, and went downstairs. A few minutes later, the crying began again.

I can't wait to hear what she had in store for Erik.

Posted by Andrea at 7:44 AM | Comments (5)

SuperBunny!

I'm pleased to announce that Ms. Frances's imagination is in full working order, as evidenced by the following:

1. For the past few weeks, she has enjoyued making Max and Ruby-style lemonade. First she empties her plastic yellow bucket--this is the jug, you see--and puts her toy lemon in it. Then she has to find the sugar. Why, this Little People baby in a stroller will make a fine cup of sugar! In it goes. Then we need a single leaf of mint (which she refers to as "grandma's leaf"), and if you think that looks like a red plastic whistle, you are very much mistaken. Now we need a jug of water. She pretends to add it, then grabs a wooden stick that came with her set of musical instruments, and stirs. "Delicious!" she proclaims, filling several plastic cups and handing them out to whoever happens to be close by.

2. Her Little People are alive. No, really. They sit down and have nice meals at little chairs and tables; they go for rides on horses, they jump up and down and dance; they get hugs and when they fall down they get owwies that Frances kisses better. And the other day at daycare, they were at daycare too, and Frances was the teacher. She had them all sit down in a circle and then sang them the Circle Song: "Make a circle, make a circle, big and round! Big and round! Everybody sitting, everybody sitting, on the ground. And make no sound." Such obedient Little People they were, they all sat very still in their circle and made absolutely no sounds at all.

3. On occasion, without warning, she will become SuperBunny! of Max and Ruby fame. SuperBunny! will then run around the living room, while loudly declaring his (?) identity. "SuperBunny to the rescue-hooo!"

4. And them sometimes she's Pocoyo, running around with her hands held behind her, stopping suddenly, pointing at something, and saying, "Pato!" or "Ellie!"

5. Sometimes, her Thomas trains have fights, and then Frances has to lecture them. "No, Thomas! Don't hit!" or "Percy! That not nice!" Then they kiss and make up. Sometimes, they have nice conversations, where Mr. Topham Hatt will approach and Frances will say, "Mr. Topham Hatt is talking to Percy!"

6. The Den in the basement is also a toy nursery, in which inummerable toys have naps of varying duration. First, a blue rubbermaid box is pressed into service as a cot, when she places a piece of blue construction paper on it: this is the bed. Then a toy is placed on the bed, and a dishcloth/blanket is placed on top. "Time for a nap!" says Ms. Frances. "Sleep time! Go to sleep! Lie down on your tummy. SH!" She turns away. "Now I go to a rocking chair," she says, and sits down on the scanner. Then if, after a few minutes, the toy has not yet settled in to sleep, she will get up and reapproach, saying, "SH! Naptime. Time to sleep. Nighty night!" Again she goes to sit in the rocking chair.

It is almost as if I can see all the smaller wheels within the bigger wheels in her brain begin to turn. Click! Why, this yellow bucket doesn't have to be a yellow bucket--it can be a chair, or a hat, or a jug, or a boat! Click! I know this is really part of the computer, but I need a rocking chair or Rudolph won't go to sleep, so for now this is a rocking chair too. Click! A few minutes ago, this wipe was used to clean my face; but now, this is Dora's clean diaper, and where did that bunny get to, anyway?

The other day, she was Ruby, and I was Max. "Hi, Max!" she said. "Hi Ruby," I replied. "Are you Max?" she asked. "I don't know. Am I Max?" "Yeah!" So there you go.

Afterwards, she decided to be a frog, crouched down onto her hands and feet, and bounced across the floor.

Posted by Andrea at 7:43 AM | Comments (5)

Just overheard on the monitor:

Because it's too funny not to share:

"The airship is coming! HURRAY! for Ellie. HURRAY! for Pocoyo. HURRAY!"

Hmm. Maybe TV Turn-off Week is a better idea even than I thought yesterday.

Posted by Andrea at 12:19 PM | Comments (2)

Not Ready

Do you know what that adorable little blue-eyed punk has been calling me for the last few weeks? Do you have any idea?

MOM.

Mom!

The nerve. No mama, no mummy, not even a nasally "mommy." Just Mom. Mom mom mom.

How dare she? She's only two years old! I have the right, the god-damned entitlement to be a Mummy for at least another year. I am outraged. I've been robbed!

Mom! Indeed.

~~~~~

And it doesn't end there, either. A few nights ago she was having a hard time getting to sleep, so I went in and we rocked in the rocking chair for a few minutes.

"Where's Daddy?" she asked.

"He's downstairs."

"Where's Daddy?"

"He's downstairs."

"Where's Father?"

"He's downstairs." By this time I am struggling not to laugh.

"Where's Father?"

Now I'm laughing. "He's still downstairs."

"Where's Father?"

"He is still downstairs, you excessively formal little girl! Now it's time for bed."

"Yeah."

~~~~~

In related-but-not-really news:

She's trying to figure out gender differences. So this morning over breakfast, she asked Erik, "Are you a boy?" In a terrifically coy little voice.

Erik said, "Yes, I'm a boy."

She asked me, "Are you a boy?"

"No, I'm a girl. Are you a boy?"

"Yeah!"

"No, you're a girl too! Just like Mummy."

"Am I a boy?"

"No, you're a girl."

"Am I a boy?"

"No, you're a girl."

~repeat for several minutes, while I increasingly fail at not laughing~

It's not an isolated incidence, either. Questions of "boy" and "girl" are becoming more and more interesting to her. If she sees a child playing on the street nearby, she will try to identify their sex: "It's a little boy," for example, and usually she gets it right. Depressing to think that she's already internalized so many of those external gender cues, like hair length and clothing styles. But she is much more interested in being a boy than a girl, herself, which I take as a game--she truly does not understand what boy and girl mean right now, so I see no point in trying to drive home her girlness. And besides, what if she's transgendered? But I think it's time for that anatomy book.

And one more story, since I've deprived you all this week of your rightful Frances-time so I could rant about parental politics:

There is one little girl, who I call "little" only because she is so in relation to most adults, in Frances's daycare who is a bit of a bully. She bites, she hits, she kicks.

She has adopted Frances, and taken on the role of her bodyguard and protector.

Apparently, she hovers anxiously by while Frances plays to make sure the other kids don't get close enough to knock her down, and if she doesn't like the way the other kids are playing around her, she will go to the daycare director and say, "Your baby is in trouble!"

I think that I think it's cute. I don't know how much of her protectiveness is motivated by her under-estimation of her age based on her small size, but it's sweet that she's taken it on herself to make sure the "baby" doesn't get hurt playing with all the big toddler kids. I know that I'm relieved that I can rest assured that she's not biting, hitting or kicking Frances because dear readers, this girl is BIG. Frances would not stand a chance.

Another fan for my little snippet. What a talent she has for making friends and winning admirers.

Posted by Andrea at 8:29 AM | Comments (14)

Supermodel

Sunday, I took Frances for her first professional haircut, at a place called Melonhead which is just for kids. The chairs are cars and boats and horses; everything is child-sized; and when you're done you get a lollipop, a chocolate, some stickers, and a free ride in either the rocket-ship or the racecar (the sort of motorized rides you typically find for a toonie near a food court). I didn't know this before I took Frances; I only knew that they cut kids' hair for a reasonable price and it looked like fun. Also, I've been cutting Frances's hair myself since she was four months old, and every cut rendered it less and less even, so I knew that I would need professional help in restoring it to a baseline level of eveness.

Considering I've been cutting her hair myself for almost two years, it's not surprising. And yes, that first cut at four months was absolutely necessary. It was already so long that it was getting in her eyes. When she was born it was already dark and thick and at least an inch long--and she was a month early. Erik and I joke that if she'd gone to term she would have been born wearing ponytails.

Just our luck, the boy sitting right next to Frances was having his first haircut (the grandma sprinting around the seat to catch it on film was a dead giveaway) and he was screaming his head off. Frances was a trooper, as always, but every once in a while she would look over at the boy, and her eyes would get wide, and she would look at us and say, "The boy is very sad!" And then she would start getting misty and crying herself. But a moment or two of distraction was all it took to keep her calm enough for the hairdresser to work her magic: It was even! Almost perfectly even!

Then came the blowdrying (not fun) and the sparkly hairspray (also not fun, but very pretty). She got her lollipop and her chocolate and her stickers, but declined the ride. I bought her a little dress at Baby Gap for Easter, since both sets of grandparents are coming for Easter dinner, one all the way from Montreal.

After we got home, Erik started up the barbeque and Frances went to her perch on the stepstool to watch him. I took out the camera and snapped some pictures. They are up on her photos site now. Those of you who do not have access will just have to take my word for it: they are breathtaking. She is gorgeous. I can't take my eyes off her.

(And Marla: there is one picture of Josephine up from the Museum. She's not looking at the camera and the site is password protected, but if you want me to take it down, just say the word.)

Posted by Andrea at 7:53 AM | Comments (12)

Nn-No!

Yao lasted for all of what, five seconds?

I can't be sure it's gone for good; but it's supplanted all right. Supplanted by something so cute I still can't hear it without giggling.

The scene: This morning, getting Frances up.

Frances: Mummy! Mummy!

Erik: You want to see Mummy?

Frances: Yeah! (reaches out the little arms for a Mummy hug)

Andrea: Hi baby girl. Good morning.

Frances: I go on a big bed!

Andrea: Uh ... well... ok, but just for a few minutes.

We lie down on the big bed and she cleans and pets and kisses the mole. I haven't mentioned that yet, have I? Cleaning the mole is the new big thing. She kisses it, then wipes it down with my shirt and asks, "Are you clean?" Where does she get this stuff from?

Andrea: I gotta get up now, kiddo. I have to get dressed.

Frances: (the eyes mist up, the lip trembles, she shakes her head quickly) Nn-no!

Andrea: I wish I didn't have to baby, but I do. I have to go to work.

Frances: Nn-no! (same misting, trembling, shaking)

Andrea: Oh, sweetie. I'm sorry.

Frances: You lie down on a big bed! I hold Mummy!

Andrea: I wish I could. I have to get dressed. I have to go to work so I can buy us food to eat.

Frances: Nn-no!

It is simultaneously heartrending and adorable. She is so sad, but the eyes are so big and so blue and, you know, it's flattering, especially after the interminable Daddy Phase. (It felt like it was interminable, all right?) It's three little nos, said so quickly and so close together, with such a forceful little shake of the head, that the first two nos disappear into an extra long "nn."

For the past few days it's been popping out all the time. Well, I shouldn't say all the time. If I ask her if she's adorable, or would like macaronim and cheese, or if she wants to give the squirrels some food, the answer is an unequivocal "yeah!" But whenever the question provokes passion in her little breast: Is it time for bed? Is it time to get dressed? Is it time to go in the blue car and go to daycare? Should we put your toys away now? Do you want to go inside?

Tears welling, lip trembling, head shaking: "Nn-no!"

Posted by Andrea at 8:09 AM | Comments (8)

Yao!

Yao is Frances's newest word, best understood in context:

"Frances, would you like some cereal?"

"Yao!" While shaking head.

"OK. How about a banana?"

"Yao!" while nodding head.

"You want a banana?"

"Yao!" While shaking head.

"What do you want?"

"Yao!"

"Are you sure you don't want cheerios?"

"Yao!" while nodding head.

"Uh, does that mean you do or you don't? Do you want cheerios?"

"Yao!" while nodding head.

"Ok then, Cheerios it is."

Did that make your head hurt? Good, because it hurts mine.

It is, as far as I can tell, translated as: "I don't know what I want, and I don't want to commit, and I want you to decide without me having to tell you!" It sounds like a "yeah" that turns into a "no" halfway through.

I can hear you chuckling and see you rubbing your hands together gleefully as I write this; after lo these long months of suffering through my interminable boastings of Frances's easy-goingness, she has developed independence! But no, wait; she's teething. I don't want to ascribe something to temperament that is just a side-effect of pain.

Still, for the past week or so she has put her size-four foot down. I've learned not to phrase non-negotiable things as a question, because she will only say no (or yao, depending on the situation). Thus, "Do you want to put your shoes on?" has become "Time to put on your shoes, sweetie," and "Are you done with your cheerios?" has become "It's time to put the cheerios away and go get dressed." And she's fine with it. She'll go with the flow and put on her shirt and pants. She just wants to say "No!" first to see what we'll do.

Little punk.

Posted by Andrea at 7:15 AM | Comments (6)

My Big Girl

Today, she drank out of a cup for the first time.

I mean a cup cup. No spout. No handles. A little blue tumbler.

And she didn't spill one drop.

OK, she slurped a lot and it was very noisy and she choked once or twice, but! She didn't spill any.

~~~~~

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has not yet gone away for the year, because we don't dare. She loves that reindeer--yes, the cheap one we got free from the Santa photo back in November.

Today, Rudolph has spent a lot of time 'napping.' There is a much-cut-up piece of blue construction paper that is also a sleeping bag, and an old dish rag that is also a blanket. All three are very portable, so everywhere Frances goes today, so does Rudolph with his sleeping bag and blanket. Then the sleeping bag is carefully placed on a table or chair, and Rudolph is laid on top, and the blanket draped carefully on him.

Zeke has also undergone a surprising transformation.

Zeke is--or was--a Baby Gund stuffed inchworm, six segments long, with each segment making a noise. Two rattle, two squeak, two rustle. But no more! He entered his chrysalis and emerged--a rocking chair.

I am not clear on the biology of this myself, but Frances held him up in front of me and said, "See the rocking chair?" So I know it's true. Then she carefully put him on the floor and sat on him.

Posted by Andrea at 7:18 AM | Comments (4)

Another Day, Another Milestone

It is a tremendous thing when your child learns to talk well enough to tell you what they want: frustrated tears, crying and yelling go down by an order of magnitude, and it's just so darned cute when they start putting those sentences together. But alas, there is a downside, and it is Saturday morning.

At a quarter to six, we were woken by thrashing and turning, rustling and then the banging of feet on the slats of her crib. Then: "Daaaaaadeeeee! Daaaadeeeee! Daaaaaadeeeeee! I'm awake!"

We both turned our faces in to the pillows to muffle our laughter, but it was no use trying to sleep after that.

Yes, that's right: she's mastered calling. The tilt and pitch of her voice are perfect, exactly what you yourself would use in a crowded room where you can't see someone easily but are not yet concerned. If we are playing in the basement and I walk into the office to use the computer: "Moooooooommeeeeee! Mommy wait! Moooooommeeeee!" Or if I go upstairs for a minute while she's watching TV: "Mooooommeeeeee! Are you going upstairs? Moooommeeeee! Can you bring me some apple juice?"

She has also mastered the correct use of "everybody." "Hello, everybody," she says while eating her cereal in the morning. "What are you doing, everybody?" she asks when Erik and I are talking or watching television. If a few of her toys have been down for a nap, "It's time to wake up, everybody! Wake up time!"

Her little leaps forward in communications skills always leave me in the dust for a day or two, anticipating the response she would have given me last week and not quite sure what to do with the one I got.

"Mummy, where's Max?"

"I don't know. Where is Max?"

"Maybe he's in the basement?"

"Oh. Do you think he's downstairs?"

"Yeah! I go get Max."

...

"What are you doing, Frances?"

"I'm looking out the window. See the trees?"

"I do."

"Where are the squirrels?"

"I don't know, sweetie. Maybe they're having a nap."

"Yeah. Can we give the squirrels some food?"

...

I look forward to being able to discuss competing theories of the true nature of space-time sometime over the summer.

~~~~~

If my glowing descriptions of Frances's WBBE, BNness are even more fuzzy-headed than usual, it's because we haven't had a full night's sleep in five weeks. First it was the cold, then it was the Cough that Would Not Die, and now it's her two year molars making a belated appearance. Not only are they waking her up at least once, and sometimes twice each night, they are also making her thoroughly unhappy for a large part of each day. For much of the weekend she wanted only to be held and to shake her head and whine. She doesn't want to eat anything that needs to be chewed, so she's had an ungodly amount of applesauce and yogurt.

The one thing that makes her feel better is, as always, The Mole.

Luckily for me, she's no longer trying to separate it from my body. Now it's "the baby mole," and "awwww, it's cute!" She pets it and hugs it (or, rather, the arm to which it is attached) and even kisses it. I wish I got even one tenth of the affection this crazy girl lavishes on the benign tumour on my arm.

But the molars are almost all the way through the gums, so I think we are in sight of the end of this stretch of sleeplessness. Yesterday, my compressed day off with her, she was a dizzying blur of motion. She did not walk when she could run, and a slightly awkward, bouncy, bow-legged run at that; nor was this enough for her, but that Mummy must run too.

"Mummy, I catch you!" she would cry. What this actually means is, "Catch me, Mummy!"

Then she'd take off at full throttle, arms waving at her side, legs bouncing all over the place, in circles around one of the posts in our basement, while I pretend to run as fast as I can and she laughs so hard I wonder how she sees straight. "I'm gonna catch you," I say, "I'm gonna catch you!" After a few circuits she is so dizzy that she slows and slows and slows and then stops, and just as she is about to topple I grab her. "I caught you!" I cry, and we collapse to the floor, Frances convulsing in laughter. "You caught me!" she says. Then she rolls to her feet. "I catch Mummy again!" and off she runs.

Which is just exactly what you want to do after five weeks of poor sleep, don't you agree?

But it's irresistable: she laughs with such complete and utter delight that I can't help but chase her just to keep her laughing.

She loved it too, I know, because this morning she was miserable to learn that she must go to daycare today. She sobbed and clutched my shoulders and would not let go, and when--ten minutes past my time to leave--Erik managed to pry her off of me, she cried: "Mummy! No! Mummy! I stay home with Mummy!" As if I were leaving for five months and she might never see me again.

Guilt and joy: the secret recipe of Motherhood.

Posted by Andrea at 10:10 AM | Comments (8)

Still the WBBE, BN

Last night* was spurnless. For the entire evening, she played with me. She even ignored Beloved Daddy a little bit. We sang songs: the Itsy Bitsy Spider, Baby Bumblebee, Old MacDonald, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. We gave seeds to the squirrels, and watched chickadees and doves come on to the deck to finish the ones they didn't want. We ate moussaka for supper.

We climbed up on the big bed, and she didn't once ask me to leave: instead, we played the Little Piggies, Frances frowning in concentration through three repititions. Then, "Daddy, take a socks off!" So he did, and she curled up underneath his foot--my tiny little girl, not much bigger than his foot herself--and repeated it herself:

"This little piggie went a market." Wiggled Daddy's big toe. "This little piggie went a stay home." Wiggle the next toe. "This little piggie went a all over a place!" And she tickled the bottom of his foot.

She demands, "Mummy, close your eyes!" I do, and she leans in close and screams: "AAAAH!" Then I have to start, open my eyes and say, "Oh, you scared me!" Then it's Daddy's turn. We alternate for ten minutes or so.

If I left the room, I could hear her plaintively asking, "Where's Mummy?" She missed me! My girl missed me. And I gobbled it right up, every second. Who knows how long this will last?

Every day she becomes more beautiful and sweet. I don't know how she does it. We are now at almost 27 months and still waiting for a temper tantrum. Not that I'm eager, you understand; I don't feel I'm missing out.

If I do something that she likes, she says, "I'm so PROUD of you, Mummy!"

When I get her in the morning, and I ask her if she wants to go downstairs and have some cheerios, she'll say, "Yeah, I think so, Mummy." Pause. "I think that's a good idea."

The other day, she looked at me and asked, "Are you beautiful?"

"Am I beautiful?" I said, unsure how to respond.

"Yeah!"

I know where this comes from--it is a game of ours, I ask her a dozen questions in a row:

"Are you beautiful? Are you smart? Are you sweet? Do you have cute toes? Do you have lovely blond hair? Do you have big blue eyes? Are you strong?" And so on. It is Frances's job to say "yeah!" to each one, and she does. Today, on the bed, she asked me another common question from my game:

"Are you perfect, Mummy?"

"What? No, uh. No. But are you perfect, Frances?"

"Yeah!"

Phew.

This evening she asked me to read her Love You Forever. I know most of you hate it, but Frances does not. She sat still and listened to me read the whole thing. Afterward, when I changed her into her pajamas, she started reciting part of it:

"He grew and he grew and he GREW!"

"That's right!" I said. "Then what happened?"

She concentrated, and said, "I love you forever, I like you for always, as long as I'm living my Mummy you'll be."

~~~~~

When Frances was very young, I would sometimes hold her and rock her to sleep on the rocking chair, and feel paralyzed by fear, irrationally convinced that she would not see kindergarten. I don't know where it came from. Maybe the undiagnosable growth thing combined with her reflux and my general fear of being a Mummy, and the cousin I lost who died at five. But I don't know, really. All I know is that I would hold Frances tight to my chest, her breathing deep and relaxed, and me sobbing, trying not to wake her.

Melodramatic, silly, yes, all right. But it was real. Real and, thankfully, fleeting.

Still, the memory of those moments has somehow imbued our happy times with the aura of a miracle, an unexpected gift. Something special. It is almost as if they have been trapped in amber and I can hold them up to the light.

So many things have been so hard: preemie, growth issues, genetic issues, reflux, horrible sleep. But I can still too clearly recall the thought that would pop unbidden into my mind whenever we were faced with another specialist appointment: Anything that doesn't take her from me. I can take anything but that.

It's still true. Anything that keeps her with me is my happy ending, and every day, I thank god for her.

And I don't even believe in god.

~~~~~

* This post was written last week, but it kept getting bumped for other posts.

Posted by Andrea at 7:07 AM | Comments (10)

You're Not the Boss of Me

People who like me say I'm "strong willed." People who don't call me a bitch. I call myself stubborn and, if I don't work against it, bossy.

Lately, so is Frances. Can I blame this one on nature? I'd rather fault my genes than my parenting.

"Mummy!" she'll say in her sharpest tone (still not particularly sharp). "Now, Mummy! It's your turn!" And she will hold before me some toy--a ball, a doll, a puppet--which I am apparently being commanded to play with. And there she stands, all 29 inches of her, still not eighteen pounds, craning her neck violently to look me in the eyes--with absolutely no doubt at all that she will be obeyed.

And why should she have doubt? I give in, always, usually with a snicker. Unless I absolutely cannot indulge her, I am putty in her tiny little hands. Oh, time to play catch? Ok. Max and Ruby need to be tucked in for a nap fifty times in a row? Why not?

I know it's terrible, but I am a product of my society: I equate size with power, much like almost everyone else does, I imagine. Yet my pint-sized girl obviously feels plenty powerful. She does not make requests, she makes commands; I'm almost surprised she doesn't use the royal 'we.' And it is so cute, such poise and confidence in such a small package. I try not to laugh, but I usually do.

I might not think it so cute in a few years, and possibly her future friends won't appreciate it. I'll deal with that hurdle when it comes. In the meantime, I'll enjoy her obvious self-confidence. There is nothing sweeter than her swagger.

Posted by Andrea at 8:32 AM | Comments (4)

Tell me something I don't know

"Nighty night, Frances. I'll see you in the morning," I say.

"Are you going to say nighty night to Mummy, Frances?" says Erik.

Frances takes her sippy cup out of her mouth. "Mummy is nummaswee."

"Mummy's what?" asks Erik.

"Mummy is nummaswee," she repeats.

"I'm what? I'm nummaswee?"

"Yeah!"

"Mummy's what, Frances?" asks Erik again.

"Numma swee!"

"Mummy's number three?"

"Yeah!"

I laugh. "Like I didn't know that already."

~~~~~

Yesterday evening, Frances stood up from her TV viewing with her feet close together and thrust her hands in the air like a gymnast at the end of a complicated routine. "Dadada dadada daDAAA!" she sang; an impromptu soundtrack to an internal moment of triumph.

I cracked up. "Frances, can you show Daddy?"

"Yeah!" She ran into the kitchen, stopped by his feet, and thrust her hands into the air again. "Dadada dadada daDAAA!"

"Yay!" We both clapped.

Now I can't help myself. Every few minutes, I say, "Frances, can you go dadadadada with your hands again?" And she does. Next time I have to have the video camera handy.

~~~~~

On Monday I needed to run some evening errands, because it was supposed to be my day off, but it turned into my morning off when the only doctor's appointment I could get for her bad cough was mid-afternoon. So my morning off was spent polishing a story and writing a cover letter (ACK!) and then discovering that I had no envelopes. I printed off the address labels and a tracking sheet, but I knew if I did not get envelopes and get my story in the mail ASAP it was likely to languish on my desk for months. Why do I say that? Oh, no reason. I mean, just because three or four christmas cards are still sitting there, addressed and with last year's stamp on them, doesn't mean anything. Plus a few things for Marla. And did I mention that the gift I bought for Annika on my Christmas vacation was also still sitting there?

It's terrible. I used to be so good with mail.

Anyway. I went to buy envelopes, and this of course was a mistake. Not because I didn't need envelopes, but because envelopes are sold in office supply stores, and I have a thing for office supply stores. Specifically, for paper products. Stationery, notepads, post-its, notebooks, office ledgers, composition books, construction paper, and yes, even envelopes, all make me unreasoningly happy and I get it in my head that I CANNOT leave the store without some more dead trees in my possession. So I bought the envelopes. I also bought some nifty coloured dividers for my writing binder (see? It's related), a new cartridge for the printer and some doodads. It ended up costing more than the envelopes alone would have by an order of magnitude.

The selfishness! The lack of fiscal discipline! The need not to walk back into the house with a bag full of goodies for myself when I said I was just going to run a quick errand!

So when I walked past "Toys Toys Toys," I picked up a Ruby doll.

I walked in the front door. Frances said, "It's Mummy! Hi Mummy!"

"Hi, Frances. I got you a treat. Would you like to see it?"

"Yeah!" She came running.

"Close your eyes." She closed them, and I pulled Ruby out of the bag and held it before her face. "Now open them."

"Ruby! It's Ruby! Ruby! Aww, she's CUTE. Where's Max?"

So now brother and sister are reunited, and it thrills Frances to no end. "I go get Max and Ruby!" she says, whenever they aren't there; and when they are, "I bring Max and Ruby!" Max and Ruby watch her eat from special perches on the kitchen table. She tucks them in under blankets together, and carries them around, one under each arm. They kiss and hug each other, and Frances is very careful to make sure that both get their medicine.

And I get to be the good mother who got her a little toy that she wanted, not the bad mother who went out to buy envelopes and spent a small nation's GDP on paper products.

~~~~~

Frances has not slept through the night now for three weeks because this cold just will not go away. At least once a night, and sometimes more, she wakes and coughs for an hour before falling back to sleep. Sometimes it gets her so agitated she needs a hug before she can settle back down. Yesterday morning she woke up crying at 5:15 am and, too tired to comfort her in the rocking chair, I brought her back to our bed. She fell asleep with her head on my shoulder and her right hand on my mole. Her breathing was deep; her eyes were closed; her hand did not stop twiddling. Pull poke pull twist twist pick poke.

IN HER SLEEP.

However, I think I have made some progress in discovering the source of Frances's fascination with it.

As I was changing her this morning, she pulled up my left sleeve and said "Nope," then the right: "There it is! There's my mole."

"Oh, it's your mole, is it?"

"Yeah. It's CUTE."

*snickering* "It's cute?"

"Yeah. It's a BAYbee. Baby mole!"

"The mole is a baby?"

"Yeah!"

"Well, that explains a few things."

"Baby mole. Aww, it's CUTE."

Posted by Andrea at 8:55 AM | Comments (9)

Daycare Delight

Today, Erik has a course downtown. Ergo, I am picking Frances up from daycare. It adds an extra thirty minutes on to my commute home, and by the time we get through the door Frances is inevitably famished, and so am I. It puts us right smack into the middle of rush-hour. And I can't wait.

At 3:50, I'll pack up my things and head to the parking garage, thinking, I get to see Frances now! All the way there I'll hum or sing silly songs, like this one:

I love you Frances, oh yes I do!
I love you Frances, and I'll be true.
When you're not with me, I'm blue.
Oh Frances, I love you!

Anyone reading this from my highschool days will recognize it immediately.

I'll park in one of the daycare spaces, and leave all my stuff in the car. I need my arms for her, you see. Then I'll swipe myself in and sneak through the toddler room door, scanning the room for the smallest person there. When I see her, she will inevitably be in the midst of some exciting game. Perhaps she will be diapering the stuffed doggie, or pushing the toy cars around the table, or reading a book in the toddler-sized red vinyl chair.

I'll walk up beside her as quietly as I can, kneel down, and say "boo!" into her ear. She'll turn and see me, and smile. "Mummy!"

"Baby girl!"

"I ready to go home now."

"OK. Let's go home. Are you going to say bye-bye to everyone?"

She'll wrap her arms around my neck and only wave to the room when we're up and moving. No time to waste! We've got to go home.

We'll go into the cloak room, and put on her boots, and coat, and mittens. I'll pack anything in her cubby into her bag and we're off to the car, Frances hanging on to my neck for dear life. Sure, she could walk. I could put her down. But why would I?

After I have us buckled up and ready to go, the dialogue begins:

"Red light! Red light means STOP."

"I see a van! I see a car! I see a bus!"

"Daddy at work. Daddy going to doctor. Daddy in a big bed. SHHH. Be very very quiet. I go surprise Daddy!"

"I ready to go home." (Translated: Are we there yet?)

"I see a snow."

"Green light! Green light means GO."

"I want a drink a apple juice. I want ... MILK! I want a little treasure. I want a snack. I want tloklit."

"I take off a boot. I take off a sock."

Instead of having a thrity-five minute drive home by myself through traffic, gnashing my teeth at the fools who would frustrate me by cutting me off or driving 10k below the speed limit in the left lane for ten blocks only to end up turning right, I get a fifty-five minute drive home with my little girl acting as my personal Observer Of All Things. And I get to see Frances at her daycare, where I am reassured that while I may be a distant second to Daddy right now, I am still way above the teachers.

Just about five hours to go.

Posted by Andrea at 10:57 AM | Comments (4)

Solicitation

The other day, Frances was holding Max tight and running to bring him to me when she tripped over her xylophone. I jumped up, expecting her to cry. Instead, she clambered to her feet, picked up Max, looked into his eyes and said, "I'm sorry, Max! Are you ok?"

Max's little booboos and owwies are a constant source of concern for Frances. If she stands him up and he falls over, she will pick him up and say, "It's ok, Max. You're all right. You're fine. It's ok!" Or "You trip and fall down! It's ok! Are you all right?"

When she does, I feel so proud. This is what she is learning from us. We are doing ok.

I try not to repeat this line of thinking when she throws him on the ground.

Posted by Andrea at 4:58 PM | Comments (0)

Climbing up on a big bed

It starts with a small person tugging on my jeans, or wrapping her arms around my knees. "I climb up on a big bed!" she says.

If there's nothing we need to do that keeps us downstairs, we go up to the master bedroom and put her up on our bed. "Daddy, you climb up too! Mummy, you climb up too!" she says, and we're obedient parents, so we do.

The flopping begins. She hurls herself forwards and backwards, lies on her back and kicks the mattress and laughs, rolls around, squirms under the blankets, plays hide-and-seek with the pillows, tucks Max in and gets him up and tucks him in and gets him up, for at least thirty minutes at a stretch.

If she gets too exuberant and we are worried she will hurt herself, we remind her of the five little monkeys.

"Frances, don't jump so hard! You don't want to bump your head like the five little monkeys, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you remember how the five little monkeys fell off the bed and bumped their heads?"

"Yeah."

"And then their momma called the doctor. And what did the doctor say?"

"No more monkeys jumping on a bed!" This with a huge grin.

"That's right! No more monkeys jumping on a bed! So be careful."

So far, no bumped heads.

It is fun for the whole family (plus Max) except for one thing. Sometimes she wants it just for her and Daddy.

"Mummy," says Frances, grabbing my chin or my cheek and pulling hard, "get off a big bed!"

"Frances!" says Erik.

"No, sweetie. It's my bed too, and I'm going to stay."

She's not insistent about it--when I stay, she doesn't pout or whine or fuss--but I hate it that she asks.

It's a phase, right? It's a phase it's a phase it's a phase.

Posted by Andrea at 8:12 AM | Comments (5)

Squirrels!

On the weekend I bought birdseed on impulse, the crap kind that includes all the things that grackles love to eat, so that the smaller and more timid birds never brave the birdfeeder. But it was $6 and we have spots for four birdfeeders in the backyard, so I figured, what the hell?

Rather than brave the snow out to the birdfeeders, though, I put a little bit in a plastic bowl and left it on the deck. This morning (when we all should have been at work but were too busy emptying our lungs into our sinks to be able to get dressed or drive) I saw squirrels eating seeds scattered all over the deck.

"Frances!" I said. "Come here! There are squirrels!"

She ran over. "Squirrels!" she shouted, and banged on the glass. They scattered, and slowly crept back.

"You need to be quiet and still, Frances. Squirrels scare easily. Be very still and they will come close and eat the seed."

So she sat in my lap and I sat on the floor near the kitchen door, and we watched the squirrels eating the seeds, their small hands bringing bit after bit to their mouths, their small sharp teeth scattering seed shells like shrapnel, then tucking their paws against their stomachs to warm them, tails to the wind. At one point we had four black squirrels on our deck at one time, tackling each other, chasing each other, stuffing their cheeks full of seeds, and on at least one occasion demonstrating to Frances the facts of life at an inappropriately early age.

"Squirrels!" said Frances. "Awwwww! They're so cuuuuuute. Look at the squirrels, Mummy! Look at them. Awwwwww. He's BEAUtiful."

"Do you see their little hands, Frances?"

"Yeah!"

"And look at the big black eyes and the little black nose."

"It's BEAUtiful."

"Yes, it is!"

"And look at the mouth!"

"Yes, he's eating."

"He's eating. He's eating pasta!"

"No, he's eating seeds."

"He's eating chicken!"

"No, baby, he's eating seeds. Squirrels eat seeds and nuts."

"The squirrel climbing the fence! The squirrel climbing the tree!"

"You're right, he is."

"I go outside! I play in a snow! I climb a tree!"

"No, baby. Not until summer."

"I play with a squirrel!"

And so on.

Later, I had her help me scatter more seed on the deck. This was an exercise that demanded some time to ponder the seeds in the hand, contemplate the correct tossing angle, and then dump most of them on the kitchen floor. Which I then scooped up and tossed out, as much as I could, anyhow; the tiny yellow ones were unscoopable. But that was ok, because Frances enjoyed stepping on them and saying, "I got something on my foot, Mummy." Then she would sit down and pick them off, inspecting each one. Seeds! So Fascinating! Who knew?

Anyway. The squirrels came back, at all the seeds, then chased each other up the trees at the back of the yard. Frances stood by the door, hands held out to each side of her face: "SQUIRRELS!" she shouted. "SQUIRRELS! COME BACK! ARE YOU ON THE DECK? ARE YOU CLIMBING THE FENCE? SQUIRRELS! SQUUUUIRRELLLS!!!"

All day.

ALL DAY.

For thirty minutes before we had supper, we had the following conversation.

"I give food a squirrels, Mummy!"

"Daddy's making spaghetti, baby girl. Why don't we feed the squirrels after supper?"

"Daddy's making pasghettis."

"Yes."

"I give food a squirrels, Mummy!"

She is truly, madly in love with the squirrels.

As an added bonus, it kept her away from the television.

Posted by Andrea at 9:10 AM | Comments (9)

Radio Free Frances

Sue commented on this post:

"So sweet! Who needs tv when you've got radio-free-Frances?"

Indeed! And this leads me so nicely to a question I've wanted to ask all of you for a while that you're going to think Sue is a plant:

Would any of you want to listen to radio-free-Frances?

On a few blogs lately (Mimilou and Postcards from the Mothership, for starters) the bloggers in charge have opened the field for commenters to ask their most pressing questions. It looks like fun, but I want to try something a little different. For a limited time only,* you can leave your most pressing questions for Frances in the comments box on this post. (Which will be conveniently moved over under the "best of" section when it falls off the front page so it can be found, in case you discover a Pressing Question in three weeks.)

I will ask Frances, and pass her answers on to you, her adoring fans. Do keep in mind that she is two, and her opinions on the status of peace in the Middle East are, at this point of her existence, very vague and partially formed. Depending on the questions, answers will come in a variety of formats: transcripts, photos, pictures and audio files.

BUT! This will only work if YOU, yes YOU, have some questions for Frances.

Here is a sample, in two formats:

1. Download directly from the web! Listen to Frances: #1, when we clearly needed a translator, and #2, singing herself to sleep over the monitor.

2. Dare I say it? Podcast. That's right. Radio Free Frances is hitting the airwaves (rss file located at athenadreaming.org/radiofreefrances.rss). You will have to have a way to subscribe to rss feeds for this option (eg. iTunes).

So go crazy! What is it you want to know about Frances? What have I, her hapless mother, been keeping you in the dark on? Do you need to hear her side of the story on the CIO Tale? Do you want to know if I've invented her love affair with Elmo?

It's up to you. I'll put up whatever Frances gives me, if she gives me anything; but YOU can control the content of Radio Free Frances.

