Frances Friday: Finis

First, an update for those of you who commented yesterday: The parent-teacher meeting went great because, of course, her teacher adores her. Everybody loves Frances. "I'm so happy with her! She's great. She sits still in circle time, and always asks to use the bathroom, and she knows when she's had too much playtime and needs some time alone. She's very happy and she has lots of friends and she's good at sharing. And she's very bright." The homework question also went over well: I explained our time restrictions and she agreed that the readers were not that important, especially at four; I also asked how the new homework policy is likely to affect s/k, and she's not sure, but I personally am hoping that there is just no homework, period.

Then there was the daycare Spring Concert, in which a group of young daycare friends, with the assistance of a college Early Childhood Education student, put on a stunning rendition of Munsch's The Paperbag Princess. Frances was the fire: her costume was a piece of brown paper about the size of her dress that had been painted in swirls of red and orange and yellow, tied on to her arms with ribbon. And when the dragon blew, she ran around the "trees" shouting, "I am fire! I will burn you up!" Then the trees lay down and died.

It was very dramatic.

And the princess saved the prince and decided she didn't like him anymore--yadda yadda, once the fire was done, I wasn't really paying attention.

~~~~~

"Mommy, is Daddy your true love?"

Wincing. "Umm, no." Thinking: where the hell did that come from? One too many viewings of Shrek? Fairytales at school?

Voice wavering: "But I love my Daddy!"

I hugged her, kissed the top of her warm head. "That's good. You should love your Daddy. But, well, Daddy and I aren't together anymore."

God damn this developing intellect business.

Speaking of which:

I realized the other day that Frances has learned how to pronounce the letter R. When precisely this happened I couldn't say, but she's now rrrrolling with the best of them.

Old Style: Mummy, whewe is my wed cwayon?

New Style: Mummy, wherrre is my rrred crrrayon?

Old Style: I'm weally thiwsty!

New Style: I'm rrreally thirrsty!

You get the picture. She's gone overboard with the rrr, grrrowling them out like a tiny blonde pirate. Arrr, matey.

Old Style: I'm not ti-ohed!

New Style: I'm not tirrred, Mummy, rrrreally!

Now she pronounces everything properly (if aggressively). The last of her babyish misprononciations has been outgrown, and I am bereft. I'll have the mispronounced words for a while yet, which is a comfort. ("Mummy, remember when we went to the thetee-ar? And the TV screen was so big!")

I am also shocked at her memory these days: my gods, she remembers all the way back to living in the Old House, as she delights in reminding me. "Rrrememberrr in the Old House, Mummy," she'll say, "I used to play with the old Baby Eloise, and she would sleep on the black leatherrr chairrr."

"I remember," I'll say, and think, how the hell do you remember? We moved out last August, isn't that a long time for a little girl? And how much else do you remember? Do you remember learning to walk by circling our black leather coffee table, round and round it, when you weren't even tall enough to see its top? Do you remember catching little frogs in the backyard? I know you remember your flower garden; you've been asking me about it lately, and I've had to promise you that we will get you some flowers to grow again this year. I know you remember NB, and playing with him in the park, and going down the slide in his backyard. Do you remember how angry I was there, how unfocused by rage; or do you remember only the days when you would snuggle on the big bed between your father and I, and turn your head from one of us to the other, the happiness in your eyes enough to fill the house?

My little girl is growing up; and while she's still a starring player in my story, it's become obvious to me lately that she now is creating a story of her own, busily constructing memory and meaning all by herself. Her story is no longer mine to tell--and so, I won't.

Posted by Andrea at 9:19 AM | Comments (18)

Frances Friday: Nightmares

The clock read just after seven when I heard the distinctly loud pat-pat-pat of Frances's bare feet near my bedroom door. "Mommy?" Her hair was its typical early-morning rats' nest of dark blond tangles in the back like the worst of mid-eighties teasing.

"Good morning, sweetie."

"I had a bad dream!" Her voice shook and she climbed up beside me, tears dripping off her cheeks.

"Oh." I got her a kleenex and she settled in on the baby mole while I tucked her under the sheet. Enough sunlight cracked through the spaces around the edge of the blind to brighten the room; soon it would be time to get up and ready for school, but we had a few minutes yet. "What happened?"

"I was talking to Daddy on the phone," she said, still crying. "Then he said bye, and hung up. And then I cried." And then she did.

Posted by Andrea at 7:41 AM | Comments (9)

Frances Friday: Baby Eloise, Take Two

Once upon a time Frances received a doll from her father's family. Her father's family is very fond of giving Frances dolls (and barbies), incidentally, most of which currently reside at her father's house. There was one exception: a small doll which, when you squeezed it, would alternately cry and ask for mama, or laugh. This was Baby Eloise.

Frances loved this doll. She loved to dress it and carry it around (correction: she liked to ask me to dress it and then carry it around), she liked to put her down for naps, but most of all, she liked to pick her up when she cried, put her plastic head on her shoulder, pat her back and whisper "shh, shh, it's all right, it's all right!" Her face would fairly glow with the holy light of the nascent maternal impulse (the kind that dries up and goes away when you end up with a real baby--one that doesn't lie quietly under the table when you ignore it for a few days).

Then Baby Eloise returned from a weekend at Daddy's house possessed by a dark spirit. I can account for her transformation in no other way: now, when you squeezed her, instead of crying or laughing she would growl demoniacally. And yes, I did consider the battery issue, but upon examination there proved to be no way to even demonstrate that she had batteries, let alone any which could be replaced.