~~~~~

*who am I kidding? I'll keep this going as long as I have takers. And I've post-dated it by a few days to keep it up top while people brainstorm their Pressing Questions. This means that new entries will be appearing below this one for a few days.

Posted by Andrea at 8:32 AM | Comments (23)

A Random Collection of Adorableisms

To celebrate Friday:

Frances and I were sitting on the couch, watching the news; she was clambering all over me and I was eating some chocolates and trying very hard not to let her see. Evidently, I failed:

"Mummy," she asked archly, "Are you eating some cookies?"

"Yes, I am."

"Are you eating some tloklats?"

"Yes. Yes I am."

"I want a little bit of tloklat."

I cannot say no to those big blue eyes.

~~~~~

She likes to stick her hand down my shirt. Her little hands are cold, but otherwise, I am amused by the toddlerhandling.

~~~~~

The mole still comforts her. When she is sick or hurt, she will curl up on my lap and cry or whimper in distress with one hand roaming frantically up and down my arm. Until she finds it, grabs on, and quiets down. Her language skills are much better now than when I first wrote of this, but I still can't understand why.

If I am wearing a sweatshirt and she get at the mole, she will look at me, her blue eyes extra-wide and pleading, and say, "Where is the mole, Mummy?"

"It's hiding."

"It's hiding?"

"That's right."

"I want the mole!"

"Sorry, kiddo. Not right now."

I am torn between the sobbing and whimpering girl on my lap, and the thought of exposing my flesh to the frigid winter temperatures in our house--not to mention the picking, pulling and bleeding that will shortly ensue. Sometimes, I give in. Sometimes, I don't.

~~~~~

We have a new game. It doesn't matter which of us starts, but one of us must say, "Swiper, no swiping! Swiper, NO swiping! SWIPER, NO SWIPING!"

The the other one says, "Oh, man!"

Those of you not exposed to the toddler crack that is Dora the Explorer won't understand that exchange. I sincerely hope the rest of you have similar stories to tell, otherwise I'll go nominate myself for the World's Worst Mother Award. And ok, our resolution to wean her off TV a bit is not going as well as I'd hoped. There's always an excuse, usually involvng germs, for our lackadaisical parenting: We're either getting sick, sick, or recovering from sick, from November through April, and while Frances is pretty easy to play with the constant "I want to watch a bit of TVs!" grate on the nerves after a while. So we cave.

But can you imagine her little voice saying, "Oh, man!" (And go ahead: request it from Radio Free Frances. You know you want to.)

It's even cuter than that.

Posted by Andrea at 10:02 AM | Comments (5)

Question

Yesterday, all evening, Frances was singing fragments of a song she'd learned that went something like this:

"Raindrops are everywhere the raindrops

...somethingsomethingsomethingsomethings...

mouth open wiiiiiiide."

What song is this?

All night we were able to get her to sing it again by saying, "Frances, can you sing the raindrop song?"

"Raindrops are everywhere the raindrops!..." etc.

Very, very cute. But it's driving me nuts that I have no idea what song she's singing.

Posted by Andrea at 7:13 AM | Comments (3)

In List Format

(Pre-published because I will once again be away from the computer tomorrow.)

1. Frances has been calling everything "baby" lately. Her toys are all prefaced "baby"--there's "baby Max," and "baby Thomas," and "Baby Eloise" (of course), and so on. But it's not just the toys, no no. No. Now I, too, am a baby--Baby Mummy, to be precise.

"Baby Mummy, come back!" she says. "Baby Mummy hide one more time." This is my favourite nickname so far.

2. Many many updates have been made to Anni's site. We are expecting the link to the COTA account shortly (as in, today/Tuesday) at which point Beanie Baby and Annika's site will be updated, and I politely request that you go bananas with the link and put it everywhere. The one to Anni's site.

3. Poor Frances has pink eye, and will probably not be able to go to daycare tomorrow. This means that she will miss her Valentine's Danceathon. I am crushed. She won't care, but I was looking forward to watching the video of her bopping around, and thinking of her eating her special pizza party lunch. We will have to have our own danceathon instead on the weekend. That Frances's relatively mild infection stands in such stark and painful contrast to other people's problems makes me a very lucky woman--but still, I wish she could go to her dance party!

4. I am so touched by all the people who have been saying "thank you." Truly. And now I'm going to ask you to stop, because I am also feeling intensely self-conscious about the whole thing, which makes me feel weird, and then I end up thinking that it's not about me and I shouldn't be thinking about what I feel.

The thing is, I have this nasty habit of trying to save people. You know that person who you tell your troubles to, and they say, "Well you know what you should do, you should do x!" I am a million times worse, because I won't tell you what you should do--oh no. I'll go out and do it.

At least, I used to.

This is bad. I take other people's problems away from them. It's patronizing and weird. As a result, I never can quite tell when I am being a good friend and helping someone out when they need it (appropriate) vs. taking ownership of someone else's problem and fixing it for them (inappropriate). I mean, seriously; why do you think I'm in the environmental field? "No, no! Let me fix that!" And it's not at all about the person or situation, it's about me--I end up doing it so that I can think of myself as a good person. That's not a good motivation.

I am very happy to organize and brainstorm and all that good stuff, and so far I think I'm walking that fine line between appropriate helping and inappropriate rescuing, but the thank-yous are making me feel very weird because they're tripping that wire in my head that thinks it's about me and it's not about me. So can we put a moratorium on the thank-yous?

Thank you.

(Ha! See how you like it.)

(What do you mean, you like "thank you"? Weirdo.)

Posted by Andrea at 8:49 AM | Comments (7)

Weekend Bits and Bobs

What with the next issue of TheWholeMom.com coming out on Wednesday, and working hard to set up some kind of useable site for Annika's Internet Insurance Policy, finding a few moments to fill you all in on Frances's latest adorableisms has been tough--but for Monday and Tuesday I will be trapped in the world's most boring symposium (which means I likely won't be able to comment anywhere), and will have no computer access until after Frances goes to bed--so it's now or never. Or Wednesday. Whichever comes first.

But Wednesday would be cruel, and besides, I have something Big and Exciting planned for Wednesday (and if that makes you curious, and I hope it does, you'll just have to come back). So today it is.

I don't know where to start.

Maybe with our book selection process not 20 minutes ago:

"Are you going to pick a book, Frances?"

"Yeah. Once Upon a Potty!"

"You want to read Once Upon a Potty?"

"No. Olivia!"

"You want to read Olivia?"

"Yeah."

"OK, I'll get it out."

Frances shakes her head.

"No? No Olivia? All right, pick a book then."

"I pick Belly Button Book."

"You want the Belly Button Book?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"OK then."

Or maybe I should tell you about yesterday, when she was looking for her Little People girls, and I handed her the princess:

"Princess!" she says.

"Yeah, it's the princess. What is she wearing?"

"A shirt."

"Oh, is it a shirt?"

"It's not a coat. It's a shirt."

All right then.

Maybe you would like to hear how when I left her with her play-doh for two minutes on Saturday to get the comics out of the paper, I turned to see her with a suspicious blue tinge ringing her mouth.

"Frances! Did you eat your play-doh?"

"Yeah."

"Frances! Open your mouth."

Fortunately, she did, and I managed to scrape out a good chunk of it. But her tongue and teeth stayed blue for the rest of the day.

Maybe you'd rather read about when we went to my parents' house yesterday, and Frances reaquainted herself with my Mom's two yorkshire terriers, Pudding and Lexi. She loves it when Pudding licked her hands (he's the bold one; Lexi is paralyzingly shy and spent the whole evening cowering in my Mother's shadow). So whenever he did she would hold out her hand again, and say, "Pudding, tickle my hand again! Tickle my hand again, Pudding!" If he ran away, she chased him. "Pudding, come back! Come back here! Come back and tickle my hand again!"

Or maybe you'd all rather hear about how she has learned to "jump," and I use the quotes because her feet have yet to leave the floor. Instead she bends her legs deeply, straightens them, and steps forward with a little skip. It is a quite serviceable pretend-jump, and she does it over and over and over again. Especially from a plastic Mr. Potato Head bucket lid left on the floor.

Or maybe I should brag that I heard her count to sixteen the other day.

Or maybe you would like to know that several of her Little People, Thomas the Tank Engine, Percy, Mr. Topham Hatt, and a few Little People horses all had a tea party this afternoon. Maybe you want to hear that she is singing Old MacDonald over the monitor, moo mooing away like a real bovine champ.

But as delightful as this all was, the best for me was that she did not spurn me (much) this weekend. She let me pick her up! And hug her! And kiss her toes! And carry her into the basement!

So if I was busy working on Annika's page, and TheWholeMom.com, I was also busy soaking up my little girl's affection before she decides once again that she has somewhere better to spend it. And it was lovely.

Posted by Andrea at 8:33 PM | Comments (2)

Overheard on the monitor

Pattycake pattycake baker's man mumblemumblemumblemumblemumble... YAY! Pattycake pattycake baker's man mumblemumblemumblemumblemumble... YAY! I sing it one more time. Itsy bitsy spider went up a waterspout, down came a rain and washed a spider out. Out came a sun and dried up all a rain and a itsy bitsy spider went up a spout again. YAY! Pattycake pattycake baker's man mumblemumblemumblemumblemumble... YAY! I sing it one more time. How are you? How are you doing? How are you DOing? Pattycake pattycake baker's man mumblemumblemumblemumblemumble... YAY! I love you. I love you too! What are you doing? YAY!

Posted by Andrea at 8:58 PM | Comments (10)

So Polite

We were playing in the basement around Frances's mini table and chairs set, Erik and I, Frances, and Roxie the cat. Frances walked around the table and stepped on the end of Roxie's tail. "Ooops! Sorry, Roxie," she said.

Then it was time for one of the Little People girls to go to bed. She set her down, tucked her in with a bib, patted her head and said, "Sweet dreams."

And unrelated: this morning I was talking to Frances while putting her hair in a ponytail. "I have to put your hair up so it will be out of the way," I said. "Then you can play with abandon."

"Play with a bandaid!" she said, reaching for her box of Dora bandaids.

Woops.

She's also decided that she likes the word "heavy." Everything is heavy these days. Big books, small books, coats, pants, empty cans of Diet Coke, small pieces of paper, blankets, pillows, toys--all are picked up, groaned over, and then pronounced "heavy."

And she is now obsessed with diapering. I know some babies are already past this stage, but for Frances, the fun is just beginning. Yesterday her new Max doll was diapered fifty times in a row, the diaper as big as he is, so that just his head and the tips of his arms and legs poked out. Her Little People have also been diapered in stray bits of paper, and she has commandeered an old TV stand in the basement as a change table for diapering Baby Eloise and her Dorego doll (with imaginary diapers, no less). But the most fun, my very favourite, involves play-doh and post-it notes.

First she puts the post-it note on her little table, and says, "It's time to change your diaper." Then a miscellaneous round blob of play-doh is placed carefully on top of the post-it note. "There!" she says, and walks away, completely satisfied.

Posted by Andrea at 7:31 AM | Comments (5)

A Beautiful Day

Winter came back yesterday with a vengeance, dropping at least twenty centimetres of snow onto our driveway and lawn. I took one look out the window and scrapped my plan to take Frances to the library. Instead, we discussed the merits of watching television ("I watch Max and Ruby!" "It's not on right now." "I watch Lil Bear!" "It's not on either, sweetie." "I watch Bear in a Blue House!" "You just watched one. That's enough for today." "I watch a bit of TV!" "Oh dear god, help me.")

But despite our ongoing television disputes, we had a marvelous time. We turned on some music and danced to practice for her upcoming danceathon. We did some colouring and some fingerpainting, and Frances took a much more active role in the latter this time: she not only asked for a particular colour of paint, but showed me where she wanted me to put it. We talked about the snow: said Frances, "Look at the snow! It's beautiful!" Followed by, "I go outside in a SNOW!" about a million times in a row.

She ate a banana and a few slices of cheese for breakfast, some zookies and crackers for her mid-morning snack, and then asked for a potato for lunch and ate nearly the whole thing. She assisted her life-sized Dorego doll in riding her scooter, and changed Max's and Baby Eloise's diapers, and threw her balls around the basement. When it was time for her nap, she chattered and yelled and banged the slats of her crib for thirty minutes, but once she fell asleep, she slept for almost three hours. During which time I started a new Civ 4 game (which I won when she went to bed that night).

~~~~~

Which reminds me: We've temporarily resolved our napping dilemma.

As you may remember, after a full year of solid two-hour daily napping at 12:30 pm each day, she started to resist naps whenever she was home. But she still napped well at the daycare. We were mystified. They always reported that she napped well, but at home it wasn't unusual for her to go twelve hours straight without napping.

Thought I, I wonder if it's because the environment is so different here? At the daycare she naps in a room full of kids on little cots with several adults standing around. At home she's alone in her own crib.

So now we have started to keep her company until she falls asleep, and I'm happy to say that it's working. If she won't fall asleep on her own after twenty minutes we go in, tuck her in again, and sit on the rocking chair for twenty minutes or so. By then she's asleep, and we can leave. I know Mr. Ferber and Mr. Weissbluth would strenuously argue that our approach is harmful in the long term, but without it, she simply doesn't nap. For two hours she will babble and yodel and hammer away, which isn't restful for anyone.

However, we now have a bedtime dilemma: Frances has figured out our bedtime routine.

"Frances, do you want to go upstairs and give your bear a hug?"

Sure, ok, says Frances, and she trundles off to the stairs.

"I pick a book!" she says. Good idea, we reply, and she picks a few books and we read them. We change her into her jammies, and the trouble begins.

"Frances, can Mummy have a goodnight hug?"

She shakes her head and whines.

"Please? Please?"

More shaking, more whining. After I give up and leave, she hollers, "I want a Mummy hug!" Pure delaying tactic, but I am a suck and go back and give it to her. Then I go into the basement and turn on the monitor. Through it I hear:

"Do you want to read Goodnight Moon?"

:whining:

"Are you sure?"

:whining:

"How about The Going to Bed Book?"

:whining:

"OK. I'm making an executive decision. Let's read Pajama Time."

:whining:

Erik reads, while her whining grows louder and louder. Halfway through, he says, "OK, I guess we're not reading a book tonight. Let's go to bed."

That's when the whining really takes off.

She's tired; we know she's tired. She just doesn't want to say goodbye to all the fun she's had that day. That's a good thing: she's having fun, she's enjoying herself. But the bedtime ritual which for so long was such a source of pleasure for all of us is quickly becoming torture. She now sees that her bedtime ritual is The Beginning of the End, and refuses to participate. No hugs! No kisses! No bedtime stories! And I'm afraid that if we just switch the routine around, she'll catch on again shortly and that too will become unpleasant.

The only thing I can think of is to scrap the routine. Get her right into bed at 8:00 or 8:15--pajamas, teeth, crib. Why draw it out if she's simply going to cry about it? But I wonder if this will make it worse? And then when will we read her books?

Wish us luck, dear readers.

Posted by Andrea at 1:00 PM | Comments (5)

Hide and Seek plus a Nice Surprise

One of Frances's favourite games to play is hide and seek, in the basement. The previous owners finished the basement in such a way that the support pillars have been boxed and are just wide enough for an adult to hide behind. So she tells us to hide, and we run behind one of the pillars (or, as she names them, walls); then she runs after us and we run around the pillars trying to stay hidden. All the while she's belly laughing, and so are we. Then it's her turn to 'hide,' and she runs behind the pillars and laughs while we find her. This morning we added a new twist to the game:

"I go hide."

"Oh, are you hiding?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my, where did Frances go? Where's Frances?"

"Behind the wall!"

And, surprise! Kim (of Cookie Crumb Kids, and my partner-in-crime for thewholemom.com) came to visit me!

It was all very hasty and a nice surprise for me, since she only found out she would be in my area on Thursday. Her two beautiful kids (don't take my word for it; go see her photos) and her husband were along as well, and since the last time they'd seen us (and Frances) was on the day we brought her home from the hospital, you might say it was overdue.

It was great. Frances did her own version of being shy, which involved no hiding or holding Mummy or Daddy, but did involve muteness for a good twenty minutes. "If I don't talk to them, they can't see me." But she got over it double quick. Haven and Lucas were happy and energetic and played well with Frances's toys, and were polite and asked to play with them first, and Haven gave back Baby Eloise when Frances asked. Frances loved them. When I brought her upstairs for a diaper change, she said afterwards, "I go see Kim! I go see Kim!" And then shadowed the two bigger kids for the whole visit, trying to do everything they did. The best part was running around on the first floor; Haven ran up and down the hallway and around the kitchen table; so Lucas ran up and down the hallway and around the kitchen table; and so of course Frances also had to run up and down the hallway and around the kitchen table. It was adorable, my wee one trying so hard to copy the older kids, not only while they were there but for thirty minutes after they'd left--running up and down the hallway and around the kitchen table, smiling and giggling the whole time. We interrupted her for lunchtime, but once she'd had enough, she said, "I go running around!" And she did.

So Kim, Haven and Lucas made a huge impression on Frances. I hope you know how rare it is for Frances to hug anyone she's just met; she must really like Haven (and you too, of course). I only wish our visits weren't so far apart.

Posted by Andrea at 12:27 PM | Comments (0)

Aren't you jealous?

As received from the daycare this week:

"Dear Parents:

"On Tuesday February 14 2006 at 10:00 am the children at xyz will be participating in a dance-a-thon. This event will be our first fundraiser of 2006. As in the past, all monies raised from this event will be used to purchase new toys and equipment for the centre.

"All rooms will participate in the dance-a-thon, length of time will depend on when the children get tired or bored. Non walking babies will sit, clap and bop to the music. [ed: This was Frances last year, though in place of clapping and bopping she elected to stare and point.]

"The children will also be given a pizza party lunch for all of their hard work!

"GOOD LUCK!

"Thank you for your support and LET'S BOP TO THE MUSIC AND HAVE SOME FUN."

Don't you wish you could be there? I do. A room full of babies, toddlers and preschoolers dancing away--and if you know how toddlers and preschoolers dance, you know the humour potential in the situation.

But I'm going to have to settle for video and/or photos supplied by Erik. If you're very, very good, I might share.

Also, I'm home sick today. I should just have a shortcut button put on the keyboard so I don't have to keep typing that in. I was feeling bad enough yesterday that I told them I probably wouldn't be in today, which meant I could sleep in this morning--and I did, until 10, after going to sleep last night at 8. Ah, sleep.

Posted by Andrea at 11:00 AM | Comments (8)

Heart: Breaking

As you are all no doubt tired of reading, Frances is a bit ahead of the curve in some areas. In others, not so much: still no jumping or walking up stairs, for instance (though I think this has more to do with her size than anything). Over the past few days, we've discovered yet another area in which Frances lags slightly behind her peers.

Separation anxiety.

Frances has never showed the slightest trace of it. She's always been fine with my parents or at daycare; if cried for a moment or two as we left, we knew it would be all forgotten within five minutes. In fact, I've had to struggle with feelings of envy and inadequacy as she displayed what appeared to be a clear preference for the daycare. Or at least the lack of a clear preference for home.

Until the last week or so, when she demands extensive Mummy hugs and starts to cry whenever we are separated. Monday was brutal. Even Daddy hugs weren't good; she knew it was leading to the moment of separation, and cried bitterly. In the end I had to hold her for ten minutes, then strap her into the car myself, still sobbing, and shut the door on her cries. Awful. She's too young to understand "Mummy has to do this so you can eat supper every night and have a warm clib to sleep in, kiddo, especially now that we're in the red for that furnace."

On the one hand, it's put to rest any mostly-quashed fears that I had so fucked up as a parent that she would rather be around people who had this kid thing down pat.

On the other hand--the guilt! And the sadness of leaving her to cry. She can't know that I'm driving off to a place I would rather not be so I can continue to fund our luxurious (ahaha haha ha hahahaha) lifestyle. She only knows that I'm leaving when she doesn't want me to.

This morning wasn't as bad as Monday: many demands for Mummy hugs (which I have plenty of and am always willing to share) and only a quivering lip and watery eyes as she left with Daddy. This is a long weekend for us (compressed days) so I hope we can fill her up with as much home and happiness as she can stand to bear her up next week.

Posted by Andrea at 9:30 AM | Comments (2)

Naively, I assumed I would be able to work from home today

Ha! Ah ha ha ha! Ahahahahahahaha.

My wee sprout had decided that any twenty minute period in which she was not in direct physical contact with me was to be protested by vigorous and heartbreaking wails. So, not much work done today.

What we did do:

1. Watch Elmo's World and Bear in the Big Blue House. This was ok, as long as I stayed to watch it with her.

2. Had a snack.

"What would you like, Frances?"

In a sad, quavering voice, "I would like a little treasure."

"You'd like a little treasure?"

Same voice: "I would like a little ... treat!"

"OK. When I'm sick, I like to have treats too. Is chocolate ok?"

"Yeah!"

3. Attempted to play. Neither of us really had the energy.

4. Discussed our entertainment options.

"I go see Daddy!"

"Daddy went to work sodapop. We'll see him this afternoon."

"I go see Daddy!"

"No, honey, he went to work. We'll see him after your nap."

"I go outside!"

"Frances, it's cold outside. It's snowing. We're not going outside."

"I go to see all a friends."

"Not today. You can go to daycare tomorrow, when you're feeling better."

"I go see DADDY."

And you can see how well that progressed. Eventually, not being able to stand watching her watch TV for one minute longer, I proposed that we go to the store. Now that Frances has outgrown her 9 month size clothing, she is in desperate need of jogging pants that fit well. She loves to wear her jogging pants, especially when she's sick. This introduced a new conversation:

"I go a store."

"Yes, we'll go to the store soon. It's not open yet."

"I go in car."

"That's right."

"I go a store. I go see Daddy."

"No, baby, Daddy's at work. We're going to get you some jogging pants."

"We go get some jogging pants. I go outside."

"Well, briefly."

And then, in the car:

"I go see DADDY!"

"Not right now. We'll see him after your nap this afternoon."

"I go see Daddy."

Rinse, repeat.

5. Went to the store to buy some jogging pants.

Of course we got there before they opened, because once Frances settled her brain on the idea nothing would do but to immediately put on a coat an shoes and go in a car to a store. So we did. That was fun. Did you know there are bridges in stores? To you and I they appear to be mere check-out lines, with rope on the side; but to my little visionary they are bridges, to be walked over and over again. While I was on the bridge myself, paying for the jogging pants, she expressed her satisfaction with our bridgeness by sitting down in the middle of it to read her book--with the entire line behind her chuckling.

We also went to Old Navy, which has on a red bench a big plastic dog. If you press a red button, the dog will tell you a fortune. There was no way I could budge her from in front of that dog. I had to dart off to check clothing and then dart back again. We did find a pair of overalls. (Frances has lots of clothes in larger sizes, of course, but they tend to be 2T or bigger, and none of them are overalls or jogging pants.) Then we had to say good bye to the doggie--but that's ok, because there was a bridge at the front of this store too!

Outside in the hallways we found wonder upon wonder: benches, for instance. You can climb up on benches! And we found tables, great for pounding. Then there was the toy store with the animated barking dogs in a cage in the front. Oh, the glories to be found in that toystore. It's a good thing we're broke, because I have no resolve when I'm sick. We found little stuffed Max and Ruby dolls, and she clutched one hungrily in each arm--I told her she had to pick one.

"Max and Ruby!" she said.

"I know. But you can only have on. Max or Ruby."

"Max and Ruby!"

"Pick one, please, Frances. You can have one. Max or Ruby."

"Max and Ruby."

I disentangled them from her clutches and she decided on Max. If you think this resolved the issue, you are mistaken: for the rest of the trip and all the way home, all I heard was, "Where's Ruby?"

It wasn't perfect. One elderly woman, grinning at Frances, asked me how old she was.

"She's two," I said.

"And walking already!" she replied.

Do you think maybe "two" wasn't the answer she was expecting, and she didn't quite have time to replace it with something else? Oh well. She was nice about it.

Then we had french fries, and went home.

And NOW I'm going to get some freaking work done.

Posted by Andrea at 1:17 PM | Comments (5)

Naptime on Weekends

At 12:30 (more than six hours after getting up), down she goes, rubbing her eyes, yawning and asking for her green pillow. Twenty minutes later, the thump-thumping of her feet against the side of the crib is replaced with sleepy wails and cries. I climb the stairs to her room, and see within a droopy-eyed baby girl standing at the foot of her crib, Rudolph dangling from one hand, wispy strands of blond hair hanging in front of her eyes. I try not to smile.

"Frances, what time is it?"

"Nappingtime."

"That's right, it's nappingtime. What are you doing?"

~silence~

"What are you doing, Frances?"

"Napping."

"Noooo, you're not napping. You're standing up."

"I standing up."

"That's right." I kneel in front of the crib so our heads are on a level. "It's nappingtime, sweet baby, not standing up time." I am still struggling not to smile, but dammit, it's hard--her sweet blue eyes that I rarely see without her glasses, masked by strands of chaotic blond, her perfect round cheeks. She lets go of the crib railing and grabs my shoulders, and I pull her out, get to my feet, and bring us to the rocking chair.

"I go back to green pillow," she says.

"That's right, because it's napping time."

"It's nappingtime. I go downstairs."

"Noooo, it's nappingtime."

"I go ... I go ... I get special juice."

"No, baby. It's nappingtime."

"It's nappingtime. I go back to a green pillow."

"Yes, that's right."

"I see happy bee."

"Noooo."

"I turn on a light."

"No, sweetie, it's napping time." Now I am fighting--hard--not to laugh.

She grabs my face in her hands and squeezes. "I go back to a green pillow. I go back to a green pillow! I GO BACK TO A GREEN PILLOW!"

I've lost; I laugh. "Yes, you're going back to the green pillow. Are you going to sleep now?"

"Yeah."

I bring her back to the crib, lay her down, and tuck her in again. "OK, sweetie. Time to sleep."

"Sleepingtime. I close a eyes." They are squeezed tight.

"Good girl."

"Now they open." She is staring at me.

"Close them again, please; and try to get some sleep."

"I wanna quick hug."

"You just had a quick hug." I bend down and kiss her on the forehead. "Sleep well, baby."

"Nappingtime."

"Yes, nappingtime." I leave.

But not for the last time. Erik and I will each make three of these visits over an hour and a half before she finally falls asleep.

Lucky for her she's so adorable.

Posted by Andrea at 4:33 PM | Comments (4)

Poor Mummy

Today, Frances has been wearing her "big blue hands," the latex gloves the security guard in the Las Vegas Airport gave her in November. Clapping is especially fun, with the big blue fingers flopping about, and the nice satisfying smack of the latex. As she was sitting on the floor of the family room, clapping, she said, "The big blue hands are pretty scary."

"Oh. Hmm. They are, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

"Are you scared?"

"Yeah."

Then she found her foam phone on the ground, and trying to pick it up while wearing big blue hands proved challenging; after a few tries she did it, and held it to her ear.

"Hello!" She waved.

"Hi!"

"The phone is pretty scary."

"Mmm. Terrifying."

"Are you scared?"

"Uh, yes. Ok. Sure I am."

"I wanna go downstairs."

"You want to go downstairs?"

"Yeah."

"OK, come here then."

She came over and wrapped her big blue hands around my shoulders, and I groaned while standing up.

"Oh," she sighed. "Poor Mummy."

So I guess you could say that things are back to normal, now that we have our furnace.

Posted by Andrea at 10:08 AM | Comments (4)

Fearless Flying

Andrea: Do you want to fly, Frances?

Frances: Yeah!

Andrea: OK, let me lie down, and then come over here.

~A grinning Frances approaches~

I hold her securely around her ribs, and lift her above me, pretending to strain. "Oh, my, Frances! You're so heavy! I think ... I think ... I think I'm going to -- oh no! -- drop you!" I pretend to let her drop, catching her after an inch or two. She laughs and squeals and puts out her hands and knees.

"OK, up you go, my god you're heavy. What a big girl! Oh no, oh no! I'm going to drop you!"

"I drop you!" gasps Frances between belly laughs. "I drop you!"

I let her "fall" to the right, the left, leaning forward, leaning back, sometimes catching her after an inch or two, sometimes a controlled fall all the way down to my tummy. Frances laughs, red-faced and breathless, collapsing on my chest for several minutes with her faze nuzzled into my neck. When she's recovered and is lying next to me on the floor, she says, "I want to fly again!"

"You have to stand up then."

With a big smile she clambers to her feet, and I lift her again into the air.

Posted by Andrea at 8:16 AM | Comments (1)

Frances's Three Bs for Bedtime

Frances was not a baby who had much use for routine in her first year of life. Instead she despised it, and made her feelings known regularly by doing everything in her power to avoid doing one day what she had done the day before. It certainly kept me on my toes.

But gradually, over her second year of life (and today is the day she was supposed to be two years old, so Happy Due Date Birthday Frances!), she has come to value a nice, flexible schedule. Going to bed every night sometime between 7:30 and 8:30 (though she can stay awake to 9:30, babbling in her crib); waking up the next morning between 6:00 and 6:30; a nap sometime between 12:00 and 1:30 going for two hours, more or less. It took so long to develop that I am loathe to disrupt it for even one day. "A doctor's appointment at 12:45? No, I can't possibly. Do you have anything at three?"

As schedules go, it's lax, but it works for us.

And that, plus my loathing of Dr. Sears, is what had me giggling the other night as I contemplated our very own Three Bs for Bedtime.*

Bunny Rabbit: For the right arm.

Bear: For the left arm.

Blankie: For over top.

What do you think? Can I write a bestselling parenting manual based on this? Three Bs for Happy Bedtimes. I could package it in a little box with a stuffed bear and bunny, and everyone already has their own blanket.

Of course, then I would have to come up with a parenting philosophy, manufacture some evidence to support it, twist a few studies, and probably design yet another website which, now that I think of it, sounds like a whole lot of work. So maybe I'll just keep our Three Magic Bs to ourselves and a few close, personal friends (that would be you). A bunny, a bear and a blankie--it's all we need.

~~~~~

*For those of you not in the parenting know, Dr. Sears is the founder of Attachment Parenting, which advocates seven parenting "Baby Bs" to guarantee a good attachment between parents and their children. Well, mothers and their children.

Posted by Andrea at 8:20 PM | Comments (7)

I draw a snowman hair

Hey! It's cold in here. Will someone turn up the heat?

Oh, that's right. No heat. And for all of you following that story: It's going to be a week. Yes, a week. They can't even order the part until Monday. Do they not realize that we live in Canada? Do they not realize that it is COLD in Canada?

But enough of that: On to the happy. Today, a bit of harmless bragging:

Yesterday Frances spent the hour before supper colouring. She has a green bucket with different kinds of crayons and some washable markers on her art table, and a few different sketchbooks; she is allowed to pick one colour at a time; if it is a marker, I help her take the lid off and put it back on; and she can keep colouring as long as the markers and crayons go on the paper, not the table. It's simple and she doesn't require a lot of supervision, so normally I sit beside her on the floor and read something while she colours, looking up every few minutes to exclaim over her marvellous artwork and the beautiful colours she's chosen, or to help with colour selection.

As I said, this was how we spent the hour before supper yesterday. At one point, engrossed in an article, I heard my wee bean say, "I draw Oscar a Grouch."

I looked up--well I'll be damned. She was pointing to a green blob she'd just drawn on the page.

"Is that Oscar the Grouch? Wow, Frances! Very nice!"

"Yeah. I pick another colour now. I put it away." ("It" in this case referring to the green crayon.)

"OK."

This went on a bit more, and a few minutes later I heard, "I draw a letter F."

Knock me over with a feather. She drew a letter F:

Not intentionally--I'm not so completely besotted that I would think she actually meant to draw a letter F--but draw one she did, and then recognized it and pointed it out.

What a smart girl.

One more, just because it's cute. This one is from a few week's back. She asked me to draw her a snowman, and when I did, she said, "I draw a hair." And then she did, right on top of the snowman's hat:

Posted by Andrea at 7:38 AM | Comments (12)

Nope

Andrea: ~tickling Frances's foot~ Frances, is this your foot?

Frances: Nope.

Andrea: ~thinking 'Well, ask a silly question'...~ It isn't?

Frances: Nope.

Andrea: Oh. Where is your foot?

Frances: ~points to her foot~

Andrea: There it is! ~tickles it again~

Frances: ~pointing~ There is my other foot.

Andrea: Yes, there it is all right. Where is your knee?

Frances: ~points to knee~

Andrea: What a nice knee! ~tickles knee~ Is this your knee?

Frances: Nope.

Andrea: No?

Frances: Nope.

Andrea: Oh. ~tickles other knee~ Is that a knee?

Frances: Nope.

Andrea: Hmm.

Posted by Andrea at 8:33 AM | Comments (6)

Andrea?

I was downstairs checking the email, listening to the thunder-thunder of size 4 feet advancing and retreating on the floor above, when Erik called down:

"Hey, dinner's ready. And when you come up, can you bring Frances's apple juice? It's on the table."

"OK," I said, and began to shutdown the computer.

Moments later a much higher, softer register was heard: "Andrea? You bring my apple juice upstairs?"

Little punk.

~~~~~

Later, I was watching her play with her Thomas trains on the table, and she was asking me to turn the music on. (So she could spin around, and fall over.)

"No, baby," I said. "Mummy's getting a headache. Mummy's got an owwie in her head."

"Mummy's got a headache," she said.

"That's right."

"Mummy's got a headache," she repeated.

"Yes, I have a headache." I paused. "Do you want to kiss my owwie better?"

She walked over and kissed the top of my head.

"Oh baby, thank you," I said. "It feels better already."