I endured this (explained away by Frances as "sleeping noises") for some weeks before I squeezed her accidentally while cleaning up one night and had her satanic snarls follow me around the living room for ten minutes. "That's it!" I said, and packaged her off in a plastic bag, and dumped her down the garbage shoot. Her hellish cohorts did nothing to save her.

For a few days I basked in the glow of righteous vengeance.

Then I cowered in fear of discovery.

Then I bought Frances a new one. Unfortunately, this company does not appear to make this model of doll anymore, and faced with a wall of dolls that perform a variety of tricks (talking! drinking! peeing! cooing!) I knew only one thing: it had to cry. If it could not be lovingly cradled against Frances's shoulder while she stroked its plastic back, it would be no good. There was one type that would cry; it would also drink, tear, laugh, and fall asleep. Good enough.

The replacement went off without a hitch. Frances feeds her and takes off her clothes and pats her little back and lays her down tenderly under the kitchen table for naps, which Baby Eloise II obligingly takes for a day or two at a time.

Yesterday, Frances sat beside Baby Eloise II in the overstuffed armchair while Baby Eloise II had a nice, long drink from her bottle.

"Do you see this heart on her bib?" asked Frances.

"Yes."

"That's because I love her. There is a heart on her bib because I love her. Because I am her mommy."

"Oh, that's sweet."

"I know. I am her mommy, and I take good care of her. She is my baby, and I love her. That is why there is a heart on her bib."

How did the manufacturer know?

Posted by Andrea at 9:10 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Placeholder

After a whole week of vacation with the WBKE, BN, shouldn't I have something to say?

Yes, but I have no time in which to say it. In order to enjoy the week, I put into practice something I learned on maternity leave: get out of the house every day, or at least have something planned. Accordingly, we have gone shopping, gone to the zoo, visited my parents, tomorrow we are going to see Horton, and today we have friends coming over. Right now she is sitting beside me on the couch with one hand on the baby mole, asking "what does the typing say?" while rearranging a piece of green painter's tape on her chin. The baby lions are keeping her company. I am looking at the coffee table, upon which are a magically replicating pile of books that need to be put away before any guests will have anywhere to put a drink.

So off I go.

Posted by Andrea at 9:21 AM | Comments (3)

Frances Friday: I want to be Frances when I grow up

Work has been kicking my ass lately, but that's ok, because as of 5:20 this afternoon I am on vacation for a week, which will give Frances a chance to kick my ass instead. That girl is merciless.

In the meantime, in the "Yet More Proof that my Four-Year-Old Daughter is More Grown-Up than I Am" Department, last Sunday she and I visited a friend in Burlington. I'm still, nearly a week later, dumbstruck with the novelty of being able to sit on the couch and talk with my friend while Frances and her friend played upstairs. Every five minutes I said, "I can't believe how well they're playing together!" Out of eyesight! Upstairs!

OK, there was a sippy-cup water-shower incident, but beyond that, for five hours the two girls played and shared and talked while the moms sat on the couch. I never thought the day would come.

It was nearly perfect until Frances's friend, all played out and wanting nothing so much as to curl up and watch TV for a while, had a massive meltdown while Frances and I stood in our coats and boots by the front door, cringeing. "You never deal with this, eh?" her mom asked me; "Nope," I said. Frances was invited to go say goodbye to her in the living room since she refused (very convincingly) to come to the front door; and Frances did. "Bye, S. I had fun playing at your house today."

In reply, S could only kick and scream and cry.

Frances put her hands on her hips, turned around and looked at me, and said, "I am very upset!"

My little adult. If only I could be so temperate in my reactions to the failings and weaknesses of others; but if there is one thing I am not, it is temperate. Moderate's right up there too. So this week, while Frances discusses her emotions and reactions in jargon more suited to the middle-aged devotee of Dr. Phil, her mom (that's me, the one supposed to be providing a good example) has this stuck in her head:

Sanctuary My land is bare of chattering folk; The clouds are low along the ridges, And sweet's the air with curly smoke From all my burning bridges.

Thank the gods for Dorothy Parker. At least if I have to be insane, I can be insane in good company.

Posted by Andrea at 9:44 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Pain is Relative

Illness-wise, this winter has been the easiest since Frances was born (so I suppose in that regard the separation was fortuitously scheduled). I have had only two bad colds this winter; one of them was last week. I'm now in that lovely post-cold phlegm-production stage where I'm much less sick, but also much louder. You didn't want to know this. Sorry.

This has meant a whole whack of sick days, however; since of course Frances got sick and then I got sick and then the colds kept us up all night and we decided to hide out and stay in our pajamas all day. (Why not? Isn't that what sick days are for?)

The first day, when Frances was sick and I was just getting-sick, was fine. The second, when we were both sick, was not. This particular cold started with a strep-like sore throat that made swallowing and speaking torment--it felt like someone had tried to decapitate me and then patched me back together with staples and sticky tape; but Frances, bless her, has the energy of a neutron bomb moulded roughly into the shape of a soccer player on speed, and she slows down a little bit when she's sick, but it would take a mighty strong microscope to see the change. Frances was jumping, bouncing, running, spinning in circles, and demanding endless reads of her favourite storybooks. All I could do was lay down on the couch nursing infinite cups of lukewarm tea and say, "Frances, I'm sick! I am too sick to play. No, I can't read a book, my throat is killing me."

It was a catchy phrase, I guess.

Ever since, whenever I ask how she's feeling, "My throat is KILLING me," she says.

There's only one way to respond: she must be scooped into a lap and tickled with kisses just behind her ear. Her giggles sound suspiciously like those of a perfectly healthy child.

~~~~~

It is, at times, painfully apparent that she would like nothing so much as to have Mummy and Daddy and Frances all living in the same place again. At the same time, it is painfully apparent sometimes that she really doesn't know yet that it's unusual to have us all living in different places.

Every morning she asks me if she's going to see Daddy that day. Most days I say no, and tell her how many days or sleeps until Thursday, when he picks her up. She tells me that she really misses him and wishes that she could see him that day, and I tell her I know, and give her a hug.

Thursdays are the exception. "Am I going to see Daddy today?" she asks. "Yep," I tell her. "Today he is going to pick you up after school."

"Yay!" she says, waving her arms in the air.

Her whole day is then built on this anticipation. When we walk into her classroom, she runs to the first friend she sees and says, "I'm going to see my Daddy today!" She tells her teachers, too. When I pick her up in the afternoon, she bounces around the room, "Am I going to see Daddy today? Yay! I'm going to see Daddy today!"

I hate that this undercurrent of loss runs through her childhood.

I hate that I had to do this to her.

I hate that when she tells her friends that she is going to see her Daddy today, with the tone of voice of someone who won front-row tickets to see their favourite band, that they smile and look confused and say nothing because, don't people see their Daddies every day?

~~~~~

When I took Frances to the daycare on Wednesday, she was swarmed. "Frances is here!" said M. "Hi Frances!" "Frances is here!" said E. Said A, "It's Frances!" And these three girls, all much bigger, surrounded her; one hugged her from the front, and another from the back, as the third stood anxiously to the side waiting for her turn to hug Frances. Frances hugged whoever was in front of her, at first happily and then with increasing patience, until the patience ran out. She pushed the next hugger off and angrily said, "I have to go hang up my stuff!"

It's tough being popular.

Posted by Andrea at 9:35 AM | Comments (4)

Frances Friday: Emotional Overexcitability

Frances climbed behind me on the couch Wednesday night, "hiding," and pressed her two soft feet against my lower back. "Guess where I am, Mummy?"

"I don't know," I said slowly, and reached behind myself. "Hmm. There are knees, a tummy, some hair..." Frances shrieked in laughter. "And some feet! What nice feet, I think I'll keep them."

"No!" She thumped back against the couch.

I looked behind me; her lips were trembling, her eyes were red. "Oh sweetie, I was just kidding, I'm not actually going to take your feet."

"You can't have them! They're my feet!"

"I know, I don't even want them. I would never take them. It was just a joke, honeybun. I'm sorry it made you so sad."

"It did. It made me sad. They're my feet. You shouldn't take them."

I picked her up and snuggled her on my lap. "I am sorry, sweet girl, it was just a joke. How would I take your feet anyway? They're attached."

"Yeah. That's because they are a body part. Body parts don't come off."

"No, they don't--and what would I do with your feet? Why, if I had your feet, I'd be falling over all the time."

"That would be silly."

"And if you had my feet--you couldn't even lift them! You'd be stuck!"

She nodded.

"So I'll keep my big feet on my big legs and you keep the little feet on your little legs, ok? And I won't joke about taking your feet anymore."

It took a few more rounds of this, over say about twenty minutes, for me to convince her that I really had no interest in taking or keeping her feet, and was very sorry for making her sad, but wasn't it really kind of silly to think of me with her feet? Silly Mummy.

(And yet I remember, when I was her age, being sent to my room when I couldn't stop crying after someone had physically hurt me.)

Last night was the daycare parent-teacher interview. Erik and S (Frances's main teacher at the daycare) and I sat on three child-sized chairs in the music room while Frances played with lego, and we agreed on how generally wonderful Frances is, how she is bright and has no trouble using the room which is much too big for her and how her writing has been getting better and better and how many friends she has and how her classmates are so attached to her, and how maybe it would be good if she could learn a little better how to put her own snowpants on. "She gets her stuff," said S, "her coats and pants and boots, and then just lays back"--and here she mimed a starfish shape, "as if--'your turn.'"

We all laughed. "She's been like that forever. I honestly think she learned to walk at 20 months just because she liked to have other people carry her around."