Sweet girl.

~~~~~

When I was carrying her down the stairs to the basement just before dinner, she thumped her wee chest and said, "Perpect."

"Perfect?"

"Yeah!"

"I see."

~thump~ "Baybee."

"Yes, you are a baby."

~thump~ "Perpect baybee."

Modest, too.

Posted by Andrea at 7:28 AM | Comments (10)

Dizzy Ballerina

When Frances was learning to walk, she hated to fall down. It could be the softest, gentlest landing, a barely perceptible tumble, and she would wail as if beset by hungry coyotes. It didn't matter if it hurt or not. It didn't matter if she landed on her head or on her bum. If she meant to be standing, and then wasn't, she would cry. Loudly. For a long time.

This weekend, she perfected the skill of turning around in circles over and over and over as fast as she can until she gets so dizzy she falls down, and laughs her head off.

I think she's over her fear of falling down. But I'm not. Every time she's about to fall, I wince; I wait for the wailing to begin.

I wish I could show you, but Erik and I were so busy turning ourselves into human fenders so she wouldn't fall into anything dangerous that we had no hands to spare for cameras. But oh, it was fun. First she would ask for us to turn on the music; and we would, and she would dance. She pranced around on her tippytoes, she pretend jumped, she bounced on her heels. Then she would turn around, to use her phrasing; put her arms above her head like the world's smallest ballerina, and spin. Spin spin spin. Spin until she could spin no more, until the spin turned into a drunken stagger, then weave, and catch herself, and collapse, and laugh.

Her favourite thing to do was to aim her stagger at either Erik or myself, so we needed hands ready to catch her. Spin spin spin! Spin some more! Spin! Then, woah, oh, oh oh! Left, right, left left left, yikes! About to fall! About to fall! Oh! Mummy caught me!

By the end of the weekend, we all had the routine down pat. She would spin. She would do her prancing ballerina, and turn on her tippytoes, all the while staring at my hands, smiling hugely. When I started to notice the wobble, I would wiggle my fingers. "I'm going to get you!" I'd say.

Then, giggling, she would collapse into my hands. I'd hold her tight and say, "Gotcha gotcha gotcha!" Then tickle her with kisses, and eventually let her go when I thought she might have recovered her equilibrium.

Even more fun was watching her "fall" into Erik, as he would sit there with his arms wide, and she would spin, maybe two or three times, then stop, open her own arms wide, and hurtle straight into him for a hug. As a "pretend to fall down," it was pretty weak. Not very convincing at all. But so, so sweet.

It's my fault, really. I've been "dancing" with her for a while now by turning in circles, either holding her close if she's tired, or under her arms if she's not, and she loves it. She hates for it to stop. After half a dozen repetitions, I'm exhausted and worried about falling over and crushing her, but she will still be crying, "Mummy turn around again!"

I think I can shoulder the blame for this one. It's not such a heavy load to carry. And I can't wait, I can't can't can't wait, for her daycare's danceathon this year. She's going to go nuts, and Erik is going to be there with the videocamera if I have to rope it to his hand.

Posted by Andrea at 8:55 AM | Comments (6)

Grandma Andrea

I have always been very conscious, whenever I talk about Frances's adulthood, of saying, "if and when Frances decides to have children." Because, you know, she might not, and I don't want to put that kind of pressure or expectation on my child.

I'm starting to think of dropping the "if."

Baby Eloise was one thing. Making the Thomas trains kiss each other was another. Putting her Little People animals down for naps is a further consideration, as was feeding her Elmo puppet a nice afternoon snack. But the clincher was the Play-Doh.

She loves play-doh. The colours are nice, the texture is fun, and rolling it into a ball sure is a blast. But the best, the most favourite part, goes like this:

Frances: I make a baybee! (translation: Mummy, you make a baby for me!)

Mummy: No, Frances. Every time I make you a baby you decapitate it.

Frances: I make a baybee! ~brandishing a lump of pink play-doh~

Mummy: No, Frances. No baby. Would you like a cat? Mummy will make you a cat. ~I make a cat~

[repeat for ten minutes, substituting various animals for "cat"]

Frances: I MAKE A BAYBEE!

Mummy: ~sighs~ Fine. Here you go! Here's a baby.

Frances: I make a pillow.

Mummy: OK, here's a pillow.

Frances: I make a blanket.

Mummy: Blanket. Gotcha. Here it is.

Frances: ~carefully places play-doh baby on play-doh pillow and covers with play-doh blanket~ Sleep time!

Mummy: Aww, is the baby having a nap?

Frances: Yeah! I make a bowl.

Mummy: Here's a bowl.

Frances: I make a SPOON!

Mummy: What? A spoon? ~sigh~ OK. Here's a spoon. Sort of. It's more like a stick, really....

Frances: ~rearranges blanket, picks up play-doh baby and begins to feed play-doh baby imaginary food from play-doh bowl with play-doh spoon~ Baby hungry.

Mummy: I see.

Frances: ~replaces play-doh baby on play-doh pillow and covers with play-doh blanket~ I make a slide.

Mummy: No, Frances, no slide. Mummy's getting tired. Don't you have enough play-doh toys yet?

Frances: I make a slide! I make a SLIDE!

Mummy: ~rests head on table briefly~ OK. Here's a slide.

Frances: ~removes play-doh blanket from play-doh baby, and takes the play-doh baby to the play-doh park to ride down the play-doh slide~

I'm not kidding. Every day. Every day!

She doesn't mush, mash, eat, step on, squish, squoosh, flatten, roll or stretch her play-doh. Oh no. She wants it made into a baybee and all of a baybee's essential accessories, so she can mother it.

So I give up. Frances is going to have kids someday. If she doesn't, it will clearly be a sign that the Universe is malfunctioning in some deep and important way, because she already has more maternal instinct and innate nurturing drive than a dozen normal adults put together.

What do you think? Is Grandmother too stuffy? Should I go for Grandma instead? Or how about Nana? That has a nice, casual ring to it.

Posted by Andrea at 7:07 AM | Comments (15)

The Daddy Phase Begins

Yes, ladies and gentlemen; Frances has entered that stage of toddlerhood where only Daddy will do. She's not quite as early on this as some other babies, but she's entered into this phase with her usual enthusiasm.

When I go to wake her up in the morning, she sleepily asks me, "Daddy?" "No, sweetie, it's me. Do you want a hug?" "Yeah." "OK. Oh! Good hug." "I go see Daddy now."

The other night when she was sick and couldn't sleep, Erik was the last in to try to comfort her. Eventually he left to go get ready for work, and I went in to get her up and have a big snuggle in our bed. I found her lying face down in a puddle of tears, crying, "I ... want ... a .... Daddy ... hug ... I ... want ... a Dad ... dee ... hug ... I .... wanta ... Dad ... dee... HUG!"

"Oh baby girl," I sighed, picking her up. "You're going to have to settle for a Mummy hug right now."

I'm not taking it personally. Yet. This is a stage, right?

It's hard not to let this get all tangled up in my own early memories, though. I so clearly remember lying in bed as a very little girl, crying and calling for Mommy, then remembering, no wait--she's the one who was angry with me! And then crying and calling for Daddy instead. (I then remembered that Daddy was the one who spanked me, so what was the good of crying for him? After that, I just cried. It might have been the world's very shortest Daddy Phase.)

She's not me, and this has nothing to do with me, because it's just a stage, right?

Yesterday was a long day, what with the absence of Daddy and the strong need a certain little girl felt for Daddy hugs. She was utterly exhausted, but the cough was so strong she could not manage to do more than cat-nap--and that was with her crib elevated and the humidifier running full-strength. We watched an obscene amount of television. Frances ate three--yes, three--bananas in lieu of any meals, disassembled her Thomas the Tank Engine track countless times, and made a few finger-paintings--both times stopping at the end and sobbing from coughs but with little hands so covered with paint that I couldn't just pick her up and give her a hug.

After I got her all cleaned up and the supplies put away, she stood by the side of her toy basket. "Art smock!" she said. Tears started to build in her eyes. "A-a-art smo-o-ock!"

"You want to wear the art smock?"

"Yeah!"

"Ok then." I put it over her head without doing up the strings, and for thirty minutes she wandered around wearing an art smock so big on her it hung past her knees. But even the glorious art smock did not erase the pain of Daddy's absence, and only Daddy's return at the end of the day made things right. For most of the evening, she collapsed on his chest, coughing and crying still, but with one little arm wrapped tight around his neck, while I shuttled them kleenexes and tylenol and apple juice and cans of pop.

"She sure loves you," I said to him.

"She loves you too."

"I know. But right now it's you she wants most."

"Don't be silly!"

It's just a stage.

Right?

Posted by Andrea at 8:49 AM | Comments (12)

Big Blue Eeeeeeeeeeyes

(title as overheard on the monitor Saturday afternoon)

As Erik (then sick himself) sat on the couch, using TV to keep his eyes open, and I snuggled Frances on the chair, she asked me to play Elmo with her. I put the Elmo puppet on:

Elmo: Hi Frances!

Frances: Elmo.

Elmo: Hi Frances! How are you?

Frances: *silence*

Elmo: Are you happy?

Frances: Yeah.

Elmo: Oh, good.

Frances: ~gives Elmo a monster hug~

Elmo: Awwww... ~kisses Frances on the cheeks~

Frances: Elmo kiss Frances!

Elmo: Yes! ~kisses Frances again~

Frances: ~grabs Elmo by the cheeks and kisses him on the lips~

Elmo: Aww, thank you Frances! That made Elmo very happy.

Frances: You're welcome, Elmo.

Posted by Andrea at 8:17 AM | Comments (1)

Poor Baby

Frances was up sick on Wednesday night.

Erik was sick all Friday night.

So in the normal order of things, I'd be up all Sunday night, right?

Except that instead, Frances is sick again--feverish, crying, throwing up. From 4:30 on she only wanted to be snuggled and held. She almost fell asleep in my arms at 6:30, when Daddy was out getting her some special juice (pedialyte), and then as soon as she'd had that and her tylenol--she fell asleep on Daddy's shoulder at 7:15.

This sounds peaceful, and it was; but the whole body projectile vomits over the master bathroom were not. Nor was the sobbing every time she felt another bout coming on.

My poor baby. I'd gladly take it for her--especially since she already had her turn.

Posted by Andrea at 7:49 PM | Comments (4)

Art Lessons

Lucky Frances got two art smocks and two sets of fingerpaints for Christmas--but no fingerpainting paper. I made a special trip to pick some up just before New Year's; I was determined that she get to use her new fingerpaints and the lovely table and chair set my parents made for her before we all went back to our routine.

At first she wasn't sure what to make of the strange coloured blobs on her sheets of paper. We encouraged her to stick her fingers in it and smear it around, but she preferred the paintbrush which, as it turns out, is an easier word to say than understand, since the first thing she tried to do with it was brush her teeth.

"No! Paintbrush is for PAINT. TOOTHBRUSH is for teeth."

She crinkled her lips at the funny taste of the (non-toxic) paints and said, "Paintbrush for paints." She happily spent her first fingerpainting session smearing paints all over the paper with the paintbrush and imperiously demanding more: "Lellow! Lellow! I want blue!"

By the next day, she was more comfortable with dipping her fingers in the icky stuff. Some of it she twirled around with her fingers. Some of it she smeared with a flat hand. Some of it she left in a big blobby clump. I could tell that she liked it, but I had no idea how much until the next day--our last day of vacation--before supper:

"Lellow bucket!" she cried. "Fingerpainting! I want fingerpainting. I want paintbrush!"

"After supper, sweetie," I said. "After supper. AFTER supper. No, not right now. After supper. We'll fingerpaint AFTER supper. Not yet. No, not yet. After supper. Soon, but not yet. After supper."

After supper, we carefully put on her art smock, and she sat properly on her little seat. The paper was placed in front of her, with dobs of fingerpaint at well-spaced intervals. The paintbrush was right beside her. She spurned it, and spent the whole time playing with her hands. "I want lellow," she said. "I want blue! I want some red. Please."

Now she's a pro, spreading here, swirling there, keeping most of her colours separate, coating her hands and then making handprints all over the page--and she loves it. My happiest early art memories are of the fingerpaints, and I'm so glad to share this with her.

Posted by Andrea at 9:30 PM | Comments (9)

Potties Potties Everywhere

Today at work I was describing my Christmas holiday to a colleague.

"How about Frances?" he asked. "How was she?"

"Oh, she was great. Very excited."

"And did she get tired?"

"Nooooo.... Well, on Christmas afternoon when we went to my parents, she did lie down on a pillow and ask for a blanket. And she said 'I vewy vewy tie-ohed.'"

"Oh! That's pretty good!"

"I know."

"No tantrums or meltdowns or anything? My kids weren't like that."

"Believe me, I'm not complaining."

~~~~~

Frances can't be the only one in the audience who has one of these:

Silly me, I thought it was a tree and a hut. Frances informs me that it is a couch (the green part), a chair (the wooden part) and a potty (what I thought was the catapult). The mommy horsie and the baby horsie had a great time taking turns sitting on the different seats, and giving each other hugs and kisses. When the horsie had an unfortunate accident, plunging off the 'couch' to land on his head, Frances picked him up and said, "I kiss owie." Then she did.

Posted by Andrea at 6:31 PM | Comments (5)

Frances and Baby Eloise

I could never have predicted in October how much Frances would come to love her new doll. As I type this, she is walking around her playroom, hugging her tight.

Frances takes good care of her Baby Eloise. Already this morning she has shared her own apple juice with her, asking me to hold Eloise so she could hold the empty cup to her lips. "Want to have some?" she said. She pulled the cup back and noted, "There's none there." But this is no impediment to drinking when one is a plastic doll, so the cup went back to the pursed lips and she asked again, "Want to have some?"

After Baby Eloise had her fill of imaginary apple juice, Frances carried her around the playroom in a tight hug, saying, "I ready to go home." She brought Baby Eloise's hat to me and asked me to put the hat on her head because, you know, it's cold outside and it's important for Baby Eloise to wear her hat. "I go in car," she said.

After Mommy Frances had successfully brought Baby Eloise home, it was time for a nap on the pillow. Baby Eloise was tucked in under her green fleece blanket, and Mommy Frances expressed her need for a snack.

"Should we go upstairs?" asked Erik.

"Yeah."

"OK, come here."

"I bring Baby Eloise."

"No, Baby Eloise is having her nap. You can bring her up later."

She is a good caretaker to all of her toys, ensuring that even the toy trains get their naps and have sips of milk and apple juice; but not even Baby Dorego (so named by me because it was given to her as a Dora, and Frances believes it is Dora, but it is clearly Diego) has as big a space in Frances's heart as Baby Eloise.

We often find Baby Eloise sitting up in the chair opposite Frances at her play table, or in the small lion chair beside Frances's Dora chair while watching TV. Sometimes Baby Eloise sleeps in Frances's toddler chair in Frances's room while Frances naps in her crib. Most often Baby Eloise is securely tucked into Frances's arms as she plays with one toy or another. Leave Baby Eloise behind? But she might get bored, or lonely!

I will admit (quietly and only once) that it is immensely gratifying to see her being such a good parent to her little doll since I believe it is a sign that this is the care she largely receives from others--loving, attentive, insistent on the consumption of appropriate calories, and so forth. Of course there are moments where I purse my lips while Frances sternly lectures Baby Eloise: "Sleeptime now! Sleep! Sleep!"

I wonder where she got that from?

She is into full-on mimic mode now, often repeating back the very words I say as I say them. Which is entertaining all the time, and sometimes embarassing, as yesterday when I heard her repeating at least a dozen times after me, "Oh my God, Oh my God." I'm not sure what I had originally tossed off the blasphemy regarding, but I think, Frances, that I didn't need to hear it quite twelve times in order to get the point. I need to clean up my language. Thank you.

It's better than the phrase Frances has picked up from Erik. When the other day I shooed Roxie off the kitchen table, and Erik noted taht she once again had not eaten her medicated food, and Frances rejoined with "that fucking cat," we knew the moment was finally upon us: We have the child who will teach the other children at daycare and kindergarten all the interesting words that their parents won't let them say. Fabulous! Either that, or we need to watch ourselves a bit more closely.

At least if she is going to pick up from us all of our bad habits and reflect them back a thousand-fold, she also has the good sense and decency to reassure us on our parenting through the care she takes of Baby Eloise. She may swear, she may sometimes be frustrated with Baby Eloise's refusal to nap (a point I can fully empathize on), but she also loves her baby girl and takes the best care of her that her limited attention span will allow.

Thank goodness.

Posted by Andrea at 10:00 AM | Comments (7)

In Point-Form

~Wednesday~

Frances had her daycare birthday party.

She spurned the cupcakes and ate only cheesies.

She also cried hard when Erik showed up to take pictures, and wouldn't stop until she got a hug.

Erik, of course, stopped first to take a picture of the crying. Good boy!

Daddy, they're killing me! Honest!

~Thursday~

We saw her new pediatrician for the first time.

He is not freaked out about her size! Hallelujah!

She got a shot. That was not fun.

She weighed 17lbs 6oz and was 27.5" according to their measurements, which means she gained a pound without growing any. Umm, I don't think so, really. But that's ok. Today was just the baseline.

And actually, on our scale at home this morning, she was only 17 lbs even.

Plus also, I held a tape measure up behind her while she was playing with one of her toys, and she was almost 28". So there!

Not that I'm obsessed or anything.

While she was napping, I made french onion soup and the filling for stuffed baked potatoes, set out the snacks and paper plates etc., and cleaned up the house.

Frances woke just after 3:00, and we put on her pretty party dress. The last time she wore it was last Thanksgiving (2004) and it was way too big. Now it's actually a bit on the snug size. SNUG. I think I died of shock.

She loved to wear her party shoes and stomped-stomped-stomped in them. I think she may be a tapdancer in training.

At 4:00, I started the macaroni and cheese.

Just after 4:00, the guests arrived.

It is very hard to feed a party of four guests when one of them won't eat carbs and two of them won't eat meat. But I think I did ok.

We still have a lot of leftovers, though.

Frances CLEANED UP. From her mom and dad, she got a set of emergency vehicle toys (fire, police, ambulance and spill clean-up, which I think is just too fun, considering my background), the Little People castle, a book, and a Max and Ruby dvd. From our neighbours, she got a Potato Head set and the Little People Night at the Ball set (which is so sweet of them). From her Mumms and Grandpa she got the Fisher Price leapfrog like Learn Through Music or whatsitcalled. From her Aunt and Uncle she got a lifesize Diego doll, which everyone (including Frances, but not including me or Erik) thought was Dora.

And Christmas is in three days! Egads.

The Potato Head toys were the most fun, I think.

But Diego/Dora was a huge hit. She gave him/her big hugs and kisses and carried him/her around all over the place. She also liked to wipe his/her nose. And eyes.

*smooch*

Everyone cracked up when she took the Queen from the Little People set, laid her down on the bed and said, "I'm very very tired."

I now have two days to finish getting ready for the family Christmas celebration. Left to do:

1. Make the parents dvd
2. Finish sewing my Mom's santa ornaments
3. Make the daisy braid (must be done on Saturday)
4. Wrap

I think that's doable, actually. But none of it tonight. I am beat.

Posted by Andrea at 9:29 PM | Comments (11)

Not Two

Sweet Girl:

You are not allowed to be two years old. I forbid it.

Yours with the most love ever,

Mummy

P.S. Someone in our neighbourhood has clearly discovered the true nature of Space-Time and altered it, because I know for a fact that it is not Dec 22 2005. No. Yesterday was Dec 21 2004, and thus today is Dec 22 2004, and you are therefore one year old. Just one. Got it? Good. You're such a smart girl, I knew you would understand.

P.P.S. Yes, I know you are walking, and talking, and counting, and naming colours and shapes and people and everything else. Stop it. It's not appropriate for a one year old.

P.P.P.S Are you really really going to break my heart and turn two years old today?

Two? Whole? Years?

Where did it go? How did it get there? Can I get it back?

Your first year was fast enough, but this year feels as if I've been standing still while you raced by me at supersonic speeds, and I can barely glimpse you off ahead in the distance. You are so grown up, such a big girl, but I am only a baby and I am not ready. I am not ready for you to be running and playing and making friends, and picking out your own outfits, and determining what you would like to do with your time. Because it means you are getting ready to start moving away from me. And I ask you:

How, how how how, am I supposed to stand it when this beautiful little person starts moving away from me?

Right now you are snuggly and want hugs and kisses from Mummy. You will sit in my lap and happily read board book after board book; you will request endless squeaky repetitions of Snuggle Puppy and Twinkle Twinkle and ABC and You Are My Sunshine, and stare at me with big blue eyes bright and full of love. You will stroke my arm with your warm, tiny, impossibly soft little hand, and kiss me on the cheek, and let me kiss your owwies better. I treasure this. It isn't always easy, no, but you are the sweetest and easiest child who ever lived, and I have no right to complain. You don't always want me, but you want me an awful lot, and I can see this stage of your life racing by me at breakneck speed and I just can't stand it.

This might mean that I am a sap. I can take that.

I've even started calling you a toddler--and just in time, as you've perfected your sprint in order to chase Roxie around the house while screaming after her in your multi-pitched I-swear-I'm-not-possessed way, which sounds exactly like the obnoxious typing perfected by teenaged girls everywhere: "rOxie! come BAck hERe! ROXie! roXIE cat!" Until she is so bug-eyed and puff-tailed and freaked out that we can hear her back claws skittering on the bedroom ceiling. You even hunt her down to her last hiding place--in her cat carrier, for the love of god, which she used to hate--and lie prone in front of it, staring at her, grinning, and shrieking: "ROXie! roxie CAT! rOXie! roxiEEEEE!"

Can I ask you why a bunnyrabbit is now a "BUNNyRAAAAAAAbit"?

It's fine. No it is, really; your voice is soft and high enough that it doesn't grate, as it will in exactly 2.5 months. I blame your father, as he encourages you shamelessly: "Is that a BUNNyRAAAAAbit, Frances?" How are you supposed to know?

I like it much better when you find something you like, and your voice goes even softer and higher, and you practically purr at the object of your attention: "oooohthatscuuuuute, cuuuutebunny, cuuuuute." The other day, for instance, you asked for the empty benillyn box to play with, and when you had it, you stared at it and said, in a soft high voice, "Look at that! Look at that! Oooooh. Beaaauuutiful box."

Do you realize we've never babyproofed?

I wish you had told us we needn't bother, that the garbage cans and pots and pans were safe, before your father drilled a hole through the kitchen cupboards while trying to install those kid-safe magnet-lock thingamajigs. The hole remains, we've never put in anything else, and you never, ever open that door, unless we ask you to throw something in the garbage. It's amazing. It's mind-blowing, really, and just another piece of undeserved good fortune on my part. You just stay out of things! We even keep the big blue recycling bin--open and uncovered--in the kitchen, and while you have been known to carry off bits of paper and pop cans, we've never found it tilted onto its side with its contents strewn over the hardwood--we've only had to tell you to keep out of it a dozen times--and you've even decided that it's more fun to put things in it than take things out of it, so if I give you an empty pop can you'll carry it over to the recycling and put it inside, and stare at it, and tell us about how you put it in the recycling, and then we tell you how helpful you are, and you come back looking for another one.

I think the daycare should be paying us to have you.

You like to hug our knees. Especially in the morning when we're getting dressed; it's your little way of telling us you want us to slow down, give you a hug, and maybe call in sick. You always get your hug, damn you, even when I'm already twenty minutes late; I have no powers against a small, soft, fuzzy blond girl with two arms wrapped tightly around my legs. And besides, if I don't pick you up, you'll trip me.

You are beautiful.

And it's not just me, either; everywhere we go, people tell me so. But you are never more beautiful than when we are at home, and you are in your jammies on my lap, and ask me to sing Itsy Bitsy Spider while you do the hand movements. The tiny fingers squirm in front, fly up and down, wash out to the side, spread wide, and wriggle again, all more or less perfectly. You know the words, but never sing them; sometimes you'll recite them.

You know your shapes. You know your colours. You know the letters of the alphabet and can recite the ABC song. You use full sentences most of the time, and almost all the verbs and nouns you need, you have. Pronouns, though, are a sticking point. Specifically, "I." "I", apparently, refers to anyone. It might be you. It might be me. It might be Daddy. It might be the cat. Sometimes we don't know who it means.

"I play upstairs now," means you--Frances--are going upstairs to play.

"I draw circle," sometimes means that you are going to draw a circle, and sometimes means that you want us to draw a circle.

"I draw person/happy face/truck/tree/etc." means that you want us to draw it for you. Plagiarist.

"I play with Elmo" usually means that you want us to play with Elmo with you.

"I go outside now" means not on your life, it's 15 below and snowing besides.

Food names are a puzzle, too. You know them but somehow, at the critical moment, never remember to use them. When an unhappy Frances wails close to mealtimes, and I ask her, "Are you hungry Frances?" she always says, "Yeah!"

"What would you like?"

"Snack!"

"What would you like to eat?"

~pause~

"Lunch!"

"What would you like to have for lunch?"

"SNACK!"

I understand that you want to eat. What I need from you is an idea of what you won't reject out of hand, so I don't have to fix half a dozen different things before you'll taste one.

Tag is fun. Or is it hide and seek? I'm not sure what game it is we're playing when I hide behind a pillar in the basement, and you chase around and around it while I try to walk just fast enough not to let you see me, you howling with laughter, until you catch a glimpse and cry, "I found you!"

You sure did. But I'm not trying to hide very hard, you know. It's too much fun to be found.

If you insist on being two, then I suppose next year at this time you're going to want to be three--aren't you?--and then four, and five, and so on, and who knows where it will end? I tell you now I think it's no good, this growing up business; it will only lead to trouble. Better you stay two, and I get to be your mama forever. Is it a deal?

Say "yes" by eating birthday cake. If you eat this green bean salad with balsamic dressing instead, I'll know you're saying, "no."

Ah, good girl. Two forever it is.

P.P.P.P.S. I've thought it over again. The alternative to you growing up is too terrible to contemplate. So I take it back. You go ahead and grow up, ok? Only--slow down a little. I can't keep up!

Your besotted Mama

Posted by Andrea at 7:16 AM | Comments (25)

Tragicomic

"I go upstairs."

"You want to go upstairs, Frances?"

"Yeah! I bring orange."

"No, your toy orange stays down here."

"I bring cup!"

"No, sweetheart. Your stacking cups live down here."

"I bring CAN!"

"No, baby. That's mummy's can. It's too heavy and cold for you. Mummy will bring it upstairs."

Tears began to well. "I bring CAN!"

"Sweetie, no, that's Mummy's drink. Mummy has to bring it upstairs."

Frances began to sob.

"Oh baby, I'm sorry, but no. Would you like to bring your owl upstairs?"

"Yeah." She grabbed the owl and tucked it under her chin. "I bring CAN!"

"No, honey. That's Mummy's can. Mummy will bring up the can, and you bring up the owl."

Still sobbing. "I bring CAN! I bring CAN!" The owl is thrown to the ground.

"Baby, no, you can't bring the can. How about Elmo? Would you like to bring Elmo upstairs?"

Sniffling. "Yeah!"

"OK. You give Elmo a good hug, and I'll carry you while you carry Elmo. There. And I have my can too."

"I bring Elmo." She tucks him under her chin.

"OK. Good idea."

Posted by Andrea at 9:34 PM | Comments (2)

Two Laughs

There was supposed to be a winter storm today, so I brought some files home with me so I could work from home. The storm, however, failed to materialize, so I got up this morning, got ready for work, got in the car, and drove there.

I reached over for the pass that lets me into the underground parking and realized--no pass. No purse. No pass, no purse. No pass means I can't park underground, no purse means I can't park across the street (there is no free parking near my office). No pass, no purse; I had to turn right around and go home again.

I laughed my head off and cursed myself for an idiot, and decided to work at home for a few hours anyway, just to spare myself the extra drive in. What a dolt.

I am now trying to get some work done while watching Frances so Erik can shovel the driveway. She found one of my small blue foam craft circles on the floor--think the size of a baby's pinkie fingernail. She was turning it over and over, talking about the pretty blue circle, when she said, "All gone."

"What's gone, Frances?"

"Blue circle all gone."

"Why? Where did it go?"

"In my nose."

"What?" I hauled her up on my lap. "Can you look up, please?" She did. "Well, I can't see it up there."

She stuck her finger up her nose. "Blue circle."

"I don't know where it is, honey. You'll have to play with something else."

"Blue circle!"

"Sorry, kiddo."

A few minutes later, there was a mighty sneeze and, yes, just under her nose was the most tremendously snot-covered little blue foam craft circle you have ever seen.

The floor has now been scoured of every item the approximate size of a baby's pinkie fingernail.

Posted by Andrea at 9:01 AM | Comments (7)

Big Girl

This photo was taken in November of last year.

It is one of my favourite pictures of Frances ever. Look at that smile! Those eyes! It comes as close to capturing her personality as I've ever come.

I like it so much, in fact, that I've uploaded the big file for your viewing pleasure, if you so choose.

Here is a picture from the weekend, taken on the same chair, this time with Grandpa admiring her toes:

Will you look at how much bigger she is?

In the first photo, the second row of buttons are right above her head. If you look carefully in the second shot, you will see those buttons peeking over the top of the cushion. In the first photo, her shoulders were level with the armrests--but not any more.

She's growing! Halloo!

Of course, being my paranoid, overly-analytical self, I immediately started trying to figure out if I could determine from these photos exactly how much she has grown without hiring an engineering firm to devise a formula. But ... when you consider that the growth in her legs will be equal to the growth you can see in her torso from these shots, four inches isn't out of the question, is it?

Posted by Andrea at 12:25 PM | Comments (5)

News Flash: The WBBE, BN Has a Bad Day (Week)

Frances doesn't get tired, as you or I understand the word. She doesn't slow down, she doesn't speed up; she doesn't become cranky, she doesn't become clingy; if we take her glasses off she'll rub her eyes, but normally we don't do that; there is no difference to her behaviour when she is tired from when she is not, except for one thing: She hits.

It's the only time she hits, and it's a useful enough clue, but annoying just the same. Still, there is some levity:

"Frances, don't hit. Hits make owwies."

"It's not nice."

"That's right, it's not nice."

~~~~~

Also, for the past week, she has been waking up between 5:20 and 5:40. Miserable, and not willing to go back to sleep. It makes for an early start to the workday.

we've gone through bouts of this before: tremendous stretches of beautiful, unbroken, lengthy night-time sleep suddenly interrupted by constant and unending nightwaking. Normally it goes on just long enough to convince us that we must do something, and then she goes back to her old sleeping habits.

I'm just about there now, so here's to the light at the end of the tunnel. My guess is molars: All of her other teeth have come through early to early-normal, so these ones are comparatively late, for Frances.

~~~~~

I think she's coming down with another cold. I've emptied her skull of at least three pounds of snot this morning.

This, of course, means another cold for me in the next day or two.

~~~~~

And her appetite! Has tanked.

The cold that hit two weeks ago has robbed her of any desire to eat anything that isn't at least 50% sugar, and even then her response isn't great. All of her normal favourites, from potatoes to cheese to cheerios, are now in the "you've got to be kidding me, Mummy" category. Two weeks ago, she had three toddler-bowls of cheerios every morning. Now it's half a bowl. She'd polish off an entire potato no problem. Now it's three bites.

It doesn't seem to be affecting her energy level, but of course she has her first-ever weigh-in with the new doctor on the 22nd, and while I'm (mostly) over the grow-grow-grow phase of our lives, I'm not quite ready to embrace shrink-shrink-shrink.

So there you go. Just in case you thought everything was peaches and roses all the time Chez Andrea.

Of course, some things remain the same--and I know Tanya will appreciate this one too. This from her main caregiver at the daycare last week:

"I've worked here for twenty years and I've never seen a child who knew the alphabet at her age. Lots of toddlers can memorize the alphabet and repeat it, but Frances is the only one I've ever met who knows all the letters."

There you go, Tanya; doesn't that make you feel good? Since I know Cael has been similarly speedy with his alphabet.

Posted by Andrea at 7:59 AM | Comments (6)

Miss Manners

"SNACK!"

"You want a snack? What would you like to eat?"

"Yogurt."

"What do you say?"

"Pleeeeeeeeeez."

"Oh, ok. Hold on a second, I'll get you a yogurt."

"YOGURT!"

"I know, I have to get it out first.... There you are."

"There you go! Yogurt."

"Now I'll get you a spoon."

"Thanks, Mummy."

~~speechless pause~~

"You're welcome."

I don't know how or where she learned "Thanks," or how or where she learned to tag the person's name on to the end. She started this up about two days ago, and now everything she gets is a "thanks, Mummy" or "thanks, Daddy." She just ... picked it up. Aren't kids supposed to be born uncivilized? I think she's going to be teaching us etiquette lessons soon.

Posted by Andrea at 10:29 AM | Comments (5)

Everything you wanted to know about Beanie Baby, but didn't care enough to ask

I have been wracking my brain today to come up with something to say.

That's a bit frightening, considering my normal inability not to have something to say. Regardless. There I was, wracking. My brain was overheating. My fingers were shaking. My eyes were screwed shut and a faint whine could be heard emanating from my mouth. And then! It came to me.

Hey, did I ever tell any of you why I called this place Beanie Baby?

It doesn't seem to fit, does it? "TCGPODAG rants about all the evils of the world, and occasionally bestows a kind word on her beloved offspring"--not something you would connect with those over-merchanidised trendoids of a previous decade.

It's my brother's fault. No! It is! And yes, he doesn't know about the blog, but it's his fault, because he's the one who gave Frances that nickname. And it's very logical too. See:

Frances: Frankie
Frankie: Frank 'n 'beans
Frank 'n 'beans: Beanie
Beanie: Beanie Baby

Ta da! All decided when she was fresh from the womb, not even twelve hours old, and way before she was even supposed to be born yet. It would be terribly cloying and inappropriate if she weren't so small, soft and snuggly.

Posted by Andrea at 10:56 AM | Comments (8)

SWAK

Frances is very obliging with her kisses; most of the time, if I ask her for a kiss, she will place her dry little lips on my face and then rear her head back, saying, "MWAH!" What it lacked in execution it made up for in panache and exhibitionism, and I never got tired of those kisses. She never went through the slobbery open-mouthed kiss phase, where you end up with a face full of toddler drool; and now it seems we have bypassed it altogether.

Because yesterday, she learned how to do real kisses. With purshed lips and the most adorable little squeaky smooch I've ever heard. And so everything kissed everyone. Her little bunnyrabbits kissed each other, and the Elmo puppet, and the farmhouse. The Little People clown kissed Goofy the Space Alien puppet. The little girl bunnyrabbit kissed Daddy; Frances kissed Stuart the Bear; the Cookie Monster ball kissed me on the knee.

But, as you'll notice, no person-to-person kissing. Toy-to-toy kissing was rampant, so much so that if we had erected a booth and charged a nickle each we could be sure of having raised enough to cure cancer; toy-to-person kissing was also common, and there was a bit of person-to-toy kissing as well. But all of the person-to-person kisses travelled a circuitous route involving at least some plastic and faux fur.

Then it was bedtime, and as I was snuggling her in for the goodnight hug, I asked her for a kiss as I always do. She screwed up her lips, pressed them to my cheek, and kissed me--a nice squeaky little kiss--for the first time ever.

Posted by Andrea at 8:55 AM | Comments (8)

Recovery Hopes

Last Wednesday--I think it was Wednesday--I was home with a sick Frances.

Today, I watched blearily while huddled up on the chair with a box of kleenex, a chapped nose and a big mug of warm tea, as my teensy little girl launched herself upon our house with at least ten times as much energy as I've ever had.

She chased Roxie around the house, saying, "Roxie! Roxie cat! Come back! Come back here Roxie cat! Roxie! Roxie!" until Roxie! was so good god-damned frightened that her tail puffed out to twice its normal size and she tore around the house as if looking for an escape hatch through which she could hurl herself. (It was at this point that we convinced Frances that Roxie really doesn't like to be chased.)

Deprived of her first target, she then assaulted Erik, flipping and rolling over his lap on the couch, demanding pillows and blankets, wanting down, asking to climb up again, and smiling all the while. She sat still for ten minutes while Max and Ruby played on TV; then it was down to the basement, running here, running there, showing me the Daddy bunnyrabbit, and the little girl bunnyrabbit, and the crayons, and the pen, and the paper, and the books, and the sheep, and the ball, and at least half a dozen other things.

"I go upstairs to see Daddy now," she said, and off she went.

This was kind of her, since most often she simply sneaks off and the first I know of her intentions is the distant giggle I hear when she reaches the top of the stairs. This sounds horribly negiligent, but it takes her all of thirty seconds; I could only avoid it if I copied myself three times over and laid myself out end-to-end across the basement floor. Perhaps some enterprising manufacturer should get on that.

Make that four copies: Then one of them could blog.

Anyway. As I said, usually the first clue I have is the distant giggle, at which I race to the stairs, saying, "Where is my little monkey girl?"

She stops, looks at me, and with a big smile, points to her chest.

"Are YOU my little monkey girl?" I ask with a laugh.

"I'm a little monkey girl!" she says.

Anyway. As I was saying, last Wednesday I was home with a sick Frances; and today is Monday, and she's back to her old tricks, squared. Today I am home with a sick Andrea; and today is Monday, so I should have that kind of energy by Saturday. Right?

Right?

~~~~~

A final Frances anecdote:

Erik tells me that the daycare workers today were saying that in the morning, Frances said, "I'm really tired." So they bundled her into the infant naproom for an impromptu morning nap. Five minutes later she came walking out again, saying, "I'm not tired now. I want to play again."

Posted by Andrea at 10:01 PM | Comments (3)

Frances Bits

Today I put up the tree.

Now you may ask, why did I put up the tree when I have a really bad cold and can barely move my legs? It's a tradition. Every year, we put up the tree on the first weekend of December; and every year, I happen to have a cold that weekend.

Of course, having a mobile toddler does complicate it a bit, so it was perhaps a bit more exhausting this year than previously. Nevertheless, the tree is up; and I'll share that in a forthcoming post. This one is all about Frances (no, really):

As I was assembling the tree (it's artificial) and stringing the lights around the "trunk," Frances saw it and stepped forward. "Lights," she said. Then she stopped, and started to walk backwards. "Don't touch. Don't touch. Don't touch," she said.

"That's right, Frances. Very good," I said.

After I had done with the tree, she started to walk towards it. "Christmas tree!" she said.

"That's right, it's a Christmas tree."

She stopped, and started to walk backwards again. Erik and I both laughed. He sat on the ground two feet from the tree and said, "It's ok, Frances; you can sit here," and patted the floor beside him.

Frances sat down and began to creep along the floor towards him on her bum, as she does when she sees stairs that she wants to go down. "Go sloooowly," she said.