S nodded. "The only other thing I'd like to point out is this one." She pointed to the spot on her form labelled 'Is sometimes scared by noises or new situations.' There was a tentative tick beside it. "People just tower over her, you know, and sometimes they do or say something and it's frightening for her and she cries."

I nodded. "She's very sensitive."

"Yes!" said S.

I turn around to see where Frances is rolling on the floor, now bored with lego and ready to leave for her weekend with Daddy. "And it's not a bad thing, sweetie."

"No, no," said S. "It just means we have to be a bit more delicate."

(And yet I remember when I was very young and at church with my parents, once, and crying over something--I can't remember what--and my parents were both there, and the church's two child programming directors, not that they were called that. They were two women who seemed old to me at the time but were probably the age I am now, both with very short hair, one very blond and one brunette, who obviously genuinely loved children. One of my parents, I can't remember which, called me a crybaby and complained that I cried all the time. "Aww," said the brunette one, "don't you know that crying makes you not pretty? Pretty girls don't cry.")

Then after, I gave Erik Frances's suitcase for their weekend together in the parking lot and got my goodbye hug from my little girl, and we all chatted for a few moments, and Frances told us how one day she is going to grow one of the tiny eggs in her tummy into a baby! "When you are a grown up lady," I said to her. "Yes," said Erik, "A long time from now."

She went to Erik's car and I went to mine and I was getting in to drive away when I heard a "Bye Mummy!" and I turned, with a smile on my face, but then saw how her face had folded inwards, the eyes redenning even at that distance. "Aww," said Erik, picking her up. "It's ok. You'll see Mummy on Saturday."

I wanted to go over but I knew it would just draw it out--she would get happier faster if I left, we play this scene out at my place sometimes over Daddy--so I drove away.

(And I remember how one of the rules at my house was that you could not cry when speaking to my father, ever, not for any reason. "If you want to speak to an adult you have to speak like an adult" was the way it was put, or close enough; and if I couldn't manage it, I would be, at best, sent to my room until I could.)

I thought how wonderful it was that Frances was surrounded by adults who not only care about her, and who not only recognize how sensitive she is, but see it as a good thing and as something she needs to learn how to manage, something they are willing to help her learn how to deal with, not as a bad thing that needs to be mocked or hit out of her.

Posted by Andrea at 8:16 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Effect and Cause

Updated to add: Frances had her four-year check-up this morning. She is now 89 cm/34 inches and 24 lbs of pure adorableness.

Taking Frances to school in the stroller on these sidewalks covered in soft ice, small snowbanks marking the boundaries between driveway and sidewalk, is no joke. It feels like tilling mud, not so much rolling as pushing, and by the time I get her to the school the backs of my arms and my legs are slightly sore. But her little legs cannot manage the trek on her own and we can't afford the extra time it would take to let her try walking anyway. "I wish the snow would melt," she said.

"Me too," I said. "I'm ready for spring."

"I'm ready for spring and summer."

I parked the stroller in the boiler room of Frances's school and we walked down the hallway towards her daycare. She loitered, a little--walking slowly, swinging her arms, thwapping herself with the mittens dangling from the sleeves of her winter coat. I carried her lunch bag and my lunch bag and my purse and my work bag and her library bag and her home reading book bag, and I was accutely aware of the time. 8:25. Late already, again. Damn damn damn. The damned snow and the fucking boots and coats and the slush and the cold and why isn't it over already?

"Come on Frances, Mummy's already late. We have to go fast! Fast fast! Now!"

She scurried down the hall.

Bitch.

It's not her fault it's snowy and cold and the sidewalks aren't cleared. It's not her fault that I'm going to be late again. I'm not snapping at her because these thirty seconds in the hallway are going to make a difference--especially once I get to the subway platform and have to stand and wait for the train. I'm snapping at her because when I do, she listens--unlike the snow and the cold and the slushy sidewalks.