I laughed. "That's right, Frances. Be careful and go slow. Very good!"

I don't know where or how she picked it up, but I'll take it.

Ditto for our names, which she has also learned and started to use.

"Your name Andrea," she said.

"Well, yes...."

"Your name Erik!"

Erik laughed.

"You know sweetie, you can call me Mummy. I like Mummy. Let's stay with Mummy, ok?"

"OK, Andrea."

*sigh*

Posted by Andrea at 5:16 PM | Comments (5)

Sad Girl

One of the (remarkably few) downsides to having the WBBE, BN is that it's next to impossible to tell when she's sick. She can be coughing and sneezing and still play happily for a few hours with her toys, only with slightly less energy and less interest in food. She can have a fever and be throwing up and cry only a little bit, when she's vomiting, but otherwise seem mostly normal. There have been several times where we've taken her to the doctor, feeling quite foolish, to say, "Look, I know she seems fine, but she's got a bit of a fever and she's been coughing for three days," only to find out she had a serious chest or ear infection requiring antibiotics--and we had no idea.

So when she spends a (very rare) sick day crying whenever she coughs, which is every five minutes, that makes the Mummy very worried. I asked her if she had owwies, and she pointed to her throat and cried when I tried to kiss it better. She didn't want food. Any food. She had half a bowl of cheerios in the morning, and three cookies for a snack, and two bites of a banana for lunch. That was it. She'd ask for a snack and no matter what was offered, reject it. She didn't even eat minigos, which are always a favourite, or the chocolate pudding Erik brought home after work.

She didn't play, or want to. She sat on my lap most of the day, or sometimes in her chair, and watched TV or asked for Daddy or talked to the Elmo puppet.

The nap was a disaster. It took her 1 1/2 hours of hard crying and coughing and snuggling and rocking and hugging to fall asleep, and then she slept for only fifty minutes.

All day she had a little red face and puffy red eyes from crying.

I felt so terrible. She is never unhappy, period, so to see her this unhappy was worrying and heartbreaking all at once.

Today she is staying home with Daddy. She had a rough night, still feels a bit warm, and still cries whenever she coughs. She only had half a bowl of cheerios again. And today I think she will be going to the doctor. At least, I hope so.

Benefit #61 to Small Babies: When they are sick and want to be carried around all day, it is physically possible to do so without straining your back.

Posted by Andrea at 8:13 AM | Comments (16)

Sick Day

Last night, Frances was not her usual energetic self, and she was coughing and sneezing so we gave her some baby tylenol cold medicine. An hour afterwards she had a fever--not a good sign--so I put her to bed 45 minutes early and hoped she would sleep it off.

This morning, it was hard to tell. She was lethargic and tired, but she'd been up a lot last night, so not unexpected. The fever had almost broken; she was just 37.2. She wasn't coughing or sneezing; she only seemed "out of it."

But I had a bad feeling about it--sure she'd be tired, but not so ... listless.

Erik and I discussed whether to keep her home or not over breakfast. Erik thought we should try it; my position was, she's only two! She shouldn't have to drag herself in with a cold when she's only two!

What clinched it was the cough, which not only seemed bad in its own right, but also made her cry.

So today we are having a sick day. We are going to play with toys and watch TV and eat comfort food. Because if you don't get to indulge your little aches and pains when you're a baby, when do you get to?

Posted by Andrea at 7:11 AM | Comments (6)

Dear Santa

Last year:

This year:

WHERE IS MY BABY?

Posted by Andrea at 7:41 PM | Comments (16)

What Really Matters to Canadians

If you are Canadian, you now have approximately two months to explore just exactly how quickly one can become sick of that phrase and what happens to one's psyche after that magic moment has passed. I'm sorry for having hastened it by even one uttering.

For those of you scratching your heads, last night in Canada the first-ever non-confidence motion was passed and brought down the government. This being Canada, it was all very orderly and civilized, and now there will be an election sometime in late January. This leads me to wonder: what happens if there is a blizzard somewhere--as there tends to be in Canada in late January--and it's not safe for people to leave their homes to vote? I love democracy as much as (or more than) the next girl, but I'm not risking my life to get to a ballot station, either.

The strange, and purely Canadian, thing is that at this point, everyone seems pretty well agreed that the election isn't going to change anything, but we're going to do it anyway. For one reason, it is a minority government, and we have allergic reactions to minority governments that remain in power for two years. For another, the Prime Minister promised to hold an election after the final report on the sponsorship scandal was released sometime early in the new year. The opposition parties can't have it look like they're just letting this happen, and they don't want to give the government an opportunity to keep a promise, so they're forcing them to hold an election (that won't change anything) a few weeks earlier than they otherwise would have.

From the Bloc Quebecois (Canada's very own separatist party) and the NDP, this makes a certain amount of sense. From the Conservatives, who are spearheading the whole endeavour, it's a bit mystifying, since a) they can't possibly win, b) a loss will only make them look worse, and c) they're supposed to care above all else for the public purse-strings, and spending several hundred million dollars of public money on an election that won't change anything doesn't look like fiscal responsibility to me.

This is only how it looks at the beginning of the race, of course, and if by the end of it I'm forced to eat my hat because the frightening right-winger managed to get himself into office the taste of waxy felt will be the least of my worries. But the fact of the matter is, at this point, this election which is supposed to mean something really does NOT Matter To Canadians. It's Canada, it's December on Thursday, the holidays are coming, and besides, there's Frances!

And what would you rather read about?

Exactly! So I offer you the following:

Yesterday, Frances went to see Santa. I like to take advantage of my weekdays off for such purposes since standing in a long lineup with a lot of sugar-hyped Christmas-frenzied impatient toddlers for a few hours does not fill me with the holiday spirit. Oddly enough. So we got up and Frances wore exactly the same dress and tights she wore last year (size twelve months), with two deviations: 1) no shoes and 2) the dress and tights fit. The dress was a gift from her Boston Aunt, a beautiful purply blue dress made out of a lovely, stretchy, soft and fuzzy material. Not fuzzy like velvet, more fluffy--kind of furry, but not quite. It's hard to describe, but you will have to believe me when I say that it both lovely and comfortable and brings out the blue in her eyes. Not that she needs a dress for that.

The first step was to aquire shoes. Until yesterday, Frances had two sets of footwear that fit: blue running shoes and purple boots. Neither of which were entirely appropriate for this august occasion. So we went to the mall when it opened at 9:30, knowing that Santa would arrive for 10, and looked at nice shiny black shoes. You will not be surprised to hear that Big Girl black shiny shoes do not typically come in a size four, so we found two pairs and bought them both. One is fine for wearing and walking and is generously sized; the other is beautiful and cute but the slippery sole makes for miserable walking and it's almost too small so it's really only good for picture-taking, but that's ok because they were cheap.

Shoes on feet, we got ourselves at the head of the line for Santa. Santa's helpers were having some difficulty with the camera, so Frances got the luxury of a nice, long visit with the Big Guy: This was good, because she was none too sure about it. So she stood at the entrance and stared at him.

"Do you want to see Santa, Frances?"

"Hi, Frances! Come see me!"

Frances: ~~silent staring~~

Andrea: How about this tree? Would you like to come see this tree?

Frances walks to the tree, and we admire it.

Andrea: How about this nice pile of pretty glass balls, Frances? Would you like to come see them?

Frances walks to the pile of glass balls, and points out the different colours.

Andrea: Look at this sleigh! Would you like to see the sleigh, Frances?

Frances walks to the sleigh and comments on its redness. By now, we are a mere two feet from Santa.

Andrea: OK, let's sit on this bench near Santa. Oh, good foot-kicking! That makes a nice loud bang, doesn't it?

Frances kicks her feet against the bench.

Santa: Would you like to ring these bells for me, Frances?

Frances grabs the sleighbells and gives them a good shake.

Andrea: Good job, Frances! Hey, let's try sitting with Santa now.

I put Frances on the seat beside Frances, and we three discuss the redness and whiteness of various parts of Santa's costume, and how warm the hat is.

Santa's helper: We're good to go, the camera's ready.

Andrea: Oh, that's good. OK, Frances, Santa wants to give you a hug. Can Santa give you a hug? Good girl! Can you smile? Smile, Frances! Can you smile? Oh, look at that reindeer!

Frances: Bunny rabbit.

Andrea: ... Close enough. Can you smile, Frances? Smile! Oh, nice smile! What a pretty girl.

And so on until, photo package and free stuffed reindeer toy in hand, we were done. In the interests of brevity (no, really) I've left out all the people in line behind us commenting on how adorable she is, and the helpers saying how adorable she is, and Santa saying how adorable she is. "Adorable" was the word of the day at the mall yesterday. Just you wait until you see the photo. "Adorable" will be flying fast and furious here, too.

I've also left out the dozen-or-so carefully-phrased "How old is she?" questions, obviously code for "My, she looks way too small to be walking."

Make that "running." Did I mention she's running all over the place now?

That was our morning. I then drove her to daycare where her caregivers exclaimed over the softness and colour of her dress (it really is a lovely dress) and she got herself so busily and happily into playing with her friends (naming them as she saw them--Russell! Logan! Carmen! and so on) that she didn't even notice when I left.

Then it was off to the One of a Kind Show with me, which none of you want to hear about since Frances isn't involved. I'll be quick (no, really): I bought stuff. Some of it was food, some of it wasn't. Some of it was stamps, which I will share images of later when I have the camera, since KLee at least will be interested. The food and the stamps are all I can share due to the Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Bonanza, because a few of the other things may potentially end up with my giftee. I was deeply disappointed in the kids' stuff this year: None of the clothes I really liked were available in Frances's size; none of the kid's play costumes were availabe in Frances's size; the ones that were availabe in her size were all princess costumes, which I object to on principle; she already has some of the puppets from last year (they sell the Best! Puppets! Ever! there) and there are only so many puppets that mummy has the energy to play with every day. I did get a nice shirt for a nephew, which I also will not share in case they read this, though I don't think they do, and something for my brother and his wife and all my girlfriends. Ladies and gentlemen, with the exception of a few stocking stuffers, my Christmas shopping is done.

But it's last night that you're really going to want to read about, so I saved it for last to reward those of you who made it this far:

Frances's first ever doll was a hit, but not necessarily for the reasons the toy marketers might suppose. Oh, she enjoys tucking her "baby" in for naps and feeding her a bottle, but then she'll carry her around by the foot and drop her on her head. Far more interesting is the little plastic jar, spoon and fork that came with it. She likes to take the lid off the jar and spoon herself some imaginary baby food.

Last night she discovered a whole new level of joy: Feeding other people with the jar and spoon.

First was Daddy. For five whole minutes, Frances carefully spooned imaginary food from the jar into Erik's mouth, while he obligingly made "mmm" noises. Then she fed me for a few minutes, all the while smiling so hard her face practically split in two. She was so careful with the spoon, making sure to hold it the right way and put it gently in my mouth, that I knew she would make an excellent mummy even if she is flagrantly ignoring the current Motherhood Rules and feeding right from the jar. Then it was our cat's turn; that only lasted for a few seconds. Roxie, it turns out, is not interested in imaginary baby food served on a pink spoon.

And then? It was Mummy's turn again.

I dare you to tell me that if you were faced with the patented Big Blue Eyes and the matching grin and a little pink spoon that followed your mouth as you twisted your head side to side, that you wouldn't eventually open your mouth too, especially if your husband assured you that the spoon did not actually make contact with the cat's tongue but was only waved around the vicinity of her mouth.

Ah, motherhood. I don't remember reading that in the brochure.

Did the fun end there? No! She carried Rudolph, the free reindeer from Santa, upstairs and--rejecting television, milk, and all of her toys and books, sat him down on the bottom stair and carefully fed him by spoon and cup until it was time for bed.

Posted by Andrea at 9:14 AM | Comments (6)

Alphabet Soup

Frances loves the alphabet song, even though we slaughter the Sacred Rhyme and sing it with "zed" instead of "zee." She sits on my knees facing me, and I hold her hands and bounce her up and down, and she stares at me and grins while I sing (or warble off-key, depending on your perspective). "Again!" she cries.

She even sings it with me sometimes. The whole thing. All right, that's a bit of a stretch: she doesn't sing it, she recites it. But she recites it all. And sometimes, not even with me, but by herself.

Especially when she is standing at the fridge playing with her letter magnets, she will suddenly break into a recitation: "abcdefg," she'll say, or, "wxy and zed, now I know my eh bee seeeeeees, next time won't you sing with meeeeeee."

"Very good, Frances," I say. "Are you singing the ABC song?"

"Yeah!"

Of course, if I actually ask her to sing it, she will clam up and stare at me with a grin, waiting for me to break down and sing it all by myself. The smile and the blue eyes usually get it for her, too.

Posted by Andrea at 12:41 PM | Comments (6)

A Collection of Anecdotes

You know I'm not feeling well when I'm not posting.

It's not the full-blown cold yet. It's that dizzy, disoriented, groggy pre-cold state. The I'm-coming-down-with-a-cold feeling. It's 3:00 and it feels like midnight.

So I keep remembering cute Francesisms to share, and then forgetting them. Let's see if I can pull a few together before I pass out.

I mentioned previously (twice) that my parents brought over a tray of Christmas cookies for Frances to enjoy while watching the Santa Claus parade (by the way, if you're into that kind of thing, the TO parade is awesome, and well worth planning a trip around). Frances took that to heart and earnestly tried to take one bite from each cookie on the platter.

~~~~~

On Saturday, when I was single-parenting, Frances and I were in her room. I was attempting to get her dressed. She was attempting to get me to read all of her favourite board books. These desires were not compatible. When I was almost done, Frances walked over to her bookcase and pulled one off. "Splish Splash!"

"Do you want to read Splish Splash?"

She looked at me thoughtfully and said, "I bring Splish Splash downstairs."

Good girl! And so she did.

~~~~~

Yesterday, she went to play in the tupperware cupboard. She had the door open and was fake-crying over something.

"What is it, Frances?"

"I need some help."

"Oh? What is it you want?"

She paused, clearly unable to phrase her request. "I say please!"

It hardly seemed fair to force her to tell me what she wanted when she was trying so hard to be a good girl, so I took a guess: "Do you want the water bottle?"

"Yeah!"

"OK, here you go."

~~~~~

She has an easter bunny basket that is a stuffed bunny with a hole in its back and some handles. It sounds pretty macabre from that description, but it's actually cute. You'll have to take my word for it. There is a button in its front left paw that, if pressed, makes the bunny say "Somebunny loves you," while wriggling its tail.

Frances is fascinated by this toy. Seasonal inappropriateness be damned: She carries it everywhere and is always asking us to press the button to make the tail go.

Now she has also picked up the phrase, and will wander around the living room saying, "Bunny loves you! Bunny loves you!"

~~~~~

She loves to tell us what she's doing these days. Recent examples:

"I wear shirt."

"I wear coat."

"I put shoes on."

"I eat cheerios."

"I read Splish Splash."

"I play with toys downstairs."

"I go upstairs see Daddy."

~~~~~

Yesterday I came in from doing the groceries (at 7:00) to see a very excited Frances leap from her chair in just the wrong way, to send it and her crashing into the floor. She burst into tears and I passed the first bin of groceries off to Erik so I could pick her up and give her a hug (since she'd injured herself in the pursuit of one).

After she'd calmed down a bit and we were snuggling on the couch, I said, "Did you have a tumbly?"

"Yeah."

"Did it hurt? Did you get an owwie?"

"Yeah."

"Where is your owwie?"

She very earnestly, and with large pleading eyes, pointed to the chair still lying on the floor.

"Your owwie's over there?"

"Yeah! Owwie over there."

"Ok. Umm, how about I kiss your hand better instead?"

"Ok."

~~~~~

"Frances, you are so sweet."

"I so sweet!"

And modest, too.

Posted by Andrea at 3:35 PM | Comments (7)

When Dad Has Had a Bad Day

Dad is sad.
Very, very sad.
He had a bad day.
What a day Dad had!

Why did Dad have such a bad day?

1. He has a bad cold (it's the same one I've had for a week longer and bitch about approximately 10% as often, but regardless, I know it's a bad one)
2. He had to go downtown today for a course for work
3. It got out late
4. Then he got to drive home during rush hour....
5. ...in our first snowstorm of the season, so it took an hour longer than usual. While hacking his head off.

Dad walks in the house, coughing and tired, and Frances runs to meet him. He picks her up and carries her to the sofa, sits down and puts her in his lap. "I love you, Frances."

"I love you, Daddy!"

"Oh! I love you, Frances!"

"I love you, Daddy!"

If it weren't my life, I'd swear I made that up. That was her very first "I love you, Daddy!"

Posted by Andrea at 10:02 PM | Comments (3)

A Masterful Grasp of the Obvious

It was late at night, and jet lag was keeping the WBBE, BN awake. After 45 minutes of frantic crying and bug-eyed parents, I took her from her crib and brought her back to our bed to relax.

"I lay down," she said, and did.

"That's right, you laid down."

"I lay down and close eyes," she said, and scrunched her eyelids tight.

"That's right, you closed your eyes."

"Now they open."

Repeat for about ten minutes.

~~~~~

We are in the basement. Erik is playing with Frances, and I am hiding behind a post.

"Hey, Frances," says Erik, "Where is Mummy? Is she hiding?"

Frances gets her curious look--wide, solemn eyes--and begins to peer around obstacles. At short intervals I "peek" out from behind the post so she has a chance to spot me. After a few tries she does and comes tripping over with a huge grin. "I found you!" she says.

~~~~~

"Do you want to sing head and shoulders?"

"Yeah!"

"OK, you have to put your hands on your head. Can you put your hands on your head? Good!" I begin singing, head and shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes, knees and toes. Frances puts her whole heart into it, flinging her entire body forward with every "toes" and grasping her feet. When I'm done, she looks at me with a smile and said, "I mo dat one."

~~~~~

It is late at night again, and Frances is having a hard time settling down. I go in to help her settle down.

"A runn. y. nose. a run. ny. nose. A. run. ny. nose!" she cries, words broken by sobs.

"Oh, you have a runny nose? OK. We'll get a kleenex. How's that?"

"Runny cheek! Runny cheek!"

"Oh yes, you do have a runny cheek. Let me dry those tears."

She clings to me as I settle us on the rocking chair, sobs softening to sniffles, and says, "snuggle song."

"You want me to sing the snuggle song?"

"Yeah."

"Ok, I'll sing it once, but then you have to go to bed."

"OK."

I sing the main parts of Boynton's snuggle puppy song, while she stares at me and sniffles.

"One more time!"

"No, baby, it's bed time."

[long pause] "I go sleep now."

"That's a good idea."

~~~~~

Today, in the car on the way home from daycare, Frances told me all about clouds, and trees, and cars, and green lights, and red lights, and yellow lights, and schoolbuses, and trucks, and snow, and so on. We talked about feet, and legs, and shoes, and supper. I can't remember which point of this deeply meaningful conversation we were at, but she said, clear as a bell: "I love you!"

"I love you too!"

"I love you too."

"I love YOU too."

"I love you too!"

*sniff*

It's the first time she's ever said "I love you" so clearly, without prompting. My girl. I am so lucky.

Posted by Andrea at 9:14 PM | Comments (10)

What Really Happened

When I got home to pack shortly after lunch on Thursday, I walked through the door to the melodious sounds of a small girl babbling in her crib and a frazzled Erik muttering about how he didn't get anything done what with a cat that wouldn't shut up and a baby that wouldn't decide if she wanted to be upstairs or downstairs. I left him quaking on the couch and went upstairs to see if I could settle down the WBBE, BN. As I entered her room, she said, "I go sleep."

Less true words were never spoken.

We got her up and wondered exactly how awful it would be to be on a flight that wouldn't get in until 1:30 am in our normal time zone with a baby who hadn't slept all day. Fortunately she decided (at 3 pm, two hours later than her normal nap time) that maybe a little catnap wasn't such a bad idea after all.

At 5:30, we had to wake her up to get dinner and get to the airport.

So what is it like travelling with the WBBE, BN? Do you have to ask? She ran around the gate giggling and laughing, stopped to chat with everyone she saw, accepted all compliments with great equanimity, and when we said that we were going to get on an airplane and fly, would flap her arms with abandon.

She slept fitfully most of the way down, and when we got in we were more than a bit nervous that she thought of that as her big sleep for the day, since she was bright-eyed and ready to play. Although, given the dipshit at the rental car desk who told us he was "expediting" our order by losing the childseat request, offering us insurance we don't need three times and then sulking when we said, "NO. NO INSURANCE. We do NOT need insurance," and admonishing us for being rude, and then the tremendous line-up at Circus Circus for check-in--at almost midnight on a Thursday night there were at least a hundred people ahead of us--and then the fact that they lost our request for a crib so we had to stay up and wait for it while our bodies were telling us it was 4:00 am--it wasn't such a bad thing that she was chipper and happy. She fell asleep no problem, and slept for six hours. Thank the gods.

While we were still in the airport, a woman looking to be about thirty approached. "Hi. I just have to tell you how wonderful your daughter was on the flight."

"Oh. Thank you," I replied. I'm never sure what to say to those things--I can hardly take credit, yet it seems I'm expected to. But it's better than the hairy eyeball.

~~~~~

According to the American Weather Service, last Friday in Vegas was supposed to be cloudy and rainy--not precisely what one wants when booking a vacation. But Friday dawned insanely sunny, and it stayed that way all weekend. Beautiful clear skies, wonderful humidity-free temperatures of mid-twenties Celsius/mid-seventies Fahrenheit. Jeans-weather in the morning and evening, shorts-weather the rest of the day. Gorgeous.

Of course, it would figure that the Birthday Boy was still trying to shake that cold and so spent Friday hagard and hoarse, pushing a stroller and talking about how much fun he'd had there *last* time. Not thrilled was I. I was beginning to think evil thoughts, like, "considering the trouble and expense I went to you could at least pretend to have fun and not seem so much like you wish you were here with someone else."

We didn't do much. We ate at the buffet, which is no longer cheap, by the way. We checked out the north end of the strip. Frances had a nap. We checked out the south end of the strip. Frances tried to stop at every blinking light on every bloody slot machine; you can imagine how long it took to cross even the shortest distance. We looked at souveniers and were suitably unimpressed. We discussed what we wanted to do. We came to no conclusions.

Frances, being her preternaturally happy self, found a large square in front of one of the casino hotels where music was playing and flowers were growing, and stopped to run around, denude several plants and shake her groove thang to the funky muzak beat. It was sweet. She was so completely unselfconscious and absorbed in the moment, and passersby stopped to compliment her on her dance-floor stylings. Frances baby, you were the best show on the strip.

We also visited the AdventureDome and found, to our nonexistent surprise, that Frances is too short for all the rides by a good five inches. Poor girl. She found them so fascinating, and I could tell she would have loved to ride.

~~~~~

Saturday we decided to see one of the modern wonders of the world, a.k.a. a lot of concrete placed within the Colorado River. That was nice. The weather was--again--sunny and beautiful; Erik was saying how his throat was feeling better after that bloody phlegm he coughed up; Frances was Frances; I was just happy not feeling like I'd dragged Erik on a vacation when he'd rather be at home in cold Toronto.

Hoover dam was very nice. Erik got a big kick out of teaching Frances to say "big dam!" and we got her a t-shirt and took a lot of pictures, including one of Frances straddling two state lines.

And Frances ran around the parking lot and made friends with everybody.

It's just as well that I was on camera duty for this portion of the day, since just seeing Erik holding Frances close to the edge of the dam so she could see it made me shaky and nauseous and teary. I would have been fine if Erik or I had turned cartwheels on the edge--I'm not normally squeamish about heights--but damn me if my hands aren't shaking just typing about how eagerly she strained to see the very bottom of the Big Dam.

I was so happy nobody died that I bought her a t-shirt.

After the big dam, we were off to Lake Mead where we had a nice lunch in the Marina, and where the waitress made much over Frances's big blue eyes, and Frances made friends with a little baby sitting at a neighbouring table. "Hello little baby!" she said, waving frantically. "Hello!" The little baby stared but was, alas, too young to reply. A little girl with the same family came close to stare at the WBBE, BN and assayed a few greetings herself, but Frances had only eyes for the Little Baby.

We also fed some fish.

Unintentionally, I'll add, since with my luck someone with the Wildlife Service is reading this and preparing a citation. DON'T FEED THE WILDLIFE! Yes, I know, thank you. But there was a very nice lady there with a bag of cheese corn who offered Frances a few kernels to throw into the lake, where teeming hordes of fish swam with gaping mouths and churned the water so that I was quite thoroughly soaked with splashing. Frances found this fascinating and wanted to get right up to the dock edge so she could be as close as possible to all five hundred pounds or so of hungry fish.

After throwing in her first few bits, I asked her, "Frances, can you say thank yoU?"

She turned to the nice lady with the popcorn bag, stretched out one arm and said, "I want more!"

"Frances!" I said.

The nice lady laughed. "Oh, that's ok. Them big blue eyes are thanks enough. Here you go, love. Have the whole bag."

You can imagine how happy that made her. "I want more!" she said again and again, throwing bits of junk food into the lake to feed the monstrous catfish. When Erik asked her if she could open her mouth like the fish, she practically dislocated her jaw.

The ducks were pretty swell, too.

Then we drove around until we found an outlook spot with a nice view of the Lake. A stranger landscape I may never have seen, with the blue water and the red rock right up to the edge and the aqua sky above. I don't think I've ever seen such a large body of water--hell, any body of water--without life teeming around the edges, trees and cattails and shrubs and bullrushes and weeds and wildflowers and grasses and birds and insects so crowded in you can hardly see the water. Yet here it was just stone, and water, and sky, with a few desert plants thrown in for variety.

Frances, true to form, was much more interested in the gravel than in any of that. But the sun was shining, and she was happy, and Erik was happy, and I was happy; and right then I was struck with the thought: I did this. I made this happy moment happen for my family. It made every penny, every moment of planning, worth it.

By the time we got back to the hotel it was well after naptime, and Frances fell into the baby version of a deep coma.

I went out while she was sleeping and bought some souveneirs--I couldn't stand any of the t-shirts so I got myself a very exciting mug, and Frances came away with a $15 magnet toy that is worth its weight in gold and a whack of postcards (a.k.a. "photo insurance").

And Diet Coke. They do not sell Diet Coke in Circus Circus. How uncivilized.

I can't remember what we did after Frances woke up. I don't think it was anything too exciting. We were too afraid of losing our already-marginal parking spot at the Circus Circus on a Saturday night, so instead we just walked around and marvelled in the sheer extravagance of the Strip and the vast quantities of water being used in showy fountains when there is apparently a drought on.

You can see the drought in the photos of the Hoover Dam--the watermark is usually where the white and red stones meet--but moreover, there was an ad on the TV our first day there saying, "If you are letter E, you can water your lawn on Friday. That's today. Three times, for four minutes each. Remember it's up to all of us to do our part during the drought."

I thought--isn't the definition of a desert a more-or-less extended drought? I mean, you know it's bad when it's a drought by desert standards.

~~~~~

Sunday we went to the Red Rock Canyon. It was gorgeous.

Frances, again, was more interested in the gravel.

We started our adventure in the visitor centre, where Frances politely requested that we purchase a stuffed owl for her by repeatedly crying "Owl! Owl! Owl! Owl!" until it was paid for and placed in her little grabby hands. She kept it up all the way into the parking lot--"Owl! Owl!" and as we walked around the tortoise habitat--"Owl! Owl! Owl!"--and after she ran right into the beefy leg of a very friendly Scottish gentleman who stopped to compliment her big blue eyes--"Owl!" and only stopped when she saw a dog.

"DOGGIE!" she bellowed. "DOGGIE!"

This creature was a "doggie" in the same way a T Rex is a "lizard." It was a very, very big dog, accompanied by two college boys with dreadlocks who assured us that she loves kids and was very friendly, so off Frances went to meet the dog. The dog definitely loves kids. She wasn't so fond of stuffed owls, though, and promptly took it from Frances's hands, sending her into heartrending sobs.

The owl was rescued and returned to its rightful owner in one piece, if slightly soggy. The owl then spent the rest of the afternoon safely in the car.

We drove around and stopped at several of the outlook points, and I gave the camera's panorama setting a workout.

Frances played with the gravel. I tried to get good close-up shots of all of the desert plants I could find, as well as broader desert shots. Erik chased her around and tried to keep her from plunging off the mountain in hot pursuit of a particularly pretty stone.

On one outlook point, Frances walked right up to a couple seated on a bench and said, "Hello."

The woman of the couple--young, slim, long straight black hair--was enthralled. "Oh, look at you," she said. "You are just the cutest thing I've ever seen. Look at your big blue eyes! How old are you?"

And so began another instance of Frances working her magic on another unsuspecting bystander. Fifteen minutes later the mutual admiration was complete and we were free to go, but the man of the couple obligingly took a family photo for us first.

We thought we were doing well, heading back at 11:30 in plenty of time for her nap, but the little bugger fell asleep on the way anyway and that was it--twenty minutes in the car. Nap refusal thenceforth.

~~~~~

Monday morning Frances woke up at 4:30 am Vegas time, and I thought it would be futile to try to get her back to sleep, since we were going home that day and we'd have to deal with the time change regardless. So we were all just a bit tired.

And out of ideas. Most things in Vegas don't seem to open until 11:00 am, and we had to leave at 1:00 to get to the airport in time. So for the first several hours, we let Frances run herself ragged outside in the parking lot of the hotel and a few blocks farther down at a plaza, then brought her back for a super-early 9:30 am nap and cruelly woke her up for the 11:00 am checkout.

Our plan was to head over to the Mirage to see the big cats and the dolphins. But as it turns out, the Mirage is aptly named; we couldn't figure out how to get into the damned parking lot no matter what we did. Tried a few different streets and directions and, 45 minutes later for three blocks' distance, gave up and parked at Caesar's Palace. It being almost noon, we gave up on the big cats. Poo.

There's not much to do at Caesar's Palace for the under-two set, so once again we let her loose on the plaza while I took a gazillion photos and Erik attempted to corral her. Then it was time to head back to the airport, where Frances once again entertained herself by flapping her arms to simulate flying and opening her mouth like the fish did at the lake. Then she made a friend--a nice woman who looked to be about my mother's age who has four children of her own, and who was willing and happy to spend the 45 minutes singing to Frances.

No, I'm not kidding. The itsy-bitsy spider, about fifty million times in a row. Ocassionally she'd try another one, but Frances would wriggle her hands together and say, "Itsy bitsy spiiiiider went up waterspout," and who can resist that? Frances wriggled down from her seat with us, walked around to sit on the seat next to her new friend, and kept wriggling her hands and smiling and giving her the big blue eyed stare, and didn't she get the 45 minutes of itsy-bitsy spider she wanted? Yes. Bizarrely, her new friend positively glowed while she was singing to her.

That is a gift: Making someone believe that you are doing them a favour by convincing them to sing a million repititions of a kiddie song with hand movements.

On the plane (where her new friend was conveniently sitting directly behind us, and obliged by playing peekaboo at all the right moments), our seatmate was a new mom with a three month old baby boy--Baby Joe. "Hello baby joe!" Frances would say. "Baby joe having a snack. Baby joe drinking milk from a bottle. Hello baby joe. Baby joe sleeping. Hello baby joe!"

Baby Joe's mother was also captivated by Frances. At first she was simply relieved to see that she did not have the only baby on the plane, but after a few minutes Frances had done her magic tricks again.

"She's just beautiful," Baby Joe's mother said. "She has a light about her. It's amazing."

Don't I know it? Could we walk down a single block, the hallway from our room to the elevator, take a table in the restaurant and eat a meal, through the casino, or around the midway without at least one would-be admirer (and usually several) stop us to make Frances's acquaintance and compliment us on how beautiful and sweet she is? There was the lady from Tennessee who told us all about her own daughter decades ago who was farsighted and had a lazy eye and needed surgery. There was the woman who manned a gamebooth on the midway who told us how amazingly cute she was, and how well she walks for someone so small, and how fabulous and wonderful she is, and we have to come back and see her again. There was the man sitting beside us on the plane down who sat and grinned at Frances more than he looked out the window. There were the people who stopped to clap at Frances' dance moves on the plaza. There were the people who simply stopped and grinned and told their friends how cute she is. There were the grumpy people in the restaurants who scolded other children for running around during their dinner, but smiled and remained silent while Frances giggled and waved her arms and and skipped under their feet. It was like travelling with a minor celebrity, or at any rate, what I imagine travelling with a minor celebrity would be like.

There were so many of these stories the details have run together in my mind, and all I have left are a few outstanding examples and a general impression that Frances may be ending up on a postcard someday soon.

She was--in WBBE, BN fashion--a trooper the whole way home, compliant and happy and cooperative and perfectly content to play with her Winnie the Pooh magnet toy (the one I bought for $15) until we got in the car at 11:30 pm, when she promptly fell asleep and stayed asleep while I transferred her from the carseat to her crib.

What? The Birthday Boy? You mean Erik?

Yes, he had a great time. He's already talking about how he wants to go back. And now he has ten years to save up for my fortieth birthday. ;)

Posted by Andrea at 7:43 AM | Comments (7)

Dear Internet, Forgive Me

I should have been very busy this weekend. I had many reasons to be. But was I?

Uh, in a manner of speaking, I guess.

I told you I was going to be hard at work. Work work work! Instead, I was here:

And the whole "busy busy busy" thing was a gambit (that should have been true, under the circumstances) to mislead creepy internet stalkers who might have robbed my house.

I'd tell you about my weekend but, well, you know what they say: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

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What?

Posted by Andrea at 8:27 AM | Comments (7)

Mystery Solved

Being a mother of a very small baby in a growth-chart-obsessed world is an anxious business. Nothing that is supposed to fit your baby does; you can't turn the car seat around on schedule, pants fall down, toys are a bit too big to grasp properly, and your child has to scale toddler furniture as if they were climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. But this morning, when I readPhantom Scribbler's comments section on her post on Baby Blue's latest weigh-in, I had to laugh.

Why? Well, because Baby Blue and Frances are just about the same size length- and weight-wise, but Baby Blue's shoe size is a two, and Frances's is a four. Oh yeah, she's got some growing room left in there, but a two? No way. Much like her head, her feet are small-normal for her age but large for her size.

In stark contrast to her appetite, which is just huge. I can understand a baby like Baby Blue, who is small and has the appetite (and feet) to prove it. But check this out:

Frances's Diet

Monday's breakfast: A full toddler-bowl of cheerios and milk.
Snacks and lunch: Indicated as "ate very well" by daycare.
Dinner: Two crackers, three pieces of cheddar cheese, an entire pear, a mini aero bar, three french fries and a few spoons of ice cream.
Bedtime: A cup of milk and two cookies.

Tuesday's breakfast: A full toddler-bowl of cheerios and milk.
Snacks and lunch: Indicated as "ate very well" by daycare.
Dinner: Half a toddler-bowl of spaghetti and meat sauce, a minigo, a mini aero-bar and a few spoons of ice cream.
Bedtime: A cup of milk.

And this is not unusual. She always eats like this. I look at her tiny little body as she shovels food into her mouth, imagine her tiny stomach the size of her little fist, look at the huge quantity of food--at least ten times her fist size--and shake my head. Where does it go?

I mean, forget a hollow leg. She'd have to have a hollow leg with a leaky toe to put all this away. But now I'm beginning to wonder....

Do you think it's going to her feet?

Posted by Andrea at 8:33 AM | Comments (11)

News Flash: The WBBE, BN Cries!

Yesterday was not Frances's best ever.

During her nap, for instance, I came upstairs to get a drink. She was silent. I went downstairs, drank it, came back up and she was crying so loud she was hoarse. It took Erik and I twenty minutes at least to calm her down. She wasn't angry, or frustrated. She was heartbroken or terrified, and I'm not sure which, or why. All I know is that she clung to us like a baby monkey for a good long time.

The rest of the afternoon wasn't much better. She cried for me if I left the room. She cried for Erik if he left. She cried to go downstairs when we were upstairs, and if we went upstairs, she cried to go downstairs. She cried for food she refused to eat; she cried for drinks she spilled on the floor; she cried for toys she threw at the wall (and that never happens). She cried. A lot.

I think maybe the last molars are coming through? I can't tell, though, because she won't let me check her gums. Which is probably a sign on its own.

The day wasn't completely devoid of JOY, of course; she asked for crayons and happily scribbled for a while. She stuck a blue one in her mouth, took it out, looked at me quite seriously and said, "Crayons for paper!" This is what I always tell her when the crayons (or markers) are making too much contact with a non-paper surface, except with an "are" thrown in to the appropriate spot. Then she scribbled with her soggy crayon a bit before deciding that the fun thing to do, really, was to take the crayons out of the box, put them back in the box, take them out of the box, put them back in the box, take them out of the box, put them in the box, and so on, all the while offering a play-by-play commentary: "Crayons! Red crayon. Green crayon. Yellow crayon. Put crayons away. Put crayons away. Crayons in box. Crayons away. Crayons! Purple crayon. Orange crayon. Red crayon. Green crayon. Put crayons away! Crayons in box. Put crayons away in box. Crayons!"

You get the picture.

We also bought her a potty, which at first was simply terrifying, but after she mastered her own unique method of climbing on to and off of the seat, it became her Favourite Toy Ever. "Potty!" she would cry at the gate near the stairs to the bathroom. "Potty! Sit on potty. Potty-sitting. Potty. Potty!"

Does that qualify as "potty-mouthed?" Ha ha. OK, don't give me that look; if I hadn't said it, one of you would have.

Anyway, since the potty--even the very smallest potty--is still a bit too high off the ground for Frances to comfortably sit on in the conventional way, she developed her own somewhat controversial method:

1. Put one foot inside the potty.
2. Put the other foot inside the potty.
3. Turn around.
4. Sit down.
5. Carefully remove feet from potty.
6. Slide forwards.
7. Beam at thunderous applause.

I think we're going to have to find a mini-stepstool for use at the potty. By the way, we're still eons away from using it, I think. I just want it to be there for her to get used to. Which I think we've managed already.

So there were some happy moments. Probably more than our fair share, and we're just spoiled.

This morning, though. This morning.

*sigh*

Normally we get her ready and say, "Time to go to daycare and play with your friends, Frances! You get to see X and Y. Won't that be fun?" And if she doesn't always look thrilled, she doesn't look like she's about to step off for the guillotine, either. That's a successful morning, in my book.

This morning?

This morning, after I said my customary, "Bye bye, Frances. Have fun at daycare. I'll see you this afternoon," she broke into full, heartfelt, whole-body sobs. Tremendous wracking sobs. My holding her didn't help. Hugs and kisses didn't help. Nothing helped. As the minutes ticked on and I saw myself being later and later for work, I tore myself away to the sight of a sobbing Frances being strapped into her carseat.

That has never ever happened before. Talk about your Mommy guilt. It was dreadful.

Fingers crossed, tonight will be better.

Posted by Andrea at 3:46 PM | Comments (11)

Hallowe'en Part II: Treasures!

Now that I have a whole 200mg available to me, I might as well fill it up with photos, right?

Frances had been practicing her "trick or treat" all month long. She got pretty good. By Hallowe'en, it was sounding clear as a bell. We tried to tell her what it was all about, but it's not an easy thing to explain:

"Well, you see, it's like this. You put on something that makes you look like a bunny rabbit, then you go up to some people's houses and say trick or treat. And you get candy. Get it?"

She'd give me the big blue-eyed stare that clearly says, "Mom, I got about one word in three from that, and none of them make any sense."

We put on the costume around 5:30, itself no easy feat as any parent of a toddler will know. Fortunately for us once it's on she doesn't mind it so much, and will toddle around quite happily, big floppy ears flapping in the breeze. The best thing about it was realizing that it is actually too small. Just a bit, but still.

So off we went for some "walking around."

Mom, I really like the pumpkin, but I am not getting any closer than this.

"Frances, do you want some treasures?" I asked. (Long story short: my parents once gave her some candy in a small purse-like bag they called a treasure bag, so Frances now refers to candies as treasures.)

"Yeah!"

"Ok, then walk this way with me. Now we are going up to this house. No, keep coming, this is where we get the treasures. Go up to the door, sweetie. It's ok. I'm right here. Keep going. Very good! You're so brave. Now let me ring the doorbell."

The door opens. "Hello? Oh, look at you! You're so cute! What a cute little bunny rabbit."

"Frances, can you say trick or treat?"

(Dead silence.)

"Trick or treat, Frances?"

(Dead silence.)

"Oh well. She says it at home!"

"She's so cute! How old is she?"

"Twenty-two months."

"Awww.... Here you go, here's some candy."

"OK, now, Frances, put it in your treasure bag. There you go. Good girl! Can you say thank you? Thank you? No? Oh, Frances. Thanks for the candy."

"You're welcome. Have a nice night."

A solemner little trick-or-treater I never did see. After the first house she was quite brave about going up to the doors, but I never did get her to say the "trick or treat" we'd practiced all month long. Or "thank you." Or anything but "cat!" which she spontaneously exclaimed and repeated at least twenty times when we went to a house that had--you guessed it--a cat. "Cat!" she said. "Cat!" And went right in the house and started to pet it, seeming not even to see the crowd of people around her exclaiming over her cuteness and her costume.

But she did take the candy and put it in her treasure bag.

Owing to the solemnity, I wasn't sure what she thought of the whole thing until we got home, having visited five houses or so. "Treasure!" she said. "Candy!" She reached into her bag. "Candy! Candies. Treasure."

We dumped it all out on the floor and, for a 22-month-old, it's a respectable pile.

We surreptitiously traded anything chewy or small and hard for aero bars, which melt in your mouth and so present less of a choking hazard, so it's a less colourful but more enjoyable pile of treasures now. I think, if she were able to say so, she would tell me that the candies were worth putting the costume on for--yes, even the dreaded bunny-hat-with-ears.

As for me, well, Hallowe'en was about as much fun as you would expect when you had a bad cold hit you in the middle of the afternoon and then had four times as many trick-or-treaters show up at the door as you've had in previous years. So sad. That would have been awesome if I wasn't feeling so crappy. And of course, now I get to feel guilty that despite my rabid hand-washing the germs have infested my neighbourhood:

(Doorbell. Andrea staggers to door.) "Achoo!" (Opens door. Sniffle. Snort. Clear throat.)

"Trick or treat."

(Forces bleary eyes open.) "Oh, ah, nice costume." (Snort. Sniffle. SNORT.)

"Thank you!"

"You're welcome." (Cough cough HACK. Staggers back to chair. Doorbell.)

I think they got a little something extra with the chips and chocolate this year.

Posted by Andrea at 8:16 AM | Comments (14)

One More Time!

Frances is getting better at counting. She can now recognize twos and threes, most of the time--as in, if she has two toy rabbits in her hand and I ask her how many she has, she will say "two bunnyrabbits." But beyond that, she has a tendency to get a little fuzzy about the concept and just rattle off the numbers to ten.

Example:

"Frances, can you count your toes?"

(Frances knits her brow, and grabs her big toe.) "One." (grabs teh second toe) "Two." (Grabs the middle toe.) "Three." (Grabs the baby toe) "Four." (Grabs the big toe again) "Five." (Stops grabbing toes) "Six, seven, eight, nine, ten!"

Which is how we keep learning that she has ten toes on each foot. She is a special baby in so many ways.

Tonight, for the first time, she counted to five properly--that is, she grabbed and counted each of her fingers on one hand in turn, all the way up to five. And THEN rattled off the rest of the numbers all the way up to ten, informing us that not only does she have twenty toes, but twenty fingers. No wonder she's so good at counting.

It might also help that she likes it so much. We ask her to count this and count that, and go over it again and again, counting things for her to see how it's done, and what does she say? "Again! Again!" Apparently she has not received the memo that Girls Hate Math.

Except for tonight when, while Erik was doing the ritual finger-counting as part of the bedtime ritual, she said instead, "One more time!"

She has also developed a serious alphabet fetish, and has abandoned all of the expensive noisy toys in the family room (yay!) for the alphabet magnets on the fridge. The cheap, $3 ones that don't make any noise (yay!).

She goes up to the fridge, and says, "Letter A!" She grabs the letter A, brings it to Erik or me, then goes back up to the fridge for another letter. After a few rounds we each have ten magnets in our hands and we ask her to put them back, and she does, naming each of them in turn. Dani will be very happy to know that she correctly identifies the "Letter ZED."
She's got most of them down by now, except for a few in the middle (J, K, L) and Q.

She recognizes Q, but she only calls it Letter Q about half the time, prefering to call it "Letter Apple."

Well, picture it upside down.

Letter Apple.

Is it unreasonable for me to think of this as just yet more proof of WBBE, BN status?

Posted by Andrea at 8:29 PM | Comments (8)

Frances, the park, and a little blue bug

Yesterday was gorgeous. In the afternoon I bundled Frances up into her spiffy hot-pink track suit and running shoes (she looked like a very small gym-goer) and we ran around on the driveway while Daddy raked leaves. All the while she laughed hysterically--I think she thought we were playing tag.

It might have been my fault.

Frances: (laughing hysterically)

Andrea: Look at you go!

Frances: (giggles)

Andrea: I'm gonna get you!

Frances: (laughs so hard she almost falls over)

Our next-door neighbours had visitors over, and as they were taking themselves off, packing the babies into the strollers and putting on their coats, they watched my wee girl tear about so happily with great grins. "She's so cute!" they said. "Aw, she's so tiny."

After they'd gone and Daddy had done raking the leaves, he said, "Do you think we should go to the p-a-r-k?"

"Sure! It's gorgeous out."

"I agree. Let me put this stuff away, and then we'll go."

"Frances, do you want to go to the park? Do you want to do some swinging and sliding?"

She gazed thoughtfully into the mid-distance. "Swingingtime," she pronounced.

"Is it swingingtime?" I asked.

"OK."

"All right then, let's go to your stroller."

She charged over like someone lit her butt on fire, and if I thought she was laughing before, it was nothing compared to this. I loaded her into the stroller and tucked her hands into her pockets for warmth.

Frances: Swingingtime! Slidetime!

Andrea: That's right! Let's go.

Frances: Slidetime! Swingingtime!

(Repeat ad infinitum, or at least, until we got to the park.)

The park was packed. Clearly we were not the only parents to think, This might be the last nice day of the year; let's take advantage. There was the World's Most Annoying Mother/In-Law (not sure which), who insisted on giving her daughter/in-law parenting advice from the park bench. "Julie! JULIE! What are you doing? Look at him! He's going to fall. JULIE! Don't you know those things are dangerous? He's going to fall! Park accidents are the worst, you know. JULIE!" While sitting on the very edge of the bench, spine ramrod straight, a disapproving line to her lips.

Poor Julie.

Frances didn't care. She cared only that when I pushed her hard in the swing and she kept her legs out in front, she almost kicked me in the head. Did you know that kicking Mummy in the head is hilarious? It is. You should try it yourself. Over and over again, sticking out the legs and laughing away whenever her feet came close to my skull. I admit, I did nothing to discourage this; it was so funny to watch her laughing so hard that I laughed along myself until my stomach hurt.

Then it was slidingtime.

Erik and I mostly stood on the sidelines, commenting on how superfluous we felt. She climbed the stairs, and walked around, and went down the slide by herself, calling out "wee!" at the appropriate moment. It evolved into quite a ritual: First, climb the stairs, gripping the lower railing; second, walk to the slide on the other side; third, sit down and peer over the edge for the bug; fourth, talk to the bug, and talk to Mummy about the bug; fifth, slide down, saying, wee!; sixth, go back to the stairs.

The bug? Ah, yes. The first bug was a ladybug, or at any rate, some kind of beetle the same shape and size as a ladybug but more greenish than red. This was a marvelous bug, a fascinating bug that required much discussion. Frances would wrap both arms around the edge of the slide and stare at it from a distance of three inches or so. "Ladybug!" she'd say. "Bug. Ladybug."

The ladybug apparently found this a violation of its personal space because on the third or fourth conversation, it flew off. When Frances returned to the slide and leaned over the edge, we saw instead another bug, close to where the ladybug had been. This bug was tiny, and blue, and its two wings were stuck to the edge of the slide while its legs dangled in the air.

"Bug!" said Frances.

"yes, that's a bug," I said. "What colour is it?"

"Blue."

"That's right, it's blue. Poor thing. Look how it's stuck." I thought of prying it off, but the wings looked so delicate that I was afraid of doing it more harm than good. I don't care how small you are or how few nerve endings you have, though, being suspended by your wings in a stiff breeze has got to smart.

Frances didn't quite put this together and was only pleased that there was a new bug to converse with on her way down the slide. "Bug!" she'd say, getting as close as she could before sliding down. And then, on the ground on the way back to the stairs, "Bye bye bug."

By the time we'd left, one wing was free. I hope it managed to get the other one unstuck too, and returned to foraging for what-have-you by nightfall.

It was a lovely day.

And I should stop procrastinating about the pumpking carving. *sigh* Back to the kitchen, woman!

Posted by Andrea at 1:40 PM | Comments (4)

Now I'm completely unnecessary

Frances: Hello, how are you? I'm fine. Glad to hear that. Lie down.

~~~~~

Frances: (picks up Splish Splash) Splish Splash!

Andrea: You want to read Splish Splash?

Frances: OK! Sit Mummy's lap.

Andrea: Very good!

Frances: (opens book to a random page) Sponge, wet my nose.

Andrea: Umm, yeah.

Posted by Andrea at 9:22 AM | Comments (0)

Woops

Frances and I were colouring with markers on her Mega Blocks Table, she scribbling away with the colour of the moment, I drawing simple shapes.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Circle."

"What's that?"

"Star."

"What's that?"

"Letter E!"

"Very good! What a smart girl you are."

Frances carefully drew some blue loops in the centre of the page. "What's that?" she asked.

"Uh...a circle?"

"Yeah! What's that?" she asked, drawing some lines.

"Umm, a square?"

"Letter A!" she replied.

The tables have turned.

Posted by Andrea at 11:24 AM | Comments (4)

All the Frances cuteness you can handle without getting sick (and maybe a little more)

So far, I have not been able to enter the basement on my own for more than five minutes without soon hearing the telltale patter of Erik feet, carrying a small person saying, "Mummy!" "She asked for you," he says, which I interpret to mean: she was scared you'd left again, so I guess she missed me after all.

Hey, guess what! It just happened again.

I've heard many tales of her goings-on while I was away. Apparently, she wants to be just like Daddy, because she spent the time I was away copying him.

Exhibit A: Erik carried his cereal bowl to the sink, and drank the milk from the bottom. He turned around to see Frances dumping her milk and cereal all over her face.

Exhibit B: Erik entered the bathroom, saw something not to his liking, and muttered, "Oh, fuck." Frances entered the bathroom, stared at the same spot, and muttered, "Oh, fuck." So it's officially happened. She swore.

She still loves her bunny rabbits, and currently has them occupying varying positions in the Little People barn. She likes to carry them to me while I'm on the computer and say, "bunny rabbit!" To which I reply, "You're right, that is a bunny rabbit!" and make it hop up the outside of her arm and give her a kiss. Then she laughs.

Erik took off yesterday for a few hours of solitary shopping time under the guise of "running errands." (If there's one gratifying thing about this trip, it's that he is finally understanding how hard it is to be the sole parent--he spent all of Thursday evening and most of Friday morning telling me how much respect he has now for single parents.) Frances was deeply troubled by this. "Daddy!" she kept saying, clearly unhappy. "Daddy's running errands," I'd say. "He'll be back this afternoon."

It took her a long time to work this out. Just after noon and before her nap, we went out to get the mail. She was tremendously excited to put on her boots, coat and mittens, and go "walking around," as she puts it. She liked it so much, in fact, that after we'd come back I didn't have the heart to go right back in the house, though it was freezing yesterday. So we spent several minutes "walking around" the driveway, and noting the yellow leaves, while she talked about Daddy.

"Daddy shower," she said.

"No, Daddy's not having a shower. Daddy's running errands."

"Daddy asleep," she said.

"No, Daddy's not asleep. He's running errands. He'll be home soon."

Then her face fell, and looking as sad and thoughtful as I've ever seen her, she said, "Daddy work." This, Erik tells me, is what he said to her when she asked where I was while I was on the business trips--Mummy's at work, he'd say, figuring that she wouldn't understand "Mummy's in Winnipeg on a business trip and she'll be home on Thursday." I'm not sure if I'd have used that approach or not, but in any case, it was so clear then that she was deeply afraid that her beloved Daddy was gone and she wouldn't see him for days. "Daddy work."

"No, sweetie, Daddy's not at work. He's running errands. He's shopping. We'll see him in a few hours. Promise."

She brightened. "Daddy running errands."

"Yes, that's right. He's running errands. That's all."

Phew.

And a thousand times cuter than all the stories combined:

Posted by Andrea at 7:58 AM | Comments (9)

Home Sweet Home

So I think maybe I didn't mention that Frances ended up with a few little treats from my trip. Well, maybe more than a few. She got a little Dora the Explorer doll that does not make any noise at all (not an easy find). She got another Elmo to add to her Beloved Elmo collection:

A waterproof Elmo with bath crayons!

I also saw some toys, when I went out with my friend Wednesday night, that I'd seen in Mastermind Toys a long time ago and thought to get for Frances when she was old enough. I couldn't resist these, though, since they are choking-hazard free:

And you know how she loves the bunnyrabbits.

This morning she woke up at a regular time, which felt way too early because of the time difference, and we spent thirty minutes letting her kick us in the belly so we could avoid getting up. I didn't get any profusive displays of affection, but when I picked her up she said, "Mummy!" And that was enough.

And she's said it about a million times since then, so maybe she did miss me.

She liked the Dora, when we finally got up. She really liked the Elmo. But what she loves is the bunny rabbits. She has carried them everywhere with her since I gave them to her about two hours ago, not putting them down for more than a few seconds at a time.

It is good to be home.

I don't have to be at work today, or Monday; I'm sure I'll be back to my regular schedule by later today, but for now I'm going to go and play with my little girl, and wonder over all the things she's learned to do in the four days I was away.

Posted by Andrea at 7:52 AM | Comments (12)

Wow.

Stolen from Dani, here's how much my blog is worth, according to Technorati:

Today is one of those days that makes me so, so frustrated that I can't blog about work.

Other than that, I'm going to meet up with a friend for supper tonight, so this piddly little update is all you're going to get. And then tomorrow it's straight from the conference to the plane, so that's it until Friday.

At which point, I will drown myself in Francesness. I will sit with her in my lap and read her umpteen storybooks that she will toss across the room. I will feed her anything she asks for, including homemade cookies, if she wants them. I will play with her Elmo puppet and risk carpal tunnel syndrome, and if it's even a little bit nice out, I will take her to the park for some good swingingtime and slidetime.

And I'll kiss her a thousand times and give her a hug and not let go and hope that it's a long, long time before I have to go away again.

Posted by Andrea at 5:27 PM | Comments (4)

Frances Fix

(Note: In this dialogue, the part of Elmo is played by an Elmo puppet animated by Andrea's hand)

Elmo: Hi Frances!

Frances: Elmooooo!

Elmo: Frances!

Frances: Elmo!

Elmo: I love you Frances!

Frances: (silence)

Elmo: Do you love me?

Frances: (silence)

Elmo: Please say yes.

Frances: Yes!

Elmo: (eyeing Frances's toes) Mmmmmm. Elmo's hungry!

Frances: (takes Elmo off of Mom's hand and places him in the booster seat at the table) Elmo lunchtime!

Andrea: (laughing)

Posted by Andrea at 8:22 AM | Comments (2)

Is this a milestone?

Erik: OK, Frances. Time to go. Are you going to say bye-bye to Mommy?

Andrea: Bye, Frances! I'll see you this afternoon. You have a good day at daycare.

Frances: (dead silence)

Erik: All right, off we go then.

Frances: (mumbles near front door)

Erik: Did you hear that?

Andrea: No, what did she say?

Erik: She said, "See you later, Mommy."

Posted by Andrea at 8:51 AM | Comments (4)

Grr!

(Frances is eating her cheerios, Erik is watching the clock)

Erik: Are you almost done?

Frances: Imakookimondr! Grrr!

Erik: You're a ... what? Sorry?

Frances: I'm a cookie mondr! Grrr!

Erik: You're a cookie monster?

Frances: Grrr!

Erik: (laughing) Grrr!

Posted by Andrea at 6:03 AM | Comments (9)

Dinnertime Conversation

Frances: Fork down!

Andrea: Are you all done, then?

Frances: (puts her feet on the table and stares us both in the eye) Feet down!

Erik: Yes, that's right, you have to put your feet down.

Andrea: Put your feet down, Frances.

Frances: (takes the napkin off of her lap and puts it on the table)

Erik: Oh, Frances! I put that napkin on your lap for a reason.

Frances: Thank you!

Erik: (pause) You're welcome.

Andrea: (muffling laughter)

Frances: Thank you, Mummy!

Andrea: You're welcome, Frances.

What else can you say to a toddler who says "thank you"?

Posted by Andrea at 5:01 PM | Comments (3)

Do you see what I have to contend with?

After a morning in the car and being poked and prodded by doctors and another napless day, this is what she had for us this evening:

An evening of big grins and giggles, jiggling to the Wiggles, and zipping around the kitchen with the Letters I, A, W and F (most of which she even recognized--good lord).

Yesterday evening was actually warm(ish), so when she stood by the front door, her little hands resting on the wood, and sadly said, "Swingingtime! Slidetime!" we were powerless to resist. We bundled ourselves up and went to the park for a quick slide 'n swing.

Frances went nuts. I tried to take pictures of her in the swing, but she was moving so fast even on the active setting they're all a blond-and-blue blur. She was kicking her legs, writhing with excitement, and laughing out loud for every second of it. You'd have thought we'd taken her to Disneyworld instead of the local park.

Then on the way home we saw two small dogs, and again, Frances the WBBE, BN acted as if the gods were conspiring to kill her with happiness. "Dogs!" She shouted. "Little dogs! Little dogs! Woof woof! Little white dog! Dog! Dog!" And ran up to them, squatted, woofed, stood, approached, squatted, lay down on the ground to really get on their level, laughed, squatted, chased, and let them lick her hands.

You know, it shocks me sometimes that anyone is reading this. Isn't it terribly nauseating and annoying to read about how wonderful Frances is all the time? I'm not sure I'd even believe me, if I were you. Isn't this exactly the kind of treacle that is so annoying when it finds its way into national magazines?

I can't help it. As far as Frances is concerned, I have absolutely nothing to complain about these days. If I were to post something negative, that would be the lie. I don't know how she can be so angelic and loveable and good-natured and happy all the time, but she is. If I could bottle it and sell it on the marketlace, we'd have world peace, I guarantee it.

If I really tried hard, I could tell you that she likes to put her feet on the table during dinnertime exactly because she knows she isn't supposed to. There. That's the bad part.

And you're reading this! It amazes me.

By the way, this is my 400th post for this incarnation of Beanie Baby. I'm glad you've come along for the ride.

Posted by Andrea at 7:59 PM | Comments (15)

Just tattoo "sucker" on my forehead and debit my entire account to Toys R Us

Frances doesn't have many toys, when compared to her peers, and most of what she does have come from other people. Of what I can see from my perch here at the computer: the doll, the grocery cart and checkout, the pop-wheel thingie, the drum, the Winnie the Pooh playground and the Little People playhouse all came from Aunt and Uncle; three of the five stuffed toys came from another Aunt and Uncle; one of them came from my mom and dad; the Sesame Street noise machine came from a friend out west; and of what's left, only the ball and two Little People things are new since last Christmas. Well, and the little set of musical instruments that I got her back in June.

Most of the time, I feel pretty stingy when it comes to the toys. But as long as she's enjoying what she has, I don't feel a need to pack the playroom with more noisy plastic gizmos, and besides--it all makes so much noise these days. As the Grinch would say: "Oh, the noise! Oh, the noise, noise, noise, noise!"

It isn't just that it's annoying, but that I worry that electronic toys teach kids to play in ways predetermined by the folks who design them instead of using their imaginations. Erik got Frances a Magna Doodle (did I spell that right?). I'm less than enthused. I'd rather her play with real art supplies, as messy as they are, and do something truly creative than learn how to play within someone else's predetermined limits. Fortunately, they seem to feel the same way at the daycare and Frances is always coming home with little artworks, and she has lots of crayons and markers and fingerpaints here already, so I caved on the Magna Doodle.

But I also worry about the Little People. They're adorable. I love them. So far, she has the amusement park, the farm, the schoolbus, the red car one, the playhouse one, and the medieval one with the treehouse and the dragon. As much fun as they are for all of us to play with, I worry sometimes that they are teaching her to play predetermined games with predetermined roles (I will NOT get her the freaking princess. NO WAY. Ugh).

Today we went to Toys R Us to find some chairs small enough for our wee person. You can see where this is heading, can't you? We found the chairs, all right--two of them--both of which she likes and both of which are much closer to her own scale. We also found two Bear in the Big Blue House DVDs, the Magna Doodle, and the Little People barn for half price, which is how it came to join our family. And now, I think perhaps I need not have worried.

So far, she has been most interested in ensuring that all of the animals (including the farmer) take nice naps in the bed and have their diapers changed. She has also converted a large white plastic coathook into a white truck and the horse is driving it around.

Thank god for a kid's imagination.

But I'd still like to limit the toys that come with predetermined games.

Posted by Andrea at 3:09 PM | Comments (11)

The Belly Button Book, Part II

Frances has rediscovered the Belly Button Book in a big way. No bedtime is now complete without at least three readings of the book, complete with the song in the middle. Whenever I sing it, she ends it with a big round of applause, saying "Yay!" She also knows the first line, and says, "Belly button oh so fiiiine." If she says that when we're not reading the book, what it means is, "Please sing the song, Mummy." And I do. And then there's the big round of applause again. I've never had such an enthusiastic reception of my singing (for good reason).

It's nauseatingly cute.

Also, she's quickly caught on to the secret agenda of moms everywhere and is now constantly trying to put her doll and her stuffed animals down for naps. She'll take them and lay them down on the pillow ("lie down!") and then tuck a blanket lovingly around them ("blanket on!") and then leave with a cheery "nap time!" She'll stay away for all of sixty seconds before returning to make sure her little charges are really sleeping, repeating "nap time!" and looking under the blanket to see if they're still asleep. Currently her new doll, her new doll's little teddy bear and a big stuffed bear named Bella are all sleeping under the green fleece blanket in the basement.

Sometimes if she's tired, like moms everywhere, she will lie down with them for a quick snooze herself.

She's a very good mom already, except for when she rolls over the doll's head.

Posted by Andrea at 7:13 PM | Comments (4)

Ending 1 is Definitely Out

But since I'm here, I may as well post a Frances photo tide all you junkies over for a bit:

Frances, riding her bike.

Frances, showing off her big toe.

Also, a meme! And I think that's my meme quota for the month:

This is what happens when your first name is way too popular:

Google meme, seen at Expectant Waiting and Wet Feet:

Google for "[insert name here] needs" and post the top ten results.

"Information about the marriage of Russell and Andrea Yates, ... superior, insensitive to Andrea's needs, and unwilling to help with the children..."

"hey you guys! andrea needs some help coming up with stalker songs."

"Andrea Yates Needs Treatment, Not A Death Sentence."

"Andrea is where she needs to be right now, as far as security is concerned for her."

"A family for Andrea needs to be active and loving, but also very firm and ... Andrea really needs a family who is committed to forming a strong...."

"...to inform you that Andrea 'ACB' Bernal has undergone a tremendous tragedy and needs our help."

"Andrea needs to take a bus to the airport."

"Andrea needs to be able to create written material."

"My name is Andrea, I live in Orange County, and just got my AA from Orange.... I start UCLA this fall (September '05) and need to come up with tuition fees...."

"On the Lower EAst Side, need coffee, but unwilling to enter the ... Andrea Billups, staff correspondent, People magazine: 'I once worked at a paper where....'"

And that's enough with the memes for today.

Posted by Andrea at 1:22 PM | Comments (6)

My New Predicament

This is the kind of predicament I love to have, that every mother dreams of being in.

My predicament is: I need to stop thinking of Frances as "a little behind," and start thinking of her as "a little ahead."

It never occurred to me, before Frances was born, that a child of mine would even be “a little behind.” I wasn’t. Erik wasn’t. So why would our child be? Maybe average. Maybe even late-average. But late? Naaaaaah.

So when Frances seemed stubbornly disinclined to learn how to drink from a bottle, crawl, walk, stand, or achieve any number of other gross motor milestones, this was a big adjustment. I would spend the timespan of the “normal” period for achieving such milestones in a state of enforced patience. “That’s ok,” I’d tell myself, “She’s got time.” And then, as the deadline approached, I would become increasingly concerned.

Why won’t she sit? Why won’t she crawl? Why doesn’t she want to walk? Is something wrong? Am I doing something wrong? Should I be worried? Should I not be worried? Crawling was the hardest—I watched her first birthday looming over us on the calendar with the mantra of a hundred parenting books chanting through my head: “It doesn’t matter how they get mobile, but they should be mobile by their first birthday.” I listened to the crappy assvice about how to “make” your baby crawl: I placed her on her belly for a given number of minutes per day with toys she liked just out of reach. That stubborn babe of mine would see the toys but, unconcerned, simply roll over to her back kicking her joyous little feet in the air and with a happy smile entice me to tickle her.

I was having none of it. I’d fret, I’d cry, I’d try again and again and again, just frustrating myself over and over while Frances thought this “how fast can I roll to my back” game was marvelous. I’d get angry, unreasonably: “Don’t you know that if you’re not moving in three weeks the doctors are going to think there’s something wrong with you?” I’d plead. “Come on. Here’s a fun toy. Come get it!”

Nothing doing.

What made it even more of a challenge was the preponderance of mommy friends I had with babies who were early for everything. Who crawled at six months, walked at nine or ten, climbed at a year, and were playing professional football by fifteen months. You know you’re not supposed to compare, but you do: Is everyone else’s baby that much smarter than mine? Am I not doing something that they’re doing? And especially when there are potential existing health problems: Is this part of whatever undiagnosed growth thing that’s going on? Is she developmentally delayed?

Adjusting to Frances being “slow” for her milestones was hard, hard, hard. By the time she was seventeen months old or so I was finally able to joke about it: “She’s read the books and she knows she has until she’s eighteen months adjusted to walk,” I’d say. “And she’s decided she’s going to take every second of it.”

I spent a year telling myself to be patient, to give her time, to be relaxed, not to push the milestones, to accept her regardless of who she is and where her strengths lie, that she doesn’t have to be smart or accomplished in order to have a fabulous life, that I shouldn’t visit my expectations on her.

And now I find I need to shake myself out of it and get used to having a baby who’s ahead.

At 21 months old, 20 adjusted, she’s speaking in sentences and we’re having actual conversations. OK, it’s not Descartes, but it is a give-and-take speech pattern. She knows all her colours, including teal and grey and pink, and all her shapes (circles, squares, triangles, hearts, diamonds, and so on), and she’s stacking blocks into towers taller than she is, and doing up her buckles on the stroller and the booster seat, and she can count her fingers and toes (who cares if sometimes she has three toes and seven fingers?), and she knows all the words in her First Words book for preschoolers, and she’s starting to point at her alphabet blocks and say “letter A!” and “number 8!” She says “please” and “thank you” with minimal prompting. She knows the names of her favourite books and when she picks them off the shelf, will exclaim them over and over while toddling to my lap for a read (Fuzzy Fuzzy Fuzzy, Pat the Bunny, Splish Splash and other tactile books are her current favourites). She knows the names of her favourite TV shows and will excitedly proclaim them when it’s time for them to come on (Little Bear and, blech, FRANKLIN. I hate that show). She will tell us what they’re doing on TV (sleeptime for Little Bear! Snacktime for Franklin!). If I ask her to fly, she will flap her little arms like wings, and yesterday when I said she was a social butterfly, she repeated “butterfly” over and over while zipping around the deck with her arms flapping.

She isn’t even behind on motor skills anymore—once she learned to walk, she went straight to running and tiptoeing and throwing and kicking her nerf basketball. She still can’t climb stairs properly, but with legs her size it’s going to be at least a year and probably more.

Every day Erik comes home with some fresh tale about another preschooler parent who was watching Frances do something in the toddler room that their preschooler can’t do yet.

I won’t lie: I like this. I like it a lot. It’s such a happy, glowy feeling to see her doing so well on so many things, to see her learning so much and exploring her world with such gusto. But still, I’m not used to it. It was only two months ago that Frances was “behind”—and I wonder how I navigate in this brave and exciting new world. Because even if she is a little learning machine right now, I still don’t want to visit my expectations on her or put her under pressure and take all the joy out of what she’s learning. Childhood isn’t, or shouldn’t be, a race to the Alphabet finish line.

But on the other hand, I was reading at three; and reading has been nothing but a source of joy and pleasure for me; I don’t want not to give her opportunities that she can handle and would enjoy.

I’m looking forward to finding a resolution to this predicament.

Posted by Andrea at 8:53 AM | Comments (14)

Earphones!

Frances loves my iPod--whenever she sees it, she makes a beeline for it, calling "earphones! earphones!" Mostly I think that kids should be exposed to a variety of music and not kept in a Kiddie Music ghetto, but there are a few artists on there (NIN and Kittie, for instance) that could puncture her eardrums if not her innocence, so I take it from her, find an intersting album, get it started and put it on hold so she can't nudge up the volume.

Then my little girl sits herself down and carefully places the earphones in her ears and holds them there, very still, with a fascinated and far-away look on her face--looking like nothing so much as a very small teenager. She'll pull them away, look at them, say "earphones," and then put them back.

Even for her, though, sitting perfectly still with the beloved earphones pales after a few minutes, so she'll stand up with the earphones still held carefully in place and start walking, trailing the iPod behind her on the ground like a dog on a short leash.

This is when the "earphones" go away.

Posted by Andrea at 7:15 AM | Comments (5)

How can you not hate me? More of the WBBE, BN:

Frances: Cheeeeztime!

Erik: [blank look]

Frances: Cheeeeztime!

Andrea: Cheesetime? Do you want some cheese?

Frances: OK!

Erik: Oh! Cheesetime.

Frances: [eats cheddar cheese slice] More cheese!

Andrea: Oh, I think that's enough cheese. Would you like something else? How about some bread?

Frances: OK! Breadtime!

~~~~~

Frances: [charges up to bookcase in family room] Green book! [Points at her first scrapbook] Green book!

Andrea: Do you want to read the green book?

Frances: OK! [Walks over to chair to wait for me and the book]

Andrea: [Carefully takes scrapbook down, which weighs more than Frances and is much more awkward. Arranges herself on chair, puts Frances on her lap, and arranges scrapbook so it is balanced perilously on her knees so as to be close enough for Frances to turn the pages, but not so close that it crushes her] Here we go.

Frances: Here we go! Green book! [Opens cover. Points to photos] Frances! Frances. [turns page] Frances! baby. Frances. Mummy! [turns page] Flower. Frances. Frances! Daddeeeee. Frances. [turns page] Frances! Mummy. Bear. Bunneerabbeeeet! Frances. Rocking chair. Daddeee. [turns page] Frances! Frances! Nanooo. Thomas. [turns page] Mumms! Grandpa! Frances. All done!

Andrea: [noting that we have now covered ten out of 100 pages] Are you all done, Frances?

Frances: All done! [squirms] Down!

~~~~~

Andrea: [sees it is now just after 7:30] Frances, do you want to go hug your bear? [the bear is a big floor pillow in her bedroom]

Frances: Hug the bear! [runs to the stairs, begins to climb] Hug the bear! [climbing furiously] Hug the bear! Open gate. Bear! Hug the bear!

Andrea: OK, I'll open the gate. There you go.

Frances: Hug the bear! [runs to bear and collapses on it, giggling]

Andrea: Oh, what a nice bear hug.

Frances: [gets up and charges to bookcase] Read the book. [takes a book and walks back to me, turns around and sits in my lap] Read the book.

Andrea: OK, let's read the book. Oh, what do you see here?

Frances: Bear! Bunny rabbit! Hippo! Chair! [or whatever else might be on the page]

Andrea: Very good, Frances!

[repeat for all pages of book and five or six books in a row]

Andrea: OK, time to get undressed and change your diaper. [Frances assists with removing shirt and pants] Up we go! [Lifts Frances onto changing table]

Frances: Up we go!

Andrea: [to distract her] Frances, can you count your toes?

Frances: [starting at big toe] One, two, three!

Andrea: [laughing] Oh, so you have three toes?

Frances: One, two, three!

Andrea: [laughing] Very good!

Frances: Piggies!

Andrea: Do you want to play piggies?

Frances: Ok.

Andrea: [repeats "this little piggie" rhyme]

Frances: [giggling] Again!