~~~~~

Getting ready that morning, Frances rolling around in her pink ballerina nightgown, asking for more time to play. I had just finished packing our lunches and snacks and readying the stroller for our slog to school.

"We don't have any more time to play. It's a school day. We have to get dressed now and get ready to go." I looked at the clock and groaned. We were already late.

"But I'm sick!" she said. "I can't go to school. I have a cough."

She had not coughed for weeks.

"I think you're well enough for school. Come on, upstairs. Frances. Upstairs. Upstairs! Right now."

I put out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved pink shirt with an irredescent butterfly on the front, miniature athletic socks and a pair of underwear with a bow so she can tell the front from the back and sides. One day I left out a pair of unadorned undies and she put them on with her waist through a leg-hole. I brushed my teeth, pausing to bellow: "Frances! Are you getting dressed."

"Oh. I forgot."

"Get. Dressed."

When I was done brushing my teeth and my hair and was ready to go, I went in to Frances's room and there she was, half-naked, bouncing around and giggling in pleasure at her own cleverness. Ha ha! I am not dressed! She chortled and threw her nightgown at me.

"Are you supposed to do that?"

"Noooooo."

"Come here." She did, but when I tried to put her shirt over her head she wriggled away. "Frances!" It was finally on, we combed her hair, downstairs for coat and boots. Already late. Again. Again.

~~~~~

That morning, 6:45, ten small pink fingers appeared on the edge of my bedroom door. "Do you see my fingers?"

I opened my eyes. 6:45 was all right. We might not be late. "Yes, I do."

She pushed the door open and clambered on to the bed with her baby duckie, and I snuggled her in beside me under the blankets while she played with the baby mole.

"Good morning, Mummy."

"Good morning, sweet girl. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes I did. When did I wake up?"

"Six forty-five."

"Oh! That's good! That's a good time to wake up."

"Yes it is."

She rolled on to her belly. "Tickle my back!" I obliged.

By the time we had our fill of snuggling, it was past seven. We were already late.

Posted by Andrea at 10:36 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: An Artist with a Social Conscience

The last of Frances's birthday presents trickled in last week: two little notepads with Frances's name at the top. The very first thing she did with them was write me a letter.

"See?" she said. "This is for you. It says, 'I love my Mummy!'"

(Mummy melts.)

"Oh, sweetie, thank you! I will have to keep this in a special place forever and ever."

The very second thing she did was draw a picture of me. It's not a bad likeness. I might use it for my avatar icon. How many people have a piece of original art to use beside their posts and comments?

She drew pictures and letters for her Daddy, too, and for her friend NB. (The gift-giver is probably reading this: it was a hit!)

~~~~~

On the weekend I was reading again about the abandoned baby girl, hoping that someone would have come forward with her name, if nothing else. (She has been christened Angelica-Leslie by the child welfare officials.) Beside the article was the original photo.

"That baby looks so sad."

"She is sad," I say. "She lost her Mummy and Daddy. She's very sad."

"She's so cuuuuuute," says Frances.