~~~~~

How the hell did I get so lucky?

Posted by Andrea at 8:27 AM | Comments (11)

The World Agrees: Frances really is the World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None

Yesterday, one of the student workers at Frances's daycare asked Erik if she could write a school paper on Frances (not using her name, of course). Erik asked why, and she replied, "Well, Frances is the perfect subject. It's her first day in the toddler room and she already knows all her colours."

I don't know why that makes her the perfect subject, but it sounds like a compliment to us, so of course we said yes.

Also, the daycare manager confirmed for us something that we have long suspected: Frances is her special favourite. So much so, she said to Erik yesterday, that the other daycare workers often refer to her as "Cathy's Frances."

We are not planning on sharing this with the other parents, who might understandably be upset. But it makes me happy to think of her getting extra hugs and snuggles.

Yesterday was my compressed day, and I had so many errands to run--library, shoes for Frances, groceries, scrap store (shut up!), tidying the house, calling the pediatricians, making a doctor's appointment for myself, blathering about genetic counseling and eugenics--that Frances went into daycare for the whole day. It was sad, but I couldn't see any way around it. But it was productive--our kitchen is stocked, Frances has new blue running shoes and a pediatrician, and I picked up a book from the library called In the Little World about a reporter who attends a Little People of America convention to do a story in Esquire and ends up writing a book about it. As those who live in the GTA will already know, yesterday was unseasonably warm; so when Frances and Erik got home we went for a walk to the park.

On the way we filled up the treasure basket (also known as the basket on the stroller) with red maple leaves, acorns, and various fall flowers. Frances especially liked the red leaves, which she would continually return to the treasure basket to pick up and walk with, exclaiming "red leaves! red leaves!"

She now makes requests by attaching "time" as a suffix to what she wants. Thus when she's hungry, she says "snacktime!" When she's tired, it's "naptime." When she wants to read, it's booktime; and so on. Yesterday at the park, it was "slidetime!"

"You want to go down the slide, Frances?" I asked.

"OK!" she said.

So we went down the slide a few times. Then it was "swingtime!" Followed by a few more "slidetimes!" Then she saw the big kids on the big kid swings--it must have been a daycamp or something, because there were several older teen girls in navy blue t-shirts with official logos and nametags on them hanging around watching, carrying clipboards.

Frances was fascinated. She walked over and stared, walked closer and stared, walked a bit closer, and then the Official Girls noticed her.

"Hi!" said one. "Oh, aren't you cute!"

"She's so cute," said another one. "Oh, hello!"

"Are you going to say hello, Frances?" I asked. She declined, but sat there between them smiling at them and looking quite pleased to be so admired.

"Frances!" said the first one. "That's a pretty name. You are so cute! How old are you?"

"She's 21 months," I said.

"She's adorable," the second one said. "I wish we had a few more cute little babies like her around."

She never got up the courage to say anything to them, but every minute or so she'd inch her way closer to them. It was like she was saying, "Keep going, tell me more, say again how cute I am."

Also, yesterday she shocked us by saying "A B C D." Marla, you weren't kidding.

Posted by Andrea at 8:22 AM | Comments (12)

One Two Three!

For the past few weeks, Frances has spontaneously been counting to three--pointing to things in one of her books, for instance, and saying "one doo tree!" while jabbing her wee index finger around the page. I thought that was pretty impressive; it's not like we taught it to her.

Last night she was in fine form, counting to three for me as I praised and clapped. I thought, "Why don't I try to teach her to count to four?"

"Frances, can you say: One two three four?"

"Five six!" says Frances.

My jaw drops open. "One, two, three, four!" I say.

"Five, six, seben, eight, den!" she says.

I fall over.

When I get back up, I say, "one, two, three, four!"

"Five, six, seben, eight, den!" she says.

I'm not sure what happened after that because I passed out. I seem to remember her repeating her new parlour trick a few times for me and for her father during the bedtime diaper change.

OK, granting that she almost certainly has no idea of what "eight" means, and yes I'm aware that she forgot nine--isn't it awfully early to be counting to ten? And, I mean, it's not like I even taught her. She already knew.

My baby girl counted to ten! Oh, I'm so proud. Just wait till she graduates from highschool. I'll be insufferable.

Also, today is her last day ever in the infant room at her daycare. I know! Clearly they are insane. Just because she is 21 months old and the toddler room starts at 18 months is no reason to start talking nonsense--she is clearly a baby. Right? Right.

What's nice about her daycare is they move them over slowly. She has spent one or two days a week for the last month or so in the toddler room, getting used to new faces and new toys. If I may brag again--and I may, since it's my blog--she has had no trouble with the transition. Apparently it's very common for babies moving over to the toddler room to make a stink and cry and fuss and resist the whole idea (hence the transitioning), but Frances took to it like a duck to water from the very first.

Which does NOT mean she's a toddler. It only means she's a very smart baby.

Posted by Andrea at 6:57 AM | Comments (18)

Yesterday

"Wiggo!"

"Yes, those are the Wiggles." I stare at Erik, who stares back. How did she figure out they were called the Wiggles?

Twenty minutes pass, in which Frances is occasionally distracted by the wonders of crayons taken from their rightful place, but mostly is transfixed by Australian men in colourful Star-Trek-like costumes dancing around on TV.

"Wiggo!"

"Yes, those are the Wiggles."

"Wiggo! Wiggo!"

"I know, sweetie, but the show is over now. We'll watch them again some other time."

*pause*

"Bye bye, Wiggo."

~~~~~

I seem to remember hearing or being told that babies of this age are supposed to be shy. Not Frances. We went to Michaels on Saturday after finally getting a coupon and she spent the whole time walking up to people she doesn't know, staring up at them with a huge grin, waving her hand and saying "hi!"

It's great to see how she just expects people to love her, to respond to her big blue eyes and brilliant smiles the way the important people in her life do. And it's great to see how other people do respond that way, with smiles and greetings and compliments of their own. She must have made half a dozen new friends in the twenty minutes I spent browsing the embroidery and scrapbooking aisles, and then another one walking to the car in the parking lot--"bye bye!" she said, with a smile and a wave, to a woman she'd never seen before in her life. "Bye bye!" she replied. "Oh, she is just too cute."

What can a proud mama do but grin?

~~~~~

She is really getting a handle on this language thing. She now responds to questions (What would you like to drink? "Appo juice." What's wrong, Frances? "snack time!") and has firmly developed opinions about what she likes and doesn't like (yesterday's breakfast: "Here's a banana. Do you want some cheerios?" "Potato." "No potato right now, sweetie. Would you like some Cheerios?" "Potato." "No, not right now. Here's your banana." "Keerioss."). She is beginning to string words together in sentences of three (turn light on, here we go, come on sweetiepie) and while some of them are obviously mimics of the salient words of sentences Erik or I have said, some of them are not. Two worders are still more common, but are becoming little paragraphs: "Snack time. Eating chair. Up up up! Bib on. Cheese. Potato. Red poon. Ork. Appo Juice. Yummmm. All done."

She is also beginning to master possessives: Daddy bowl, Mummy book, Mummy pouse, Daddy hat.

Posted by Andrea at 10:08 AM | Comments (10)

21 Months

Baby Girl, it cannot have been 21 months. If I admit to 21 months, then before I know it, it will be 24 months, and then 36, and then in a few weeks you'll be calling me up for advice about your first job interview and which apartment you should take and how to negotiate a good mortgage rate. If I close my eyes and shake my head, can't I keep you where you are forever?

Don't get me wrong; I love every new milestone. It still thrills me to see you goose-stepping around the house, thump thump thump, your sweet little legs whirling away like a character on Looney Tunes. Last night, when you said "Frances" for the first time, I gave you a thousand big hugs and kisses and found ways to make you say it over and over and over again. Listening to you speak in sentences--"shut door! shoes on! go out! Mummy hug!"--every one emphatic and clearly deserving of exclamation marks, is like witnessing your birth all over again. Only this time, you are doing the hard work--you are making yourself into a person before my eyes.

It's thrilling, but I know that ultimately every step you take on your own journey is a step away from me.

You are so perfect just as you are at this moment; and I know that the person you will be tomorrow, and the day after that, will be just as loveable and perfect; it's not that I won't love you then just as much or more; it's just that you aren't the you you are right now for nearly long enough. That chubby-thighed, big-grinned, belly-laughing, mispronouncing, fluffy-haired, cowlicked, just-over-knee-high beauty that loves to crawl into my lap for a snuggle, and gives big kisses with great dramatic panache, and who loves to sit quietly with a puzzle (be it a new book with pictures you don't recognize, or a toy you are learning how to use) and solemnly work at it until you understand, and who loves pens and crayons and cars and babies and dogs and horses and hippos and Elmo--that wonderful, perfect, sweet, loving, affectionate, adorable little girl is going to be gone before I've even figured out how to describe her.

When I put your hair in a ponytail or pigtails, you look just like Cindy Lou Who (who was no more than two).

And I think if you had been confronting the Grinch over the stolen tree, he would have crumbled before the reproachful gaze of your big blue eyes.

Everything we say, now, you try to say back to us. If we are watching the news, and one of us says "What's that all about?" You'll say "all about!" If one of us says, "Shut the door, please," you'll say, "shut door, peeze." If one of us says, "Do you know where the notepad is?" You'll say, "whe notepad issss." If one of us says, "Frances, you are so adorable!" You will say, "adoabo!"

You have also mastered cutiepie, sweetiepie, baby girl, and good girl. I wonder how that happened.

We have to be very careful what we say around you these days. One time--one time!--I was talking about work and said that it's killing me, busy busy busy all day. And even now you still repeat "busy busy busy!" I have no idea if you know what it means, or just enjoy making those sounds, but unless I want to be the only parent of a 27" child who says "FUCK" I think I'd better start watching my words.

When you are hungry, you will swarm the blue booster seat at the kitchen table and say, "chair! up! up! chair!" Then when you're strapped in, "Bib!" Then you start asking for food. Well, telling me what you want, anyway. I won't say you ask for it since we have still to master the fine art of "please." Your use of such niceties is rare. But you are clear and direct, I'll give you that. The other day, when you were very hungry, you didn't even wait for me to peel the banana; you just picked it up and stuck the short end in your mouth. Apparently it didn't taste so great.

I was just amazed that you managed to pick up a banana bigger than your whole arm. You may be small, but you're strong.

You love pens. If you see a pen, or if we mention a pen in your hearing, we are in trouble. Yesterday Emily gave Little Bear a pen on TV, and "pen! Pen! Pen!" you said. Maybe you've inherited my stationery fetish? Gods know that if you manage to actually get a pen, getting you to put it down again--ever--short of bribing you with chocolate--is something we can't do without at least two minutes of fully-body sobs and tears the size of gumdrops. What do you do with the pens? Take the caps off and put them back on. Scribble on your shirts and your legs. Bang yourself in the head. Occasionally draw something on paper.

Thank goodness for crayons, which are now an acceptable substitute and are washable. Now you will go stand before the bookcase, where they are stored on the top shelf, and stare up, and say "cayon. paper." Down they come and you scribble away, naming the colours, trying to fit one crayon inside another one (don't ask me, you're the one who tries it), and pick them up and carry them around the room. Now this, mind you, is not allowed; we have a rule that the crayons stay with the paper. So several times an evening we have this conversation:

"Frances, what did we say about the crayons?"

You stop and stare at us.

"They stay with the paper, honey, go put them back."

You walk back to the paper, and put them down. Then you pick them up and stand up again.

"No, baby, leave the crayons there. The crayons stay with the paper."

You squat and put them down, then pick them up and stand again.

"No, no. Put the crayons down."

You put them down.

"Ok, now you can go play with your toys."

You pick them up again and start to wander off.

At this point I am trying with all my might not to explode in laughter. For some reason you understand this concept very well with crayons in the basement, but not on the main floor; and I just don't know how to explain it to you so you'll understand. Eventually I ask you to give them to me and I put them back; even so, half the time, you wander over to them with me when I do so and start to colour again.

You love cars. Every time you see a car go by you will stop, stare at it until it is out of sight, and say "car." You can also say truck and bus, though your definitions of them are sketchy and there are days when anything larger than a mid-sized family sedan is a bus.

You like to have security cookies. When, for instance, you lose your balance and sit hard on your bum and start to cry, a cookie will make it all better. But you don't want to eat it, just carry it around in your hand until it is soft and mushy.

You have learned how to crawl into and out of your toddler chairs, which isn't bad considering how small you are; your wee feet dangle several inches above the ground when you're in one. The getting in to and out of is much more fun, though, than the sitting in; so the sitting in never lasts, but getting in to and out of can entertain you endlessly. In. Out. In. Out. IN. Sit. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Sit. Out. And so on.

There is so much to say about you, and by the time I've figured out how to say it, it will be how you were yesterday, not how you are today. I have already taken almost five thousand pictures of you, and each has been organized and archived on dvd; most have been printed, and they have been put into archivally-safe photo albums and labeled with occasion and date; I have this journal I'm keeping, and the scrapbooks, made only with photo-doubles and each print supposed to last 200 years in bright light, each accompanied by its story; and even so I feel like I'm holding on to only the smallest fragments, such tiny pieces of who you are and our lives together that in a week or two I will never be able to reconstruct it again. How do I catch the fleece-like softness of your hair, the soft dimples on your tiny elbows, the impossible brightness of your nuclear smiles, your waddly-stompy-goose-stepping-sometimes tippy-toeing gait, before it’s all gone?

I do my best, but I suspect my future self will be unsatisfied, just the same.

Posted by Andrea at 11:00 AM | Comments (11)

I am still not an addict

Of course, the real reason I devote so much of my time and money to scrapbooking is to entertain Frances. It's true! Just because I started before she was born, when I had no idea that she would like them so much, is no reason to suspect me of any selfish motives. And now all my hard work and sacrifice is paying off: When I pull one of the scrapbooks off the shelves, she calls "baby!" and comes over to crawl into my lap. Then we flip through it, sometimes more than once, and talk about the pictures.

This is how we passed the interminable wait last night while Erik went out to get us some Swiss Chalet for dinner: We flipped through her newest scrapbook (2 of 2), and on every page I asked her, "Who's that?"

She amazed me. She identified everyone. It was a chorus of "mommy! Daddy! Mumms! Baba! Oma! Opa! Nanoo! Andeeee! Rakel!* Kimmmm! Rylan! Karyn! Bunneeerabeeet! Kamel! Duck! Howse! Pudding! (my mom's yorkie)"

And!

And and and!

"Frances!"

Yesterday for the first time ever, she not only said her own name but identified herself in a photograph. Which I knew she could do, because if we're looking at a picture or a mirror and I ask "Where's Frances?" she'll point to herself. But now we can ask, "Who's that?" and she'll say her own name.

She doesn't say it perfectly; there are precious few words she can pronounce correctly; but it's identifiable. For some reason, she drops her voice down to a hoarse stage whisper and then solemnly pronounces, "Rassess." Which is close enough.

Of course, just once wasn't enough for my greedy mommy ears.

So we went through the whole scrapbook and I pointed at every picture of her. "Rassess!" she growled. Then we pulled out a photo album and I pointed at every picture of her. "Rassess!" she whispered. Then we were playing and I tickled her belly and asked "who's this?"

She pointed to her chin, grinned and whispered, "Rassess!"

What a smart girl.

These days, in case you're wondering why the dictionary entries stopped, her vocabulary is developing so quickly I just can't keep up. Every day she stuns me by saying something I had no idea she had heard before, let alone could pronounce.

*Rachel, that would be you. You may not be here to hear it, but she knows your name now and can identify you in a photograph.

Posted by Andrea at 7:48 AM | Comments (5)

It's Drama Drama Drama Over Here, I tell you

Frances's first ever photo day (!!!) is this Friday at her daycare.

A PHOTO DAY! I am squealing in anticipation of the cuteness that will be professionally taken photographs of Frances, with her trademark cheesy fake-smile. The one she gives people when they ask her to smile, which is hilarious, because it's so fake it's just the cutest thing ever.

But it's going to be 21 celsius, which is ... ahh ... around 80 fahrenheit? So. Warm, but not shorts-warm. IMO. The problem is, Frances has lots of really cute summer outfits (sleeveless and with shorts or short skirts) and lots of really cute late fall outfits (nice dresses with long sleeves and tights, or outfits with pants and jackets/sweaters) but nothing in between. Nothing for a nice warm-but-not-hot day.

Do I need to go shopping?

*nods head*

I need to go shopping, don't I?

Speaking of shopping, yesterday I went out and got Frances a Hallowe'en costume. I am thrilled and proud to report that the 3-6 month size I purchased was too small. Too small! It's supposed to fit up to 27", so maybe she has finally cracked that barrier. I have never been happier to need to exchange a piece of clothing.

And man, it's cute. Wait till you see her. She loves it, too.

Last, but not least, and definitely worst, I need to know if there are any hip hippos in the audience today.

Why? Because some 300-odd folks were referred here yesterday from a place called hipinion.com. There were no page views associated with their visits, by which I conclude that it is probably a photo link. The only problem is, I can't find where they're coming from. The search keywords and referral trees look like this:

924201
51770
934730
934944
929192
928869
934741

Which means particular posts or threads, yes? But I can't find them.

I warn you: It's gross. It's not a place I would choose to spend any time myself, which helps to explain why I can't find the referral, I'm sure, as well as why I'm so worried about these freakjobs to begin with. And after my last experience with the many wonderful, sane, and friendly people who seem to populate such places, I've taken some extreme measures.

My regular photos site ("what regular photos site?" The one that IRL friends and family have access to) is gone. The only photos that remain online are the password-protected ones, and the ones on Beanie Baby. I can't seem them linking to my site on eating disorders and diabetes, as there is no mention of naked women or various acts one can commit with naked women mentioned on it whatsoever. (Hello, Google!) That, Frances's other (password-protected) site and Beanie Baby are now the only ones left. If the referrals don't end by tomorrow, then I'll know that we have a Situation.

And if that's the case, don't be surprised if old photo-posts mysteriously disappear.

Posted by Andrea at 9:25 AM | Comments (5)

This still doesn’t mean she’s a toddler

Twenty months of no mobility meant twenty months of perfect, sweet, soft little baby feet. Flat and pudgy and smooth as velour. One month of mobility means two tiny little calluses, one on each big toe, which I found this morning while we were playing with crayons. No more perfect soft little baby feet.

Ever.

I admit it; I cried. A little.

Hurray for walking! Boo for walking taking away those beautiful, wonderful, miraculously soft little baby feet! Now gone forever.

Posted by Andrea at 8:13 PM | Comments (4)

Shoe Fetish

"Mom, can I borrow your shoe?"

We've just had another apurt of linguistic progress here: bonafide sentence (fragments)! Current favourites:

(While manhandling my mole): Mole. Owwie. Lealone! (translation: Leave it alone!)

Lellow bus

Shoe on

Shut door

Nother one (especially chips and cookies)

Go down

Mummy hug/Daddy hug

Also today, she finally said "hi" into a telephone--to her Oma, in Montreal, who is now over the moon.

Posted by Andrea at 2:41 PM | Comments (5)

I'm not making this up

Just now, in the basement, while I was reading my comments, I looked over to see Frances standing in her playroom with her foam phone and a crayon.

We have a rule that the crayons stay in here (where I can keep an eye on them). So I said, "Oh no, Frances, bring the crayon back in here."

She did.

"OK, now put it down."

She did.

"Now you can go back to play with your toys in the other room."

She did.

World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None, I'm telling you.

Posted by Andrea at 5:18 PM | Comments (6)

Shopping has forever changed.

Yesterday, I went to visit a friend in Burlington. Near her house are two scrapbooking stores that I just happened to come across back when I lived in Mississauga and visited her more frequently. I don't know how that happened. I mean, what are the chances that a non-scrapbooking-addict would happen to find two scrapbooking stores in the vicinity of a friend's house?

Anyway, after getting thoroughly lost on the way to her house, I found myself near one of these stores, so Frances and I stopped in. The toy area (these stores know their clientele very well) kept Frances occupied for a little while; I walked around and checked out the merchandise. Then Frances grew bored with the toy area and started hunting for the most expensive paper and gadgets she could find, in order to destroy them so I would have to pay for them. Fortunately, all she managed to do was pick up some packages of stickers and bite them. Nothing I couldn't afford or didn't want to get anyway (to give to other people, of course, who actually scrapbook. What would I do with scrapping supplies?).

Then....

Then she left.

That little girl of mine, that 27" 16lb baby, got up, walked to the door, opened it, and left.

When I looked around and realized she wasn't there, and saw her standing on the other side of the door, I barked "Frances!" so loudly she jumped. I opened the door and said, "Get back in here!" And in she came.

I never, never would have imagined that she was capable of opening that door. Now I know. And now I know that I will never be able to shop easily again.

At the moment, I'm trying not to go berserk listening to the neighbour's kids having a very loud outdoor party. All afternoon so far. And tomorrow is my morning to get up with Frances. Lovely.

Posted by Andrea at 8:41 PM | Comments (4)

World's Best Baby Ever Bar None Strikes Again

Is it any wonder that I swoon over this girl?

I could not have asked for a better zoo companion. She was quiet and well-behaved in the car both ways, even though I had to interupt her nap to get us there and even though we ran into rush hour traffic on the way back.

She pointed out all the animals enthusiastically and was happy and excited about each one, learning its name and its sound.

She said bye-bye to them when we left each habitat (I'm not kidding. It was so freaking cute. I wheel around the stroller to see the next exhibit and each time "bye bye!" comes from the passenger).

She charmed the pants off of all the other zoo patrons, by saying "hi" and "bye bye" and walking up to them with her biggest grin.

She was amazing. I had such a good time.

Also, I discovered that the zoo is deserted the first week back to school. It was awesome. There were no crowds, no lines, no rows of heads in front of us at the fences blocking our sight or getting in the way of the camera. We met maybe a dozen people there the whole time. The weather was awesome. Three hours was the perfect trip length.

We even had a fan.

When we were getting ready to leave, and I was giving Frances her supper at the (as it turns out, very appropriately named) Peacock Cafe, a peacock actually came up and started eating her crackers right out of the tray on the front of her stroller.

...

It was a bit freaky, actually, and for the rest of Frances's meal this behemoth bird was standing right in front of us, like eight inches away, clearly waiting for more scraps. It's one thing when it's a gull or a finch or something, but let me tell you, peacocks are a bit unnerving when they are waiting for you to feed them something.

Oh, and there was the part when Frances chased a Turkey in the Kids' Zoo section. It was not a caged turkey. The turkey was most upset to be chased in its special habitat.

That's my girl.

From now on, I think I'll call her Fearless Frances.

Posted by Andrea at 7:53 PM | Comments (10)

See? Spoiled.

Here is the rest of Frances's bootie--the pint-sized locker, shelves shaped like castles (complete with windows and doors), the foam phone, and (not shown here) tiffany lamp shaped like a butterfly. All one day's haul from Mumms and Grandpa.

And you say she's not spoiled, eh?

What I would have given if they had not-spoiled me a bit when I was growing up. I seem to remember walking to school in winter boots with holes in the bottom and jackets with the lining fallen out--but that is a cranky, whiny post for another day, and frankly, one you probably don't want to read.

Anyhow. Back to the original levity. Spoiled! Told ya so.

Posted by Andrea at 11:03 PM | Comments (5)

Your Daily Frances Fix

I have a feeling I'm going to get all philosophical and weird again soon, so let me buttress you up with some preemptive Frances.

She has learned how to turn lights on and off. This is a source of endless fascination to her; if we hold her by the light switch in her room, she will use one matchstick finger to push up or down with all her might, all the while staring at the light fixture to see the moment when it goes on or off. Over and over again. It's a hard job, when your finger is more narrow than the switch, but she does it.

My parents gave us a grocery bag full of tiny pear and cherry tomatoes from their garden, which overproduces every year (they live on an 18 acre plot of land in the middle of nowhere, and they enlarge their garden every year). They are sweet. The mose convincing argument in favour of organic gardening is the flavour of fresh garden-grown tomatoes. And my Dad is a bit of a tomato snob; it's not enough for him to grow a few garden-variety (ha!) beefsteak tomato plants. Oh no. No, he grows heritage varieties: blue, purple, orange, yellow, pepper, pear, cherry, plum, and so on. And they're good. But there are always far too many for two people to eat, especially with the tomato plants yearly march outside of the garden confines, so every year Erik and I end up with a few bags of tomatoes.

I thought to try a few with Frances. She took one bite and spat it on the floor.

But do you think I could stop her from nibbling on the semi-wild apples that litter their lawn? No. Oh, I tried. But when she saw apples growing from trees, and that you could take the apples off the trees! And carry them around! And there were so. many. apples! So she walked around with a tiny little apple in her fist, flourishing it and calling, "appo! appo!" and trying to sneak a bite whenever she thought I wasn't looking.

Did you know apples grow on trees?

Well, you don't have to rub it in.

But this is my favourite: Now that she knows how to say Mummy, she says it all the time, and she's turned it into a game. If I am sitting in a chair, she will come over and squirm between my knees with a hand on each leg; if I am on the floor, she will crawl into my lap.

"Mummy!" she says.

"Frances!" I say.

"Mummy mummy mummy!"

"Frances Frances Frances!"

"Mummy mummy mummeeeee!"

"Frances Frances Franceeees!"

And so on. All the while grinning as she only does for her Dad and me, and sticking her hand down my top looking for my belly button, and rolling all over my legs like a bag of puppies.

Posted by Andrea at 10:42 AM | Comments (5)

I'm not sure. Should I be worried?

Would you be concerned if your small, too-innocent looking daughter staggered like a drunk man towards the darkened den, weaving back and forth, giggling menacingly and waving her toy knife around while saying, "Knife! Knife!"

Add in some eery background music, and I think I have the basis for a new series of horror movies. But I will admit that my first impulse was to laugh. Loudly. For a long time.

Coming Soon: Andrea tells you about Friday night and Saturday morning (now that she's recovered), which will give ample demonstration of the news article I posted late last week.

Posted by Andrea at 7:26 AM | Comments (4)

News Release: Cure for Summertime Blues Found at Beanie Baby

Scientists have been working round-the-clock on this one for 29 long months in our top-scale WBBE, BN facility.

I so hope your night and morning have been better than mine, but if not, doesn't this make you feel better?

The above one is my baby girl turning her yellow stacking cup into footwear, as she is prone to doing with everything these days from tupperware to hats to salad bowls.

Below she is walking in the woodlot near our house.

Ah. I feel better now. How about you?

Posted by Andrea at 12:50 PM | Comments (10)

Favourite Words

While Frances's favourite word has long been Daddeeeee, it's not mine. The word I've loved to hear her say more than anything else so far has been Mama.

Shocking! I know! You never would have guessed. I am a woman of many surprises.

But no longer. A new word has claimed the crown, as of 4:15 when I walked in the door to see my beloved baby girl look up at me, smile and say Mummeeeeee!

Mummy! She called me Mummy! I could sing.

Also new today: spreading her hands out when she's done supper and saying "all gone!" And then clapping.

Posted by Andrea at 5:59 PM | Comments (3)

You are insatiable

I have been quiet today, haven't I? Can you believe I've been working?

I know. I should go lie down.

But I see you expect MORE FRANCES. So I will postpone my siesta and include a few more anecdotes:

*drumming fingers on desk*

Oh! I know. Despite being very petite, blonde-haired with huge blue eyes, fragile, sensitive and easily hurt, and looking way too good in pink, she's decided she's not a girly girl. She likes anything on wheels, and will point out every car and truck on the road. It's all we can do to keep her from chasing after them. Also, mud. Mud is very cool. Our next planned purchase for her is some kind of truck toy. Something with wheels she can use to scoop mud. Fun times ahead.

*whistles and stares at the ceiling*

Frances has one of those Fisher Price infant-to-toddler rocking chairs. You know the ones I mean.

That. Only a few model years ago.

It is kept in the infant stage because it is too unstable as a rocking chair and far, far too big. But Frances is fascinated with the buckles. She is determined to figure out this buckle thing. In fact, yesterday she began to guilt trip the buckles into cooperating by plaintively calling their name: "Bucko! bucko!" I'm not sure if this plastic machination did the trick or not, but she did figure out how to do up the buckles. Undoing is another question (thank god).

The buckles, as you may know, are right at the deepest part of the seat; and the front is somewhat taller than Frances's hips, so, when she reaches in to grab the buckles, her whole body tilts and slides forwards. She ends up with her face pressed right into the buckles while her little feet kick freely in the air.

All for the love of buckles.

Last night, she was so fascinated with my ponytail that she wouldn't give me a goodnight hug or kiss. Which would have been heartbreaking if it hadn't been so funny when Frances firmly gripped my jaw, turned my head, and extended a hand toward my hair, saying, "tayo!" Not once, not twice, but at least a dozen times. Not that she will let me put her hair in a tayo without a good deal of detangling spray, several futile requests to PLEASE keep your head still Frances, and some tears on both sides. But her hair is so unruly, thanks to her double crown, that it's either shave her bald, put it back, or learn to live with a toddler who always has a lot of fine blond hair in her eyes.

She is figuring out how to get dressed, not quite successfully. That is, she knows what is supposed to happen but has some trouble with the execution, shall we say. So she will hold her sock with an intent squint on her face, spread it open, and manage to cover two toes. Then she will let go and try to hold it there with the two toes. Mission accomplished! She put on a sock.

Pants she has an easier time with. The other day she picked up a pair of shorts and stuck one leg through backwards, to the crotch, then down the other leg, so that she was wearing her shorts entirely on one leg. At least she got it half right.

Also, she likes to put on my shoes.

I'll leave you with the mental image of my little girl wearing shoes much bigger than her legs.

Posted by Andrea at 2:24 PM | Comments (10)

What do you think? Should I write a letter?

After eight months of fabulous care for Frances, her daycare lead me yesterday to question their judgement.

Oh no! you say. What? How? Why?

They put her in the toddler room.

Denial? What are you talking about?

Posted by Andrea at 8:16 AM | Comments (8)

Fine! See if I care!

This is the risk I take whenever I post something 'Deep': My loyal readers check in, see a textbook's worth of bytes and babble devoted to--of all things--some philosophical mumbo-jumbo about dualisms and co-existing productively with nature. Indeed! How dare I? I can practically hear the discontent rising over the wires in my computer, at first a distant rumble, and soon a resounding clatter as if thousands--well, ok, a few dozen--toddlers sat unhappy at their highchairs demanding cookies for dinner, banging their forks on their bowls in unison. "Fran-ces! Fran-ces! Fran-ces!" they cry.

All right. All right, I said! ALL RIGHT! Fine, you win. It's Frances you want? It's Frances you'll get. Sheesh. Ungrateful little....

...I mean, the reader is always right.

So: Fran-ces! it is.

Those of you who read Phantom Scribbler, or at least follow the weekly Wednesday Whining ritual, will know that this morning my dear little baby girl once again attempted to remove my mole from my arm in absence of any anesthetic. Or bandages. Just before I got into the car to drive to work, mind you, and staining the sleeve of my shirt. Ah well. She managed to remove a tiny bit, I think--a souvenier. I don't want to even think of what she might have done with it.

She has decided that buildings are highly over-rated. Sure, the indoors has toys, televisions, computers, cats, carpets, food, drinks, diapers, drawers, cabinets and cupboards, but what's all that compared to a few twigs, some weeds, a blade of grass and a small pinecone? Nothing. So every day after she comes home, we are treated to a small chorus of whining in a minor key. Nothing too unpleasant, or too loud, or too discordant. Like the faint whispers of sound in a horror movie before the virginal blonde heroine decides to investigate that strange sound in the basement. And much like in the horror movie, if we don't immediately respond ("My god! Can't they see what's going to happen? OPEN THE DOOR, OPEN THE DOOR!") by opening the door, full-bodied wailing will quickly follow.

Opening the door effects a miraculous cure. She goes outside. She sees grass! and trees! and squirrels! and pinecones! and flowers! She goes up the stairs, she goes down the stairs, she sits on the stairs, she pushes the small table around the deck. If we let her, she'd stay outside all evening.

We don't let her, because it is eventually more exhausting than bringing her back inside to listen to her whining, if only because we know she can't pick anything poisonous off of the floor and pop it in her mouth.

"What? Poisonous? She's been eating poisonous things outside?" No. Not yet. But she has been shoving things willy nilly into her teensy little pirhanna mouth, regardless of smell, size, texture or edibility. Grass. Sticks. Stones, some quite large. And mud. Every time we fail to prevent it, she gets this look of misery on her face--like, "But it looked so tasty!" Mouth in a tiny disappointed frown, eyes wide and staring. I sigh. "Open your mouth, baby girl."

She does, and I try to scrape it out with my pinkie finger before she decides to decapitate it.

She does try to pull my mole off, you know. I haven't entirely ruled out intent on that.

She is fascinated by the foodwrap drawer. You know. The drawer above the bread drawer, in which we store ziploc baggies, aluminum foil, clingwrap and freezer bags. She pulls it open. She tries to remove some baggies. We stop her. She shuts the drawer. She pulls it open again.

She also has convinced herself that a bottle of anti-oil facial lotion I have in our bathroom is milk. She opens the cupboard. She pulls it out. She flourishes it. "Milk!" she says, and sticks the bottle to her mouth.

"NO, Frances! Not milk! NOT milk! Don't eat it. That can make owwies in your tummy. NOT MILK. Put it back."

She puts it back.

"Now shut the door."

She shuts the door.

"Thank you."

Ten seconds later, there it is again, miraculously reappearing in her hands. "Milk!" she says.

There, you have some Frances now. Are you happy?

Posted by Andrea at 3:12 PM | Comments (7)

Fast forward TWENTY MONTHS, dear god, has it been that long?

Yesterday I sat and sorted through some of Frances's old preemie-wear for my coworker, and all I could think was--how tiny! how sweet and how small. And, my god, to think that once these little tiny pieces of cloth were too big for her, and I waited impatiently for her to outgrow them. Yet now I can't quite picture her being that small.

It's nice to have confirmation now and then that she is growing. Especially when I put on the jeans she wore in the winter and they don't seem any smaller. I hate that.

But the good news is, everything else is good news. We had a fabulous weekend.

Yesterday was my compressed day, and her should-have-been-19th-month birthday. Frances was not about to miss a minute of it and woke up before 6:00, so we had a morning snuggle in the big bed.

Then we celebrated by going for a walk in the woodlot near our home. She very kindly helped me to push the stroller I brought just in case and sat down every ten steps or so to pick up a fascinating twig or a piece of gravel too beautiful to ignore. We looked at logs covered with mushrooms and spiderwebs and I encouraged her to pat the rough bark of some of the larger trees; we met two dogs and their humans out for a walk. One of them, walking a black behemoth who slobbered all over Frances, said smiling: "How old is she?"

"Nineteen months," I said.

"Wonderful," he said. "My wife is going to have a baby any day now!"

"How exciting!"

He was full of that I'm-going-to-be-a-daddy breathless anticipation that knows yet neither sleepless nights nor projectile poop, and it was fun to see him fawn over my little girl.

When we got home, I freed Frances from her outside shoes and socks, and she charged around the house after our cat, crying, "Meow! meow! meow!" She almost caught her a few times, but Roxie is a wily old critter and got away by the nape of her neck every time. I could almost hear her thinking: "OH MY GOD. You didn't tell me she'd be able to move that fast one day! What the hell? Don't you love me?"

I laughed, and emptied out the treasures Frances had brought back from our journey--a few bits of gravel, a stick, an acorn top.

We had lunch. Leftover macaroni and cheese (homemade), some bits of pear and a slice of almost entirely rejected raisin bread, toasted with butter. She had a nap, a good long one, over two hours.

I made a nice birthday supper of chili, which Frances did not eat--but she did like the accompanying crusty bread and 2-year-old cheddar cheese. This girl likes dairy products. If it comes from a cow, it's gooooood. We wrapped up the day with our Monday evening ritual of Little Bear followed by Bear in the Big Blue House and a milk chaser.

She spent the weekend boning up for her Toddler Entrance Exams, and can now correctly identify the sounds made by ducks, tigers, lions and cows. She knows what a circle, square, triangle, heart and star are. She knows what up, down, behind, beside, over there, inside, and outside mean. She can do up the buckles on her booster seat, which on Saturday was a highchair--but not anymore. She is now consistently speaking in two-word bits, favourites being "more milk" and "pink pen." She also pointed out the yellow pillow, and said wheel, towel, bed, bath, nap, bum, hungry, cheese, bread, red, purple, blue, wall, again, ok, oh dear, elbow, backpack, tv and a lot more--a lot. I've lost track.

She can stand up from sitting. She's discovered that she likes to lick my tongue. When I say, "Frances, that hurts, don't play with my mole," she stops playing with it. When I say, "Your toy car is behind you, sweetie," she turns around to get it. When she got too close to the TV and started playing with the buttons, I said, "No, you can't be that close to the TV; you have to sit back here and watch it." A few minutes later she got up and started walking to it and Erik sternly said, "Frances!" She stopped as if jolted with electricity and sat right down on her butt to watch the rest of the show.

We're not using the stoppers in the sippy cups anymore.

All of this notwithstanding, she is still my baby girl. And that's final.

What a lucky mommy I am.

Posted by Andrea at 1:08 PM | Comments (6)

Noooooooooo!

We were in the basement playing when Frances heard her Daddy's voice from upstairs and decided to go up to see him. She climbed the stairs, me close behind her, as we have a thousand times.

"Wow, good stair climbing," I said. "What a big girl!"

"Big guh!" she said.

*sniff*

I'm not ready.

Posted by Andrea at 7:06 AM | Comments (6)

A Deliriously Happy 300th Post: Bipedal Baby

The Fantabulous Frances has decided over the last three days that crawling is so last week. All the cool babies walk, doncha know.*

Distances? Who's afraid of distances? Of course she can walk from the couch to the fridge to the door to the couch again! Who said she couldn't? Not she! That's just crazy talk.

And she's off, two pudgy little legs and two pudgy little feet moving with piston-like precision, up-down-up-down, feet turned out at 90 degrees from each other, knees slightly bent, spine perfectly upright and hands held still in front of the belly to maximize balance. If you watch closely, you can see her shaking slightly with the effort of staying upright.

"Aaaah!" she says, as she nears the object of her desires. "Aaaaaaaah!"

So, a few weeks shy of 20 months, my baby girl** has decided to live on her own two feet after all.

* This is scurrilous gossip. Plenty of cool babies don't walk. But like tube tops and glitter lipstick for nine year olds, Frances has convinced herself that trends define worth.

**As stated previously, Frances is a baby until she is capable of telling me that she isn't a baby anymore. I will have no more of this toddler talk. She is my sweet baby girl, and that's final.

Posted by Andrea at 10:55 AM | Comments (8)

What I would have said yesterday, if I hadn't been holding out for 20 comments

THANK GOD I have those twenty comments. I tell you, I was going to burst. You'd have had gooey Andrea bits all over your monitor. Not pretty.

Here is what is pretty: Frances.

Yes, well, you knew that.

But barely have I had time to get used to her plaintively crying "hug!" with outstretched arms whenever she wanted a cuddle, when this morning she gripped my shoulders tightly when I took her out of her crib and said, "BIG hug!"

"Are we having a big hug, Frances?"

"BIG hug!"

It was, too. A big, wonderful hug. It made up for having overslept by thirty minutes.

~~~~

Last night I was holding Frances while she drank her pre-bed milk bottle and we watched Little Bear. She wriggled and writhed and twisted to be let down--"No, Frances," I said. "We sit to drink milk bottles."

But she is very wriggly and writhy and so, near the end of her milk bottle, I gave in (bad mothering, I know). "All right all right all right," I said. "Down you go."

Toddling off to the ottomon, she called behind her, "Awight awight awight!"

I believe we have entered the mimicry stage.

Also heard over the last few days: "Ohboyohboyohboy!" and "ohmyohmyohmy!"

I think you are about to see an inappropriate and totally uncalled for outburst of colourful language here on Beanie Baby as I make a heroic effort to eliminate the words "fuck," "damn" and "hell" from my vocabulary when Frances is around. They've got to go somewhere, you know. I can see already that Frances will be the World's Smallest Person Who Says Fuck Properly in a Sentence.

Can you imagine? Two feet three inches tall, possibly sixteen pounds, in line at the grocery store: "FUCK!"

I don't need that.

~~~~~

Wednesday morning (you see, I really have been saving up), Frances was a big snugglebunny. Some snugglebunniness is normal for her--BIG hugs are her preferred method of locomotion before daycare. Wednesday was extra special even by her standards. She wanted only hugs, nothing but hugs, and only hugs from mama would do. If Erik held her, she would cry. If we put her in her chair for breakfast, she would cry. So she ate breakfast on my lap and I developed a method of diaper changing and baby dressing that involved almost no down time.

Pretty neat, eh?

I know, I'm a suck.

She was so snugglebunnyish on Wednesday that whenever she saw Erik she would wave at him and say "bye bye!" clearly preferring to stay at home with mama. Not that mama was staying home, but this thought was just too much to bear. "Bye bye!" she'd wave, and we'd laugh and wonder how we were going to get her out of the house.

In the end, it involved tears. We put on her shoes and Erik took her most unwilling from my arms and my last glimpse Wednesday morning of my little girl was a red face, two teary eyes and quivering lips.

~~~~~

AND (I told you I was going to burst) we now have a newish bedtime routine.

Old bedtime routine: Bottle while watching a kids' show. Pajamas. Tooth brushing. Good night hug with mama. Then chair time with daddy to say goodnight to the happy bee, and the duck on the ceiling, and read a bedtime story. Crib. Twenty minutes of babbling and griping. Sleep.

New bedtime routine: Bottle while watching kids' show. Pajamas. Tooth brushing. Good night hug with mama. Then chair time with daddy--but wait! Mama's leaving! Noooo, this cannot be! Stretch arms out for hug when she reaches the door, watch mama crumble and come back to the chair. Big family hug time, one happy grinning little baby. Mama drags herself away with many kisses and squidges. Noooooo! Hold arms out again! Mama bravely resists, mostly by holding her hands over her eyes, and now it's time to say goodnight to the happy bee, the duck on the ceiling, and have the bedtime story. Crib. Twenty minutes of babbling and griping. Sleep.

This girl loves hugs.

~~~~~

Last but not least: The toe-kissies, our newest game.

Mama: Can I kiss your toes, Frances?

(Frances grins wickedly and puts her feet out near mama's lips)

(Mama purses her lips and makes kissy noises and tries to kiss her toes)

(Frances waves her foot about, making mama chase her foot with the kissy noises, while cackling loudly)

(At last Mama makes toe contact!)

(Frances nearly dies in a fit of laughing so intesnse she is breathless and red-faced)

Mama: What great toes!

Frances: (giggles)

She likes kisses, too.

Posted by Andrea at 7:55 AM | Comments (11)

Frances-English Dictionary: Volume V

Frances has a FP Little People set that came with a dragon. This morning she was playing with it and I said, "what does a dragon do, Frances?" She looked adorable and said nothing. "Here, let me show you." I took it and made it fly, saying, "woosh woosh woosh!" before I gently tapped her on the nose with it.

We did that a few times, and then when she held the dragon, I said, "Can you make it go woosh?"

And with a smile bigger than her whole face, she whizzed it through the air.

Ameenomeenomeenomeenomeeno!: Your guess is as good as mine, but it's clearly urgent.
ahm--arm
had--hand
eeeee-er--ear
dooky--cookie
bed--bread
cheese--cheese
appo--apple and apple juice; also any kind of fruit she doesn't yet know
butto--button
boh-eeee--boy
goh--girl
tagr--tiger
dago--dragon

and astoundingly:

nap: nap, or bedtime.

Lest all sound idyllic on this compressed day off, let me say that Ms. Frances has a cold and has recently sneezed cheese through her nose. We are having a grand time.

Posted by Andrea at 11:16 AM | Comments (4)

Hello, Daddy

Frances's first sentence, said yesterday while watching Little Bear.

Then: Hello, Mama.

Our hearts melted, and she became the recipient of much petting and hugging.

Also:

Yesterday I picked Frances up from daycare (Erik is on vacation this week, and yesterday was his day "off" in celebration of birthday). I went into the infant room, where Frances is by far the smallest and the oldest, to see her sitting on one of the worker's laps, who was reading her and another baby a story.

she saw me and smiled. "Hi!" she said, then to the worker, "mama."

"Yes, that's your mama," said the worker. "Go on," and encouraged her to get to her feet.

She then crossed the room on her own wee legs while everyone clapped and cheered--even one of the babies. When she reached my arms she gave us all a triumphant smile.

I do worry a lot about how the world will accept her. This is in part informed by my own experiences of being "different," though our differences are, well, different, and our experiences will almost certainly be ... umm ... different. One of the ways I reassure myself is to remind myself how much everybody loves her.

It's true. You should see it. Not only her doting parents, but both sets of grandparents, all aunts and uncles, friends of the family, all the doctors she's ever had (her first geneticist said she was "exquisitely responsive" and another one called her "superbaby") and even the daycare workers. When I went to pick her up on Tuesday, I found her in the arms of the daughter of one of the daycare workers, volunteering for the day for school credit. She then told me how wonderful Frances was, and how much fun they'd had, and seemed quite sad to see her go.

OK, I know this is part of their job, but they never complain or have a single negative thing to say about her or taking care of her. Not even euphamisms like "My, she kept us busy today" or "she sure did miss her mommy."

I hold this in my fists like an amulet: People love her. They adore her. As long as she keeps whatever magical quality it is that draws people to her so (I never had it), I believe she will go through life just fine. I try to see it as my job to foster and encourage this so she comes to expect it and continues to approach new people with the expectation of being loved, because I think that this will help to keep it so.

That won't stop me from worrying, but it's a standard clause in the Mommy Contract, I think.

It also means I'm going to have to get better at squashing my own trepidation and shyness around new people.

She also knows her shapes now: Square, circle, traingle, heart and star. She can only say "heart" and "star" so far, but she can point out the others when asked.

Posted by Andrea at 8:50 AM | Comments (6)

Frances-English Dictionary: Volume IV

On top of rapidly expanding vocabulary, we now also have: whispering.

She likes to whisper. She'll say something at a normal volume, and then whisper it, as follows:

"Frances, can you say 'nose'?"

whispers: "no," with a little headshake.

"No? Do you have a nose?"

whispers: "no," same headshake.

"Where is your belly? Can you show me your belly?"

whispers: "no"

Or:

Frances puts her arms in the air. "Yay!"

I put my arms in the air. "Yay!"

Frances puts her arms in the air, and whispers, "yay."

Rinse, repeat, at least a dozen times.

Or:

"Nitey-nite, Frances. I love you."

Waves and whispers, "bye-bye."

"Bye bye, sweet girl. Sleep well."

Whispers, "mama."

It's so sweet, such a soft, gentle whisper. I could listen to it all day.

And in the vocabulary department:

bed--bread
eeyoh--eeyore
diggeh--tigger
pooh--pooh
lellow--yellow
blue--blue (she can identify the other colours, but she doesn't say them yet)
dock--sock
at--hat
book--book
light--light
doh-eez--toys
bok--block
ug--hug
mwah!--kiss
Nano--Shadow (on Bear in the Big Blue House)
appa--happy (couldn't get her to say 'birthday' though)
aploo--I love you (her favourite time to say this is when we've put her to bed in the evening and she doesn't want to sleep yet--"aploo!" she'll call out as we shut the door, her last desperate ploy to get some more play time. It doesn't work, but it does make me feel terribly guilty.)

Posted by Andrea at 9:06 AM | Comments (5)

That's one small step for Frances, one giant leap for Franceskind

This is what happens when I have long weekends. I come back on Tuesdays and blather endlessly.

Ahem.

Frances is really walking now. As in, she stands, she sees somewhere she wants to go, she gets there on her feet. She's a bit wobbly still, falls down from time to time (and hates it), and won't tackle anything longer than about 7 feet yet, but she walks. For real. She can even change directions midstride, and is almost capable of squatting to get something and standing up again.

My big girl! I'm so proud of her.

A picture will be posted sometime over the next few days.

Posted by Andrea at 9:40 AM | Comments (6)

Frances-English Dictionary: Volume Three

This will be an ongoing series. I'll try to space them out a bit, but I'm afraid that if I do, I'll miss some. So, recently:

mik: milk
nak: snack, or eating/hunger in general
No: no, maybe, yes, definitely not, possibly later, i'm not sure right now (I so hope this is a stage)
Dawg: Dog
Ow-oo: Owl
Tickoticko: Tickle
Blik: Block
Boo: Peekaboo

And the very newest entries, which can be filed under The Ones That Will Guarantee Her a Place In The Inheritance:

Mummmmmmmmmm!: Mumms (what grandma prefers to be called). Said with a big squeal and two arms opened wide for a hug.
Baba!: Grandpa

Posted by Andrea at 7:12 PM | Comments (4)

Frances-English Dictionary: Volume Two

Well, I must be sick. I can't believe I forgot the most important part of coming on here:

New words! All just learned over the weekend.

Ballu: Bottle
Bunny: Bunny
yaa: Animal (usually cat)
Bi: Boy (refers to toys)
Wah: Frog

One I forgot from before:

Mine!: Mine!

I think we are getting to the stage where new words are coming fast and furious. It's so fun and exciting.

I miss her. It's been six whole hours since she left, three of which I was asleep, and I miss her. *sniff*

Posted by Andrea at 11:32 AM | Comments (6)

No Tears Today

Erik's parents visited on the weekend. Did I mention that last week? I can't remember. You will all be pleased to know that they were much easier to deal with than our last visitors. Frances was scared to death of her Opa and would not willingly let him touch her, though she sometimes allowed him to come within a few cm without wailing. It was very entertaining for the rest of us, but I think Opa was a bit hurt. Which, if I were 83 and this was only the third time I'd seen my granddaughter, I might be too.

Poor Bunny was sick. Not horribly, puking evil-sick, but tired, grumpy, I-don't-want-to-eat-today sick. And today I am in a fabulous position to once again affirm her status as World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None--because I came down with what she's got, and man, it sucks. You have to be a Mom I think to get the flu in July. And yet the worst we got out of Frances this past weekend were a few cranks.

Needless to say, I am not at work. I am afraid to eat and moving seems to trigger nausea, so here I sit. In the basement, where it is cool, because it is insanely brutally hot outside today. The high will probably reach over 40 Celsius with the humidity today, which in fahrenheit is about 106 degrees.

Yesterday was fabulous, though--my first compressed day off. Ah. Frances and I went to visit a friend yesterday morning, and she had a mini nap in the car on the way back, and then that was it for the day. Because I am a suck, I couldn't let her cry for more than 15 minutes to fall asleep when she'd just woken up on what was supposed to be a special day off together, so I gave in and she stayed up and was cranky for the rest of the day. But, because this is Frances, it was a special Frances form of cranky involving a few fussy moments but mostly happy playtime.

This, by the by, is my roundabout way of saying "There isn't going to be a tearjerker today, and, by the way, I'm not dead, though at some moments I kind of wish I were."

It is also a reminder that the compressed days off are going to be a regular occurence now, so anyone in the GTA who was hoping to get together on one, email me and we'll set something up.

Also, my husband is turning 40 (40!) in a few weeks, and I have a Dastardly Scheme in place for his birthday. I don't think he reads my blog, but just in case, I'm not saying any more. Tune in on August 4 for the play-by-play.

Posted by Andrea at 11:24 AM | Comments (3)

And now: The moment we've all been waiting for

Last night we were in the basement for the post-dinner pre-bedtime playtime, and Frances, as she likes to do, was ignoring all of her toys in favour of clambering all over Mummy. Around and around, over and around, belly button! belly button! mole!

If I had any idea that she would find my belly button and my mole so endlessly entertaining, I might have bought her a few less toys. Anyway.

There she was, thoroughly enjoying the Jungle Gym of Mom, when she let my mole out of her sharp little pincer grip and stood. She stood there for a few seconds, clearly enjoying the sensation of standing. Wow! I'm so tall this way! Very exciting.

I saw the thoughts whirring through her head.

I should sit down and crawl over to Mummy. That's what I should do. Oh, but wait a minute. What if I walked instead? Hmm. That has possibilities. Well, why not? I'll just give it a try. Ok then, here we go!

And she took four steps all by herself over to grab onto my hip.

Erik clapped, I clapped, I cried, I gave her a big hug and a kiss. Frances smiled and looked very pleased with herself. Wow, if that's the reaction I get, I'll have to do this more often.

I hate to say it, baby girl, but when you're four years old it's going to take a bit more than walking to get Mom excited. But I'm sure you'll have other tricks by then.

Posted by Andrea at 7:23 AM | Comments (6)

Honestly, I wasn't going to come on again tonight, but this just couldn't wait until tomorrow

SHE WALKED!

Posted by Andrea at 6:46 PM | Comments (14)

More of the million things I love about you

Your feet; specifically, all of the things you do with your feet these days. Like, when you are using your little cart as a walker, and you stare down in amazement at this wonderful thing your feet are doing. Look at them go!

The stomping, too. We ask you to stomp your feet, and you whiz those little size-three pudgers up and down, making a barely discernable "tap tap tap." With little feet it's hard to make a big noise. You smile and we laugh and clap because it's SO CUTE. Such itty bitty teeny little pudgy feet, stomping so hard, making hardly any noise.

You manage to make quite a racket, though, when you thump on request--sitting and drumming your heels on the floor. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP! Good thumping! we say. You grin and thump some more.

I love those teeny feet of yours, still so soft and smooth, free of callouses and wear, and with that adorable baby pudge to them. Sometimes I just hold one of your feet in my hands, enjoying the feel of it. And the toes! Five tiny perfect pink toes, all curled under in a row. I don't mind kissing your feet at all, and neither do you--you hold your little toes out to me, right by my lips, for a kiss.

By the way, I still have dibs on the baby toe on your left foot. It is my special favourite.

Tickling is fun now, too. Once I said to you, "That's it! If you lie on your back when I'm around, I'm going to tickle you." And I did. I suppose a parenting manual somewhere would tell me that was wrong, since apparently tickling makes kids feel powerless. I wonder how they would explain that you now routinely smile at me, sit down, and roll over onto your little back right by my feet, waiting for the tickling to begin? The little rolls right behind your knees are your favourite spots to be tickled, followed closely by your sides right under your arms. You also like it when I tickle your face with my hair.

And peekaboo! I can't forget peekaboo, how you'll cruise around me and "hide" behind my back, your two little warm hands resting on each side of my spine. "Where's Frances?" I'll cry. "Where did she go? Oh no! She must have run away again. What will I do?" And on and on I go, all the while pretending that I can't feel you leaning into me from behind, until at last you toddle round again with that huge smile you save for your Dad and me alone--the one that makes your eyes light up like two little stars trapped in blue glass. That smile is worth it, baby girl; even on the 20th time.

You like to play peekaboo with your hands now, too, one pudgy little palm covering each eye while we change your diaper or carry you upstairs. It is difficult not to laugh as we pretend we don't know where you are, all the while wiping your butt or having your head rest on our shoulders, but we do it. You are such fun. Even though these days you spoil your own game by peeking from between your fingers or around the side of your hand.

Girl child, you are so beautiful you make my heart break.

When your Dad carries you around the house on one arm, the sight of your little blond fuzzy head bobbing beside his, that impossible cowlick at the back standing straight up as usual, fills me with such joy. What do I do with it all? It hardly seems it can fit inside me.

You like to ride in your stroller or wagon with your feet propped up on the dash. I'm the same way; I like to have my feet tucked up underneath me on a chair, or up on the armrest.

That's not the only thing you got from me: My sweet tooth is another. Lord, girl, the way you can put back chocolate after eating a full meal is an amazement to me. And you're still only fifteen pounds! Supermodels the world over would kill for your metabolism. You also are not so keen on the raw fruits and veggies. I never was, either. Don't worry, I won't push them on you. If you're as stubborn as I was, it would only cause a fight I know I wouldn't win. We'll find another way for you to get your vitamins.

And then I don't need to worry about cooking brussel sprouts. Blech.

I love the way you crawl with your toys clasped in one hand; a nice three-legged crawl/drag across the floor that looks so painful and slow--but you do it time and time again, so it must be great as far as you're concerned. I think you'll find this is a lot easier when you learn to walk.

I love how much you love my belly button and the mole on my arm. Who knew you would be so fascinated by them? I don't remember seeing this in the baby manual. But when you are tired or fretful, if I lie down on my back, you will crawl over, work one hand into my belly button and wrap the other one around my mole and collapse, head on my ribs, perfectly content.

I wish I could ask you why. By the time you're old enough to have the words to tell me, it probably won't work anymore.

Have I mentioned before that I love your big blue eyes? They are more beautiful every day.

Aww, hell. Maybe it would be easier to list the things I don't love about you:

I think that about sums it up.

You're the best idea I ever had, baby girl.

Posted by Andrea at 2:24 PM | Comments (2)

Frances-English Dictionary

Hmm. Not bad for an 18-month-old, eh?

Daw--Car, truck, other vehicle
Daw--Dog
Daw--Cat
Daw--Star

Nana--Banana
Nanoo--Daniel

Appo--Apple (not that she eats apples, but she likes to look at them)
Moh--Milk

Umm--That was good, I'd like some more

Aploo--I love you

Moe!--More!
Moe--Mole

Mama--Woman who provides me with toys
Dada--Man who provides me with toys

Hi!--Here you are!
Bye!--I'm leaving now.
'Lo--This is a fun stick I am holding to my ear

Baba--Belly button
Nof--Nose
Mouf--Mouth
I--eye
Doe--Toes
Bayleee--Belly
Neh--Knee

Bap--Book
Lap--Light/lamp (also, sometimes, hole)
Naeef--Knife

Wow!--Wow!
Uh oh!--Uh oh!

Nooooooooooo--No
Nooooooooooo!--Not on your life
Yeah yeah yeah--OK
Yes--Maybe

Wa--What's that?
Da--There's something over there.
Ooooh--I want that
Ah-ah-ah!--Look at that!

Dagoo--(untranslatable)

Blahblahblah--Pay attention to me!

Lye-oh!--Lion
Bluh--Blue, the dog (not the cartoon character one)
Bay--Bear
Duckkkkkk!--Duck, and any other small yellow thing
Baw--ball, and many other round objects besides
EEEEEEElmo!--Elmo!

Bwawa--Flower

Pless--Gimme

Bebee--Baby, person not yet an adult

Posted by Andrea at 10:46 AM | Comments (4)

Milestone

Here is the WBBE, BN, facing forward in her carseat for the first time.

Do you think she likes it?

Posted by Andrea at 6:08 AM | Comments (13)

Mama's Little Helper

We are having guests for the weekend. Not only does this mean I won't have any time for blog until I go back to work on Monday, it means we've been working hard to get ready. And Frances, bless her wee heart, has been doing her little bit to help out. Mostly by being quiet and cooperative and adorable, but not entirely.

This morning I laid out 18 cans of pop in front of her to put in the fridge. I sat in front of the open door and asked her, "Frances, can you pass me a can?" And she would very seriously select one, carefully lift it with both hands and hold it out to me. Then I would put it in the fridge and tell her what a wonderful and helpful girl she is.

She did that for all 18 cans.

So now you see how it is: She really is the World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None. Who else at 18 months (17 adjusted) would be such a little helper?

Also today she started one-handed walking (walking while holding only one of our hands, instead of needing both). I know I keep saying this, but she's got to start walking sometime, right? Anyway.

Posted by Andrea at 9:52 AM | Comments (9)

Oh good.

Goofy the Space Alien is a colourful puppet I bought Frances for Christmas at the One of a Kind Show last year. His mouth squeaks and there is a stick attached to his left hand so you can make him do hand gestures.

He is the bane of my existence.

Frances loves Goofy--at least, now she does. She loves it when Goofy eats her feet or licks her neck, when he points to things, pats her on the head, or even just sits there, a red lump on Mummy's knee.

When she sees him, she will crawl over, pick him up, and hold him out to be with big, pleading blue eyes. If I don't notice within a few seconds, tears will threaten.

Yesterday, she figured out the magic of "more" with Goofy. She'll point to him and say, "more!"

Today, a new milestone, in more than one way. She pointed to him and very clearly said...

..."MINE!"

Posted by Andrea at 7:32 AM | Comments (3)

Must-See TV

Monday, Wednesdays and Fridays at 7:00 pm I am glued to Treehouse for the Bear in the Big Blue House. Frances drinks her bedtime milk bottle and we all sit on the couch to watch Frances's favourite television program--and my favourite too, despite the 4:1 male:female ratio and the absolute lack of adult female characters (seriously--how do they reproduce?).

It's Frances's favourite because of the nose.

Have you seen the show? If you have, then you know that Bear starts every show by welcoming the viewer into the Big Blue House, only to stop and say, "Say...what's that smell?" Then he sniffs the camera. "oooh, smells like [insert yummy food or pretty natural item here]" and sniffs the camer again.

That big black nose sniffing the camera lens drives Frances crazy. She loves it. She howls with laughter and the high of it keeps her chuckling for the whole show.

So, of course, Erik and I bellow, guffaw and chuckle too. Look at that nose! He's sniffing the camera! It's hilarious! You've never seen anything funnier, have you?

And this makes it my favourite show. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night at 7 pm. I would not miss the sight of Frances howling at Bear's big black nose for the world.

Posted by Andrea at 12:13 PM | Comments (6)

Blah Blah Blah

Those of you who have (or have had) toddlers will know all about the stage of pre-talking babbling they go through--nonsense syllables strung together that sound like language. Frances's most recent favourite?

Blah blah blah.

Yes. Blah Blah blah.

She'll sit there with her toys, in her own world, saying, "Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah."

And I laugh a lot. And ask her to say it again. Over and over.

Posted by Andrea at 10:40 AM | Comments (1)

Me and my girl

Just hanging out.

Posted by Andrea at 8:04 AM | Comments (3)

Leaps and Bounds

And now for the stuff you're all really reading this for:

1. Frances has learned how to put on sunglasses. Almost. She opens them and sticks the bars to either side of her head, but she hasn't quite learned how to hook them over her ears, so instead she positions the lenses in front of her eyes and holds them there with one hand. She especially likes my sunglasses; her own are ok (I managed to capture on cf a few shots of her putting her sunglasses on. Almost) but mine she will whip right off of me (leaving me squinting and teary-eyed in the sunlight) so she can carefully position the huge black frames right over her own eyeglasses. Sunglasses! A marvelous toy. Who'd have guessed?

2. She has learned to say "uh oh," but not what it means. So over the weekend we'd uh-oh back and forth for ten or twenty minutes at a time. "Uh oh!" I'd say. "Uh oh!" she'd say. And so on. And last night when we put her to bed, Erik and I sat in our room next door trying hard not to laugh out loud while we heard her "uh oh!" herself to sleep.

3. She has also learned the Joy of Elmo. Like tomama, I am at a loss. Where did this come from? She has a few toys with Elmo on it, but she has never seen an episode of Sesame Street.

We learned of her new obsession from the patio set her grandparents brought over, which happens to be Sesame Street themed. There are pictures of Big Bird, Grover, Bert and Ernie, the Cookie Monster, Oscar the Grouch, Elmo and a character I don't recognize (looks kind of like Elmo but orange and also, I might add, THE ONLY GIRL. This pisses me off, but it's a post for another day). She can identify all of the characters and point them out when asked, which amazes me enough on its own considering (I'll say it again) she has never seen a single episode of Sesame Street.

But for Elmo, she will not only point him out but shriek: "EEEEEEElmo! EEEEEElmo!" While Erik and I look at each other, shake our heads and say, "Oh boy, we're in trouble." Erik persists in believing that it must be the daycare's fault, that they must be letting them watch Sesame Street or something. I've tried to tell him about stickiness and the apparent magic of Elmo, but he's not having it yet.

4. Frances has a Fisher Price infant-to-toddler rocker that switches back and forth between a rocking chair and an infant chair. You all probably know the one I mean; I could look up a picture, but I'm lazy. Anyway. We keep it in the infant chair stage b/c she never sits in it, she just uses it as a piece of furniture to cruise around, and it's more stable that way.

Except this weekend she has decided that its proper use is as a walker-without-wheels. She pushes it all around the first floor. Her whole body is on a 45-degree angle as she does so, and she looks like a really small person pushing a really small car out of a ditch (only it's not a car, it's a chair). Whatever gets you to walk, kiddo, as long as it doesn't scratch up the floor.

5. However, her eye is beginning to bother us. It doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest, but we are nervous. As her parents, nervousness is clearly stipulated in the contract; we are merely following our job descriptions.

What about her eye is bothering us? Well, since the ear infection, which was accompanied by goop out of her left eye, her left eye seems to have gotten a bit lazy and will drift towards the centre. It's been a few days now and it's very alarming to see one eye just wander over to the middle while the other one is looking straight at you. I persist in believing that it's Probably Nothing Much; but Erik is taking her back to the doctor's this afternoon, just to be sure.

6. She is becoming very interested in the mechanics of clothing. If she finds a pair of her socks on the floor, she will hold them over her feet as if they will snake themselves on without any assistance. And she will try to work her little leg into her pants (so far not successfully). But by far the most fun are the hats: When she finds them, she tries earnestly to figure out how to put it on her head. Normally she needs a bit of help, but once it's on there she is quite satisfied and will play happily for up to thirty minutes, her little head well-protected from the 13-watt compact flourescent lightbulbs.

Posted by Andrea at 8:15 AM | Comments (3)

Goofballs Beget Goofballs

In the World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None department:

Frances has started blowing raspberries on my stomach. It is at least as funny and adorable as you think.

I think I've mentioned before how she is fascinated with my belly button, and will crawl over to me to hike up my shirt and poke at it, saying "baba! baba!" (This means belly button in Francesese, and she says it about herself too--hikes up her little shirt, pokes her belly button and says "baba!") And as I've told Casey, she also like/d/s to bite it--take little nibbles, which I try to discourage. But now she's decided it's much more fun to kiss, and she does. LOUDLY.

It's hilarious. She is such a funny kid.

I think she has picked this up from me, since when I change her diaper I give her a few loud belly kisses. Fair is fair, right?

Also, in the Wife of the Year category (since I can't compete with Phantom Scribbler): last night I made french onion soup and steakes frites for dinner. And it was goooood. Enough sherry to float us both soundly to sleep. Enough leftovers to get us through at least one more big meal. Filling enough that I still felt stuffed this morning after one serving.

Yumm.

Posted by Andrea at 7:43 AM | Comments (2)

Kisses, Steps and Stillness

The internet here today is sloooooow. Moving at the speed of wood. Makes work interesting, since the networks etc. are also sloooooow.

But I have some additions to the brags that will simply not wait for network repairs:

Yesterday, Frances kissed me. Gooey wet lips all over my face. I almost cried. It was so sweet. Normally when I ask her for a kiss she puts up her face to my lips so I'll give her one--she likes being kissed, she does. "Well I could mama, but I'd really rather if YOU kissed ME." So these little spontaneous kisses were lovely.

She also had some more shuffling steps, including a few to ME. Yay! My favourite two steps of all the little steps she's taken so far. Then we had a nice hug while I clapped loudly.

Yesterday when Erik showed up to collect Frances from daycare, they had all just gone outside to play, and he found her sitting in the infants' yard staring at the big kids' (preschoolers) yard and watching them run around and play.

"She always does that when we first come out," said Sonya, her afternoon daycare worker. "Just for a few minutes, she stares at the big kids playing. Then she decides to play herself and finds something to do."

I wonder what she's thinking as she sits there watching them play? Does she look up to them? Does she envy all the loud, mobile fun they are having with their Big Kid toys? Does she want to be one of them or is she a bit frightened of them? I guess I'll never know. But the mental image of my itty bitty girl sitting quietly and watching the big kids run around and laugh and swing from the gym makes me smile. Of course, nearly everything she does makes me smile, but this is different--this image of her so quiet and still, surrounded by movement, just strikes me as perfectly her.

Posted by Andrea at 9:55 AM | Comments (0)

I see I need to set something straight:

It's true that Frances's eyes now look like my eyes now (even the colour, mostly, though it doesn't show in those photos) but her eyes now look nothing like my eyes when I was a baby:

But they do look a lot like Erik's eyes when he was a baby:

And just to really cement it, here is our nephew on Erik's side when he was a baby:

The girl's got my colouring, but I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if she looks mostly like Erik's sister when she grows up. And there would be worse things; she's a looker, for sure.

Posted by Andrea at 8:13 PM | Comments (4)

Let's Pretend

Yesterday Frances and I discovered a new game: It's called "Let's pretend I'm going to give you something." It goes like this: I hold out my hand, and she pretends to put something in it, by holding her fingers close together until they're touching my palm and then letting go with a dramatic swoosh. Then I say "thank you!" and close my hand and pull it away. Then, "Would you like to have it back?" And I put my hand out, open. And she pretends to pick it up, by pinching her little fingers together on my palm.

This is lots and lots of fun. She laughs, I laugh, everybody laughs.

Then we reverse it and I pretend to give her things, opening my fingers over her hand then scooping the invisible whatever-it-is back up again. She howls at this. She laughs so hard that the invisible whatever-it-is spills all over the floor because she can't keep her hand steady.

My beanie baby has an imagination! It's so cute.

And yesterday--

she stepped!

A few shuffling hands-free steps on the deck outside. She did she did! OK, I know every other baby her age is already walking. But I'm so proud of her! Her first little steps, and I got to see them.

My baby. I love her.

Posted by Andrea at 6:49 AM | Comments (4)

Rubber Duckie, you're the one

Frances has finally found herself a "Transitional Object," as the developmental psychologists call it. In layspeak, The Toy That Must Not Be Left Behind.

She brings it with her everywhere around the house, clenched tightly in her right fist, and often stuffed into her mouth. This is quite difficult when one is not yet walking and necessitates dragging her butt along the ground with her free hand. She becomes quite upset if it is out of eyesight for even the briefest moment. She will not put it down even to eat or hold her sippy cup. It goes upstairs; it goes downstairs; it goes in the car.

It is her little rubber duckie.

Is this the only baby in the world who prefers a little rubber duckie bath toy to a stuffed animal or blanket?

Posted by Andrea at 9:48 AM | Comments (4)

A Short Course in Cloud Physics

Frances loves books. Not so much for reading, at this stage, though she does enjoy her nightly snuggle and bedtime story with Daddy. And she likes flipping through them (mostly upside down) and pointing out the pictures. If she knows what it's a picture of, we might be treated to some commentary. "Star! Bug! Dog! Cat!" and so on.

But what she really loves to do with books, is take them off the shelves and strew them all over the floor. "Up! Up! Up!" she'll say, hoisting herself to her feet. Then pull them down one by one, examining each, and making a nice big pile on the floor to slip on when she gets bored.

In our family room this is by far her favourite activity, though she does have a nice little basket of toys on a mat in the corner. Toys are fine; books are better, especially in a pile on the floor.

But there is one book she doesn't just pull of the shelf and drop. It is a 1970's style textbook, a brown paperback with an abstract graphic on the front that could be anything, but to Frances obviously looks a bit like a flower, because she will pull it off the shelf, point to the graphic and say "bwawa!" (Flower in Francesese.) She will then plunk herself on her little butt and flip through this textbook very seriously.

If you can imagine anything more adorable than a 13 1/2 lb baby solemnly turning the pages of a textbook entitled "A Short Course in Cloud Physics," I'd like to hear it. Especially when she's wearing her glasses.

I tell Erik she takes after him and is developing his meteorological fixation very early. "Too bad, kiddo," he says. "There's no future in meteorology these days."

Posted by Andrea at 7:33 AM | Comments (1)

A silly song

Sometimes, when I'm carrying Frances around (she's so carryable--is it possible that's why she's not walking yet?), I'll spin her around the living room for a bit, a pretend-waltz to this little tune:

It had to be you.
It had to be you.
Some baby who
has eyes so blue.
It had to be you.

With a heart so true,
and strong and smart too.
Who makes me feel glad
when I've been sad,
by just being you.

She smiles, but of course she has no real idea what I'm saying.

Such a lucky mummy I am.

Posted by Andrea at 7:32 AM | Comments (1)

Joy To The World

Randomness is funny. The shuffle on my IPod keeps throwing Christmas songs at me--not what I want to listen to on a nice day in mid-April. I know that the laws of mathematics say that this is perfectly normal, but it still seems strange. What I should do is take the Christmas songs off the IPod.

Yesterday Frances began cruising along furniture with one hand. She's getting closer. She's wobbly, but determined.

I hope everyone else is planning on enjoying the beautiful weather we'll be having this weekend. We'll be packing. Spare a thought for us while you're sunbathing on the beach, ok?

A "emergency" project I thought I had completed last week has just been totally changed so I get to do it all over again. Doesn't that sound like fun? Admit it. You're jealous. I love working for government. At least it's Friday and we're going out for a nice long lunch to see someone off.

And I got my tuition refund, finally. Now if that's not good timing I don't know what is.

In one week, we're closing on the new house; in ten days, we're moving into it.

Posted by Andrea at 9:43 AM | Comments (2)

Me and My Shadow

Frances has been making friends with her shadow over the past week.

A week ago it was staring and pointing--"Da!" she'd say. "It's your shadow," I'd reply, and shake her little hand at it so she could see what happens.

Now she sees, points, and waves her little hand at herself.

In eight days, we're closing on the new house. In eleven days, we're moving. I can't believe it's finally here, but to tell you the truth, eleven days still feels far away.

Posted by Andrea at 7:26 AM | Comments (0)

Walking is on the way

Yesterday Frances stood.

I mean by herself. Not holding on to anything. She wobbled on her little feet for a few seconds then sat down hard. I clapped, I cheered, I cried a little, she grinned.

Erik was at his french course. Bwa ha ha. I am not pleased about the french course, so I am quite happy that Frances is joining me in this by doing all kinds of cool things while he's not here. Last week, climbing the stairs. This week, standing!

I'm not happy about being a single mom every Monday for the next eight weeks or so, but I'm enjoying our time together. Yesterday we went for a short walk, I fed her supper, then we watched her Baby Einstein World Animals dvd. She loves that one. She names all the animals she can when she sees them. Brr! for birds. Tagoon! for tiger. Dada! for monkey. Funny, but true. And there's a scene where one monkey puppet is going to eat a banana, then another monkey-puppet comes along and makes a banana split. Nana! she says. Baw! for each scoop of ice cream and the cherry on top. What a clever bean.

We also had great fun building towers out of peekablocks. She can now stack them five blocks high. These are big, slippery blocks. Not easy to stack. She is very precise about it, too, nudging them carefully so they are as close to perfectly aligned as she can get them. And if I stack up a tower, she very carefully disassembles it, removing each block one by one, trying hard not to send the whole thing crashing over.

She's trying for six, but once it gets to that height it's just about as tall as she is, sitting down, and it gets hard for her to manage lifting the block into position. I built a pyramid yesterday to see if she was interested in anything more complicated yet. She wasn't, except as a source of building materials.

We had a great time on the weekend too--spent lots of time at the park where Frances giggled, squealed and bellowed her pleasure at the swings, slide, grass and sand. Sand less so than the rest, but still fun. She stared at all the other kids hanging around, including the too-cool teens already wearing tanks and shorts, and the kids on their bicycles. We also met up with a NICU friend; another girl who was born on the same day as Frances and whose parents were with us in prenatal classes. She was a term baby in the NICU for an infection, and went home after a few days.

This baby was twice as big as Frances then, and is at least twice as big as Frances now. I know I'm a poor judge of baby sizes, given that Frances is my standard, but this kid is big. I honestly thought she was at least two, maybe three, until I got close enough to recognize her. A BIG KID. Her poor grandma couldn't even lift her to the top of the kiddy slide!

We also got to see the house we're moving into on the 25th again. Two weeks today we will have moved--it will all be over but the unpacking (ugh ugh ugh). And we will be broke forever (ugh ugh ugh). Ten days from now we will be closing on the new house. Hard to believe it's all coming up so fast.

But it was great to see the house again, measure out the rooms, decide where the Bean is going to sleep, begin to think about layouts, measure for baby gates etc. Which meant we were finally able to buy one, knowing that we would be able to take it with us and use it in our new house too. So now Frances can't climb up the stairs whenever she wants. She is pining for it, but I am finally able to relax on the couch for more than three seconds without hearing her say "up! up! up!" from the hallway.

Posted by Andrea at 8:21 AM | Comments (1)

World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None

With this post I will (briefly) have an exactly equal number of entries and comments. Yay me! I like comments. It would be even more impressive if I hadn't lost so many comments in the transition over to the new blog. Anyway.

Also, I owe Tanya her Tuesday Tearjerker. And I am stumped today.

Yesterday was lovely. I haven't been able to spend as much time with Frances as usual lately because of the packing and moving, so it was great to have a few extra hours. Mind you it ended up being a bit more exhausting than before because of her Great New Stair-Climbing Trick. But still. We went to the mall. We went to the local scrapbooking store (I confess: I am a scrapper) for one last visit before the move because the lady who works there adores Frances and has bugged me about not bringing her in since January. So of course I bought scrapping stuff I don't need--but it was a nice visit nonetheless (and proof that being nice to your customers pays off). We chatted up a family at the opthamologists who came all the way from Sudbury to see this doctor. Shortage of specialists in Northern Ontario indeed. No wonder it's always overbooked. But the mom adored Frances and played with her for the thirty minutes before her name was called.

It was great to have that time with her. Just hanging out. Every once in a while she'd stare up at me through the stroller window and smile, and I'd smile back. And wave. She carried around her arrowroot cookies for a few hours (I am a big believer in the old saying "a cookie for each hand") ocassionally taking a nibble and pleased as punch with herself and her place in the world.

Sometimes I feel like I vacillate between the extremes here. Frances is fabulous; I love being her mom! Motherhood stinks; it's an oppressive institution of the patriarchy! The thing is, they're both true. I think. Frances is a wonderful person and I love being her mom but at the same time, there are a lot of aspects of the institution of motherhood that are unnecessary and cause tremendous harm to women simply to keep them in their place, doing a huge and necessary job for free. It's getting easier to say that without fearing the backlash of "you must be a bad mother and hate your baby if you don't love all or most aspects of motherhood." Easier. Not easy though.

I am so totally head over heels in love with Frances it's not funny. When I gush over her--it's genuine. I'm not exagerrating. I try very hard to find the one exact right word to describe how I feel or what is going on--most of the time I end up uneasy, thinking I fell short, that the words I chose don't go far enough, but there's nothing else better out there. I find Ms. Waldman's perspective puzzling (and I would link to the article, but can't--the NY Times has moved it into the paid archive. Bastards!). It's not that I judge her or believe her to be a bad mother because she loves her husband more--I just can't imagine it. I didn't consciously decide that my children should be my life; I've never agreed with any of the parenting crap out there that tries to guilt or pressure moms into behaving or feeling in certain ways; so I'm pretty sure that for me this was just inevitable. Hello, Frances; you are my life.

Believe me when I say it surprised me as much as anyone.

So how is it I can complain so much about motherhood, then?

Because motherhood is not the same thing as being a mom, and because Frances is neither of those things; because I have no trouble separating them in my mind and thinking and talking about them as separate things. Frances is not the role I play. The role I play is not the same as the institution that's sold in magazines and TV shows and books and movies and pulpits. To me, Motherhood is the institution, and the institution only; it's the product that people try to sell me (us). Being a mom is my relationship with my little girl, and Motherhood has practically no bearing on it. And Frances, of course, is herself only; she cares nothing for this Motherhood and Being a Mom business, so long as I, as her Mom, am reasonably present, affectionate, and helpful.

But who could help it? She is such a doll. Such a little sweet bee, my honeybee, my sodapop. She claps her hands for the sheer joy of having hands to clap. She squeals to see plants, stars, bears and flowers (which she can now say! But it sounds like "bwawa").

Every night after she goes to bed, Erik and I have this conversation:

"I love her," I say. "What a snugglebug."

"Yup," says Erik. "She's a sweetie."

We are both grinning ear to ear.

"The other parents must be very jealous," I say. "When they see we've won the Baby Lottery."

"Yup," says Erik.

"Not that I can blame them," I say. "She is the World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None."

(Sorry, Mom Readers; I had to break it to you sometime.)

Erik grins and laughs at me, but I know it's only because he's glad I'm saying it so he doesn't have to.

And I can't help it. Every night, I have a more or less incoherent conversation with my husband about how wonderfully fabulous and sweet our little girl is, and how much I love hugging her, and which body part is the daily favourite, and how lucky I am to be the mother to such an amazing and sweet and loveable little person. Dimly I am aware, in the deepest recesses of my brain, that other mothers very likely feel the same way about their babies. BUT THEY ARE WRONG. Ahem, sorry about that. What I meant to say is, that it doesn't change in the least my conviction that Frances really is the Grand Prize in the Baby Lottery. The Best Baby Every, Bar None.

(And you will note that she is still a baby, not a toddler. I have no intention of letting her become a toddler, whether she toddles or not. She is a baby until she is old enough to tell me otherwise. That is my official position.)

I have proof:

She hardly ever cries. Except for when she wakes up at night, or if she falls over, even very very slowly so her head doesn't even touch the floor. She is not one of those babies who falls over and gets up as if nothing happened. Every tumble is a tragedy. But it only gives me another excuse to hug her, which is jim-dandy by me.

And speaking of hugs, she gives hugs on request. I say, "Can I have a hug, Frances?" And she crawls over to wrap her itty-bitty celery-stick arms tight around my neck and burrow her head into my shoulder. Sometimes it only lasts for a few seconds before she is wriggling to get back down to her toys, but still. She gives hugs on request. What could be better than that?

She still has newborn-soft skin. Like velveteen or expensive cashmere.

She likes to be snuggled. She is very happy to allow me to carry her just about everywhere. But she doesn't demand it and is happy to ride in her stroller or crawl around too.

Actually, she is just happy. So happy. Smiling and laughing all the time, over just about anything. Look, Mom! It's a teddy bear! A picture of a teddy bear on my box of peekablocks. Oh, and there are peekablocks inside! This one has balls in it, this one has ducks! A puppy! Look at this one, it's shiny! Isn't it great?

She has the world's biggest, brightest blue eyes. When she is solemn they are very round and wide and she stares without blinking for minutes on end. When she is happy they crinkle up like an old lady's. They are amazing eyes. Oodles of nice old ladies and young girls at the shopping malls agree.

She lets me kiss her whenever I want to.

When she wakes up in the morning she stretches out to her full 26 1/4 inches and rubs her eyes, just like a big person. Then she points to her light and says "lap!"

When she is sitting and getting ready to stand she says, "up! up! up!"

It's a good thing I know so many amazing moms of spirited kids. This keeps me humble and reminds me that whyever it is that Frances is so cooperative, accomodating, loveable and sweet, it has precious little to do with me. It's all her.

Posted by Andrea at 11:19 AM | Comments (3)

World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None

With this post I will (briefly) have an exactly equal number of entries and comments. Yay me! I like comments. It would be even more impressive if I hadn't lost so many comments in the transition over to the new blog. Anyway.

Also, I owe Tanya her Tuesday Tearjerker. And I am stumped today.

Yesterday was lovely. I haven't been able to spend as much time with Frances as usual lately because of the packing and moving, so it was great to have a few extra hours. Mind you it ended up being a bit more exhausting than before because of her Great New Stair-Climbing Trick. But still. We went to the mall. We went to the local scrapbooking store (I confess: I am a scrapper) for one last visit before the move because the lady who works there adores Frances and has bugged me about not bringing her in since January. So of course I bought scrapping stuff I don't need--but it was a nice visit nonetheless (and proof that being nice to your customers pays off). We chatted up a family at the opthamologists who came all the way from Sudbury to see this doctor. Shortage of specialists in Northern Ontario indeed. No wonder it's always overbooked. But the mom adored Frances and played with her for the thirty minutes before her name was called.

It was great to have that time with her. Just hanging out. Every once in a while she'd stare up at me through the stroller window and smile, and I'd smile back. And wave. She carried around her arrowroot cookies for a few hours (I am a big believer in the old saying "a cookie for each hand") ocassionally taking a nibble and pleased as punch with herself and her place in the world.

Sometimes I feel like I vacillate between the extremes here. Frances is fabulous; I love being her mom! Motherhood stinks; it's an oppressive institution of the patriarchy! The thing is, they're both true. I think. Frances is a wonderful person and I love being her mom but at the same time, there are a lot of aspects of the institution of motherhood that are unnecessary and cause tremendous harm to women simply to keep them in their place, doing a huge and necessary job for free. It's getting easier to say that without fearing the backlash of "you must be a bad mother and hate your baby if you don't love all or most aspects of motherhood." Easier. Not easy though.

I am so totally head over heels in love with Frances it's not funny. When I gush over her--it's genuine. I'm not exagerrating. I try very hard to find the one exact right word to describe how I feel or what is going on--most of the time I end up uneasy, thinking I fell short, that the words I chose don't go far enough, but there's nothing else better out there. I find Ms. Waldman's perspective puzzling (and I would link to the article, but can't--the NY Times has moved it into the paid archive. Bastards!). It's not that I judge her or believe her to be a bad mother because she loves her husband more--I just can't imagine it. I didn't consciously decide that my children should be my life; I've never agreed with any of the parenting crap out there that tries to guilt or pressure moms into behaving or feeling in certain ways; so I'm pretty sure that for me this was just inevitable. Hello, Frances; you are my life.

Believe me when I say it surprised me as much as anyone.

So how is it I can complain so much about motherhood, then?

Because motherhood is not the same thing as being a mom, and because Frances is neither of those things; because I have no trouble separating them in my mind and thinking and talking about them as separate things. Frances is not the role I play. The role I play is not the same as the institution that's sold in magazines and TV shows and books and movies and pulpits. To me, Motherhood is the institution, and the institution only; it's the product that people try to sell me (us). Being a mom is my relationship with my little girl, and Motherhood has practically no bearing on it. And Frances, of course, is herself only; she cares nothing for this Motherhood and Being a Mom business, so long as I, as her Mom, am reasonably present, affectionate, and helpful.

But who could help it? She is such a doll. Such a little sweet bee, my honeybee, my sodapop. She claps her hands for the sheer joy of having hands to clap. She squeals to see plants, stars, bears and flowers (which she can now say! But it sounds like "bwawa").

Every night after she goes to bed, Erik and I have this conversation:

"I love her," I say. "What a snugglebug."

"Yup," says Erik. "She's a sweetie."

We are both grinning ear to ear.

"The other parents must be very jealous," I say. "When they see we've won the Baby Lottery."

"Yup," says Erik.

"Not that I can blame them," I say. "She is the World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None."

(Sorry, Mom Readers; I had to break it to you sometime.)

Erik grins and laughs at me, but I know it's only because he's glad I'm saying it so he doesn't have to.

And I can't help it. Every night, I have a more or less incoherent conversation with my husband about how wonderfully fabulous and sweet our little girl is, and how much I love hugging her, and which body part is the daily favourite, and how lucky I am to be the mother to such an amazing and sweet and loveable little person. Dimly I am aware, in the deepest recesses of my brain, that other mothers very likely feel the same way about their babies. BUT THEY ARE WRONG. Ahem, sorry about that. What I meant to say is, that it doesn't change in the least my conviction that Frances really is the Grand Prize in the Baby Lottery. The Best Baby Every, Bar None.

(And you will note that she is still a baby, not a toddler. I have no intention of letting her become a toddler, whether she toddles or not. She is a baby until she is old enough to tell me otherwise. That is my official position.)

I have proof:

She hardly ever cries. Except for when she wakes up at night, or if she falls over, even very very slowly so her head doesn't even touch the floor. She is not one of those babies who falls over and gets up as if nothing happened. Every tumble is a tragedy. But it only gives me another excuse to hug her, which is jim-dandy by me.

And speaking of hugs, she gives hugs on request. I say, "Can I have a hug, Frances?" And she crawls over to wrap her itty-bitty celery-stick arms tight around my neck and burrow her head into my shoulder. Sometimes it only lasts for a few seconds before she is wriggling to get back down to her toys, but still. She gives hugs on request. What could be better than that?

She still has newborn-soft skin. Like velveteen or expensive cashmere.

She likes to be snuggled. She is very happy to allow me to carry her just about everywhere. But she doesn't demand it and is happy to ride in her stroller or crawl around too.

Actually, she is just happy. So happy. Smiling and laughing all the time, over just about anything. Look, Mom! It's a teddy bear! A picture of a teddy bear on my box of peekablocks. Oh, and there are peekablocks inside! This one has balls in it, this one has ducks! A puppy! Look at this one, it's shiny! Isn't it great?

She has the world's biggest, brightest blue eyes. When she is solemn they are very round and wide and she stares without blinking for minutes on end. When she is happy they crinkle up like an old lady's. They are amazing eyes. Oodles of nice old ladies and young girls at the shopping malls agree.

She lets me kiss her whenever I want to.

When she wakes up in the morning she stretches out to her full 26 1/4 inches and rubs her eyes, just like a big person. Then she points to her light and says "lap!"

When she is sitting and getting ready to stand she says, "up! up! up!"

It's a good thing I know so many amazing moms of spirited kids. This keeps me humble and reminds me that whyever it is that Frances is so cooperative, accomodating, loveable and sweet, it has precious little to do with me. It's all her.

Posted by Andrea at 11:19 AM | Comments (3)

Snuggling In

This weekend Frances and I went to visit one of her little friends--of course, not as little as Frances is. It's amazing to me to think that these two girls have known each other for just over a year now. That's, like, 75% of their lives! That's a long time when you're a baby. And while they're still not playing with each other, they both seem very comfortable being together and with the respective Other Mom, which is nice.

Frances's little friend is walking all over the place, a real go-baby, and Frances is a chatterbox--so put them together and you have a walking, talking baby!

Anyway, it was fun.

Less fun was the packing. Three weeks today and we are moving! Look at that.

Maybe I'll put that in the footer for a few weeks....

Today Frances and I are heading to the opthamologist for an update on her eyesight. This will be interesting. It's at 2:40 and they are always overbooked, so I imagine we will be there until 5:00 at least. Ugh. I hate doctors.

I won't mention that I, like most of you, am suffering from the effects of DST compounded by a baby who is also suffering from the effects of DST.

I don't know what was troubling her last night, but she had a wicked time settling herself down for the night. Usually if she's going to wake up crying it's before 9:00 pm, and it only happens once. Last night it happened twice--once at 9:00 and once at 10:00, though of course, thanks to DST, the 9:00 was 8:00 as far as Frances was concerned and the 10:00 was 9:00. So I guess it sort of was a normal pattern.

But she was just so sad, poor little bunny.

I go through phases as far as Frances's sleep is concerned. When her sleep is not going well I am a hardass. Don't go to her in the middle of the night! Wait at least ten minutes, preferably twenty! Don't pick her up! She has to learn to fall asleep on her own!

When her sleep is going well, I melt. What if she had a bad dream and she's scared of the monster under her bed? What if her molars are bothering her? What if she's become possessed by a sudden, irrational thought that, oh my god, her parents are both dead and she is going to die alone in her crib! Please note that I realize that it's just as likely that she whacked her foot on the side of the crib and it pissed her off. Yes, I do know that. I'm not saying this position is rational, only that when she's been sleeping well and I'm relatively well-rested, I find it impossible to resist the sound of my baby crying for me, especially when she does so at relatively civilized hours like 9:00 pm.

So I'm inconsistent. So kill me.

So the first time she cried last night I picked her up and snuggled her until the heaving sobs settled into snuffly whimpers and until the snuffly whimpers settled into little hiccups and until the little hiccups settled into deep, regular breaths and until the deep, regular breaths were accompanied by slow blinks. Then I put her down into her crib and after a few more little hiccups she drifted back to sleep, grasping her stuffed bunny's nose.

And then at 10:00 she woke up with a scream again.

And then I really caved.

I brought her back into bed with her father and I, just settling down to get to sleep ourselves. We thought it might be her teeth, so we gave her some tylenol, then realized very quickly that it could not be her teeth because as soon as she was comfortably ensconced on our luxury plush mattress with Dad on one side and Mom on the other she was happy as a May Queen at the spring fair. "Lap! Lap!" she said, pointing out the lights in the room. She kicked the blankets off then pulled them on again. She rolled back and forth, playing with our hair, pulling our noses, poking us in the eyes, kicking herself in the head (she does this on a regular basis--most funny was one day when she got her little toes stuck behind her glasses).

I tried to settle her back down for sleep again by wrapping my arm around her and snuggling her in, and while it did calm the physical movements it did not make her sleepy in the least. She stared at me with huge, wide-open blue eyes and I stared at her until happiness at her beauty and softness and warmth and sheer presence overwhelmed me with a grin--and then a slow grin took her face over too--and there way lay, snuggled up, staring at each other and grinning like fools, while happiness filled us up and spilled us over, soaking through the mattress and puddling on the floor.

After twenty minutes or so of this Erik did take her back to her crib, where she slept quietly for the rest of the night, because as lovely as it was it was clear she had no intention of sleeping while tucked in with her two favourite people ever.

And now I am very tired.

But it was worth it.

Posted by Andrea at 7:25 AM | Comments (1)

Mirror Baby

"So I found out that you can't keep those Gardennay soups in the fridge for a week," Erik said.

I stared at him. "Well, no."

Silence.

I said, "It says right on the box to use it in 48 hours."

He said, "Yes. I found that out with the first spoonful."

Yummmmm.

~~~~~

This morning our peanut woke up too early so I brought her into bed with us for the fifteen minutes before we were planning on getting up anyway. This made her maniacally (sp?) happy. Grinning, laughing, crawling, rolling, sitting, falling over happy. She pointed at every light, no matter how small--even the little led lights on the digital clocks--and said "lap! lap!" (which means "light"). She waved hello to us over and over. She dispensed her hugs profligately. She pulled our noses and messed up our hair. This was one happy kid.

Then she crawled over to the wall mirror while Erik was having a shower and pulled herself up. Giggling! Pointing! Saying "baby!" Poking her image! Very cute. I asked her where her hair was and she messed up her hair. I asked her where her nose was and she pulled it. I asked her where her ear was and she messed up her hair again. Two out of three isn't bad. And they sound similar--ear and hair.

Then I combed her hair to neaten it, and she begged for her hair and combed it herself--with the handle.

But, anyway. She was very, very happy.

Also: She now knows "up" and "down". It's not clear whether or not she can say them, but she knows what they mean. If she's standing and we say, "Are you going to sit down, Frances?" she sits down. If she is sitting and we say, "Are you coming up, Frances?" she stands up. Sometimes while she's standing it sounds like she's saying "up." But it doesn't happen every time so I can't be too sure.

I'm trying to teach her "belly button," since she's so fascinated with mine. Honestly. She loves my belly button. If she gets within twelve inches of my shirt she will yank it up to stick one sharp-nailed little finger in my belly button. So I'm trying to teach her that she's got one, too, but so far I don't think it's registering.

I love my girl. Even when she sinks her teeth into my shoulder while she's teething.

Posted by Andrea at 12:50 PM | Comments (1)

Yay!

Do you see the new picture I added on the left?

There's a story to it. You see, we have a new game. It's called the Yay Game.

I inadvertently taught it to her by sticking my arms up in the air and shouting "yay!" For no reason, really. I was in a good mood and I do goofy things for no reason when I'm in a good mood.

Frances picked up on it, and to make me do it again, stuck her little arms up in the air. Now it's one of her favourite games. She will be sitting there playing with something, and then UP go the little arms, and she stares at me and Erik. And then we stick up our arms and say "YAY!" and she grins and laughs and all is right with the world.

It took her one time of seeing me do this and now three days later it is firmly entrenched in her rapidly developing grey matter. The Yay Game! Fun for all ages! No batteries required.

Yesterday's keywords: (not quite off the kick yet, sorry)

third trimester dwarfism
diagnosing short femurs
melissa morrow
albert chu dog
when did they notice babys bone measuring short (typos not my own)
high risk pregnancy vs low risk pregnancy
kiss mom
pictures of a macrosomia babies
short femur down syndrome adjust
salaried women britain
working mommy madness
twitch
ugly baby photos
baby q
mom as primary breadwinner
teflon spray
unborn baby measurements growth percentile
dwarfism ultrasound

It has not escaped me that today is Tuesday and thus I owe Tanya a Tearjerker. But it feels like Monday, and I don't know where I'm going to come up with one.

Posted by Andrea at 8:41 AM | Comments (3)

Building Genius

And one last time (yes, it is really slow here today):

Last night Frances built her first ever three-block tower! And according to IVillage, she shouldn't know how to do this until she's 20 months old! (Even OhioHealth says 15 months, and her adjusted age is 14.)

I tell you, my maternal heart swelled with pride to see her stacking up her peekablocks.

She's been making towers out of megablocks for a few weeks now, up to nine blocks (which is really hard for her to reach, being so itty), but I don't think that counts because they attach to each other.

I love to comb the internet to find the chart that makes my child look smartest.

A bit more bragging: She is already pointing out body parts, speaking more than six words, helping to remove clothing and pointing out pictures in books--also on the 20-month old list.

OK, I know, the checklists are stupid and no two agree. I don't care. And yes, I'm neglecting to point out that she's not walking yet. See above.

Posted by Andrea at 12:14 PM | Comments (0)

Fifteen Months

What I love about you right now:

Everything! But specifically:

The way you tilt your head slightly, open your wide eyes even wider and purse your tiny lips into a little bow when you are concentrating, sometimes crooking an index finger against your mouth; a perfect little thinker.

How you smile at me every day when I get home from work.

How you crawl up to me and pull yourself up on me and drape yourself over me to get a hug, then wrap your arms around my neck and lay your head down on my shoulder and sigh.

How, when you get excited, you flail your arms, kick your legs, wriggle your butt and laugh all at the same time--full body happiness! And I can barely hold on to you when you do.

HOw you sleep now on your tummy with your little tushie stuck in the air.

How fascinated you are with the cat food.

Your soft, sweet voice, especially saying "mama".

How you wave hello and bye-bye every day, sometimes more than once.

How deliberate you are in your play now, even when it doesn't make any sense to me--that you take the block from the basket and must put it precisely here instead of one millimetre to the right or left. How the tower you are building out of megablocks must be placed in the centre of the table.

The way you point at things and say "da!" Which means, "what's that?"

Your tiny little self, careening around the coffee table on tippy-toe.

The way you love to chase the cats, though you don't often catch them. (I don't think they're too fond of this, though.)

How you put your arm through your sleeves all by yourself and hold up your little feet for your pants and socks.

How if I purse my lips you will lean into them for a kiss and smile. Over and over again. And I never get sick of it, so don't stop, ok?

How you manage to love people and be so sociable yet so independent in your play.

How wise you look in your little glasses when you are holding one of mommy's books or magazines open, pretending to read it.

Playing footsie with you under the dinner table.

The squinty look you give me when I put your glasses on.

Your little feet, just barely longer than my palm is wide, and soft as velvet, free of any callouses or wear. Nibbling your toes to make you laugh.

The sound of you crawling on the hardwood, a stacatto pounding, rapid-fire bang-bang-bang.

How beautiful you are when you cry, a perfect picture of pathos, with wide brimming eyes looking up above a quivering lip.

How your glasses slide down to the tip of your nose, and you pause to stare at me over them, a little coquette already.

You crawling up to the TV and pulling yourself to stand while pointing at what interests you when we play one of your Baby Einstein videos. And squealing with pleasure at the animals and puppets.

How ticklish you are.

You are my little sodapop, bubbly and sweet. Now fifteen months old. And more loveable, more adorable, more wonderful every day.

Posted by Andrea at 11:20 AM | Comments (2)

And the magic number is:

26 1/2 ", 13 lbs 5 oz.

Which is right about what I expected. She has maintained her growth velocity.

Posted by Andrea at 7:04 PM | Comments (1)

Weaning Time

Yesterday I weaned Frances.

She will be fifteen months old on Tuesday, and I am proud of both of us for having made it this far, in spite of latch problems, nipple confusion, slow growth, early teething and the rest of it. And I'm glad that for 99% of the time, it was a deep joy and pleasure to me. It was such a privilege to be able to nurture her physically in such a direct way, to see her grow because of the food I provided (if very slowly), to have something I could offer her that would quiet all but the worst tears.

One of the things that kept me going through all our problems, especially the teething when (TMI alert) her little razor sharp teeth would reopen scabs from teh previous nursing session and dig them deeper every time, was that I loved it so much and I wanted it to end on a high note, when I could remember it positively and without regret.

So ending it now is really bittersweet. It is getting to the point when I am beginning to think of it as another chore instead of something I want to do, and that's not how I want to remember it, so I think it's time. And we've had a good long run. But I know if Frances had her way we'd keep it up for a good long time yet. She cried and cried before bed last night. "How can I go to sleep without my bed-time boob, mommy?"

And I felt like a shit.

Maybe there is no time to do it right, no time when I wouldn't feel doubt and indecision. And guilt. Let's not forget the guilt! I am a mother, after all.

But, so. The end of one phase and the beginning of another.

Posted by Andrea at 8:57 AM | Comments (2)

Weekend Fun: Puking, Peekaboo and Cat Food

Happy 50th Entry, Beanie Baby!

Erik was hideously, horribly sick this weekend. Poor guy. It hit him Friday night right after dinner, which he promptly lost, and then spent all night and most of Saturday with one end or the other on the toilet. So I spent Saturday occupying Frances in the most silent manner possible, and fetching gatorade and Immodium.

More than you ever wanted to know about my husband's digestive system!

So far I seem to have escaped it. I am keeping my fingers crossed. It looked truly hideous.

Also: Frances played peekaboo with me for the first time ever. Can I tell you how adorable this was? It was adorable. She sat by the dishwasher and leaned out to hear me say "peekaboo!" then grinned and ducked back behind it again. I swear she could have played it all weekend. She was not getting bored of the peeking and booing. Of course she barely stayed hidden for long enough for me to say "where's," but that did not detract from her enjoyment in the least.

For all I know she's been trying to play this for a while and I never noticed before, but this was cute! And fun!

Even more fun was when she would hide only her face, the theory being I suppose that if I couldn't see her eyes then I couldn't see the rest of her either.

She's liked to see me playing peekaboo for months now (when I hide and then jump out, or if I do the same thing with one of her stuffed toys) but now she's participating! What a big girl.

Big enough to eat cat kibble, too.

I kid you not. We've already had some struggles over the cat water dish, but this was the first weekend where she managed to get herself to the cat bowls and fill her little mouth with kibble before I could stop her. Gross. Soggy and gross. And she wouldn't let us fish it out, either.

She won't eat beef, chicken or turkey. But she will eat cat kibble.

She also tried bacon, but it didn't go over as well since it took her hours (not exagerrating) to chew and swallow it.

Maybe she figures since she's still four-legged too that she's a cat?

Fortunately it didn't make her sprout whiskers or anything.

She's learned how to say "banana," but without the "ba."

Also, she tried to help us pack by carefully placing her stacking cups inside the boxes we were loading up in the office, and carefully removing all the software cds. Wasn't that good of her?

Posted by Andrea at 10:22 AM | Comments (2)

Breakfast of Champions

This morning Frances had her first ever real breakfast: toast with peanut butter and a sippy cup of milk. What a big girl! She liked it too. I don't think we need to worry about peanut allergies with this one.

She also slept through the night again after another little mum-daughter chat. Too funny. How many times does this have to happen before it's not a coincidence anymore?

After yesterday's mega-posting I'm going to try to keep today fairly light.

Posted by Andrea at 9:35 AM | Comments (0)

A Beverage Victory

We have been finding the transition to a sippy cup a bit rough. Which leaves me in a bit of a predicament because Frances needs to drink--obviously--she can't get everything from me directly, and milk and juice in bottles is supposed to be a problem because bottles let the fluids pool around the teeth so you can end up with cavities. I'm not sure why I latched onto this particular piece of "expert" advice when I let the rest of it pretty much go, so there you have it. Frances needs fluids; I want those fluids to have calories because she's so itty; but you're not supposed to put fluids with calories in bottles because of their teeth. What to do?

So lately we've been compromising by offering her a cup with juice or milk first, and then if she won't have it, some water in a bottle. And this has been working fairly well.

Yesterday we offered her milk in a cup, as usual, and she was being fussy and uncooperative, as usual, so I was heading to the kitchen to get a water bottle ready, as usual, when she took the cup out of her dad's hands and drank it all by herself!

And then proceeded to finish it off.

WOW.

My little fourteen month old baby girl can drink out of a sippy cup without help! And she didn't even spill anything. Well, except for the bits of milk that came out when she took the cup and flailed it around like a baton. But she didn't spill any from her mouth. What a big girl!

I hope you all like the new photos I added to the sidebar. (hint, hint)

Posted by Andrea at 7:56 AM | Comments (5)

Buh buh!

OK, so after moving over, oh, 24 entries or so ....

Something new!

Frances has learned how to say bye-bye. Well, kind of. She says "buh buh" and waves her little arm up and down. It's soooooo cute. Of course she has no idea yet what it means. Sometimes she says it when she or someone else is leaving, but mostly it's just random. She'll be playing with her toys, look and me and say "buh buh!" and wave. And I laugh and say, "Where are you going, Frances? Don't leave me."

And she looks confused and adorable.

But she did manage to say bye-bye to me this morning as she was leaving with her Daddy to get in the car for daycare. And I melted. A little puddle of mommy flowing into the car for work.

Those are the moments that make the crying and food rejecting and puking and pooping worthwhile.

Posted by Andrea at 3:00 PM | Comments (1)

Ball!

Last night Frances was playing with her Sesame Street toy, which has some small balls you drop in a chute to make a noise. "Oh," I said, "Frances, you have some balls!"

(You say pretty stupid things to your baby.)

She dropped them and said, "BAW!"

Then crawled over to her big blue toy bin, bellowing, "BAW! BAW!"

Stood up and reached into it and said, "BAW!"

And I looked and there she was, holding the plastic mesh ball Karyn had given her ages ago.

So she recognized the word "ball," said it (as much as she can), and then went to the toy bin to get it. :D My smartypants! Her first word that's not mama or dada.

Though I think she's also got dog ("dou") and is trying for cat ("da"--hasn't got the "k" sound yet) and baby, which she can actually say pretty well but I'm not sure if she knows it means her.

This afternoon we are off to the geneticists. Fun fun fun.

Posted by Andrea at 2:57 PM | Comments (0)

Mmmmm...Chocolate

Oh, and Frances met chocolate yesterday, courtesy Mumms and Grandpa.

She's had bits of chocolate before--in little tastes of ice cream or chocolate chip cookies (both of which she wholeheartedly approves of, by the way). But yesterday her grandparents brought her a little valentine's day present in the person of a stuffed bear carrying chocolate.

Chocolate was a big hit. I fed her two of the squares broken up into little pieces so she wouldn't choke. Then we let her down to play. She got herself to the box of chocolates and pulled out two more foil-wrapped pieces. I put the box out of reach on the bookshelf and took the foil-wrapped pieces out of her hands and onto the other side of hte coffee table. She got to one and unwrapped half of it before I was even turned around. I said, OK, she's already unwrapped half of it--I guess she can have it too. So I unwrapped it and gave it to her--no little pieces any more! She polished it off in four big bites. (Those molars are good for something.) Then I had to rescue the foil before it followed.

A short while later she got her little mitts on the other piece of chocolate and shoved it, foil-wrapped and all, right into her mouth. We fished it out and Erik unwrapped it for her. While he was asking me how I had fed the other ones to her, she grabbed it out of his hands and shoved it in her mouth.

She had chocolate all over her fingers and her face, as well as a few good chocolate smears on her onesie. And when I made the (BIG, BIG) mistake of trying to eat a chocolate piece myself while she was in eyeshot, she cried (she actually cried!) until she got a corner of it for herself.

We've created a monster.

Or more accurately, my parents have created a monster.

It was awfully funny, though.

XOXO (that's the bear, pronounced Zozo) was also manhandled extensively. BAshed, thrown, squished, waved, pulled and otherwise tortured for several hours. She's never been like that with a stuffed toy before. I wonder if it smelled like chocolate?

Anyway, it was a good day for Frances, except for the whole teething thing. Hard to believe this time last year she was still spitting up and screaming all the time, and couldn't sleep on her own, and couldn't even hold up her own wee head.

I can't believe Frances is now old enough for "this time last year."

Posted by Andrea at 8:44 PM | Comments (0)

Dance Baby Dance

Frances is participating in her first ever dance-a-thon on Feb 14th.

From the daycare's handout:

"All rooms will participate in the dance-a-thon, length of time will depend on when the children get tired or bored. Non walking babies will sit, clap and bop to the music.

"...

"The children will also be given a pizza party lunch for all of their hard work!"

Given how much it costs to have her there, I'm a bit mystified at the fundraiser concept, but oh my god this sounds so cute. Little Frances bopping and clapping away in a room full of bopping, clapping babies. I wish I could be there to see it. I'm working on Erik to bring the video camera so I can see it on tape.

Posted by Andrea at 8:48 PM | Comments (0)