"Isn't she?"

She wanders off and I figure it's like most sad stories at that age, in one ear and out the other, not for lack of compassion but lack of experience. But two minutes later she comes back, holding her pad of paper and saying, "I drew her a new Mummy and Daddy. See?"

"I do see."

"That will make her happy."

I wish it was that easy.

Posted by Andrea at 8:42 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Ooops Squared

One of the downsides of being so little is that when you are very eager to prove to Mummy what a big girl you are by using the toilet all by yourself, you might fall in.

You might end up crying with your feet stuck in the air, wedged firmly into the seat.

It might be a terrible assault on your self-image of a Big Girl, who is almost all grown up.

Fortunately, Mummy doesn't mind unwedging you, drying you off and giving you a hug until you feel all better. You're not yet too grown up for that.

You also might find a black ball point pen and decide that drawing in black pen on the black leather coffee table/storage ottoman would be invisible. You might not realize that when black ball-point pen is drawn on black, it looks purple. When your Mummy sees it, she might be very upset. She might say, in that I'm-upset tone that you hate, "Frances! What have you done!"

"I didn't mean to," you might say, immediately. "I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to!"

"Oh Frances. I don't know how to clean pen off of leather. I might not be able to get this off. We might be stuck with this!"

"I didn't mean to," you might say again. Then your ribs might shake with sobs, your shoulders might fold in, tears might start dripping off your chin, your eyes might start turning red. "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to!"

Your Mummy might kneel down to give you a hug and sit you up on the sofa so you can bury your face in her shoulder and grab her tightly. And maybe you will keep saying, "I didn't mean to! I didn't mean to!" She might not believe this, but she might snuggle you and kiss your hair and tell you that just because she's upset it doesn't mean she doesn't love you, she loves you very much and always will no matter what you do. And she knows that you are very sorry--when you might nod your head, still on her shoulder--and she knows that you will never ever do it again, will you? And then you might shake your head, still on her shoulder. And she might kiss you again, and in a few minutes ask you if you are feeling better. Now you might only be sniffling, so you nod your head again. "I didn't mean to," you might say again.

"Ok. I'll see if I can find out how to get pen off leather." She'll put her computer on her lap and type and while you start playing with the pen on paper mutter to herself, "Nail polish remover, hairspray, perfume." Then she might disappear upstairs again and when she comes downstairs she might say, "Just my luck not to have any of them. Maybe this will do it." And you might go over to watch her rub something white and wet on the coffee table, and the pen might start going away. "There. I think it's working."

"It is. It's working," you might say. And your lips might still be trembling a little and your eyes might still be pink, and your cheeks damp, and your breathing might still be a jagged; but anyway you might say, "I'm feeling a little better now" in a shaky voice, because you try so hard to be brave. And Mummy might stop rubbing the table to give you another hug. "Good, I'm glad," she might say. "I'll finish this up. You go play. Look, see? It's ok. You did something you weren't supposed to do and Mummy got upset but now it's all ok. Right?"

Maybe you'll nod. You're not sure.

"It's sad and it's scary when Mummy gets upset, isn't it?" You might nod again. "That's going to happen sometimes. When you do something you know you're not supposed to do, I will get upset. But then we'll fix it and it will be all better, and no matter what you do, I'm going to love you."

When it is all done and the pen is gone you might snuggle on her lap on the couch again, your head resting against her chest and the fingers of your right hand making a house for the baby mole. And you might still feel a little shaky and a bit like crying, but Mummy will kiss the top of your head and tell you that she is the luckiest mom ever, because that's what she does.

Posted by Andrea at 6:51 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: Dreams

There she lay, sleeping; her little limbs splayed out, her face still, flat on her back, fingers curling slightly and motionless. I knew I would have to wake her soon--we were already late. But first I watched her.

Soon I stroked her cheek and brushed her bangs off her forehead--they need a trim; her eyes opened. For a moment she looked as if she might cry, then pushed herself up and bounced towards the footstool at the side of her bed. "I'm going to get a new eraser!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah!" She clambered down; I wrapped my arms around her and picked her up.

"Maybe we should go downstairs and get some breakfast first," I said.

The night before, when we were supposedly getting into pyjamas, she indulged in a favourite passtime called "throw the clothing on the floor." This irritates me, for what is probably no good reason, but I have tried to institute a no-throwing rule, that night with little success. She took off her shirt and threw it full-strength at the floor--this after she had already thrown her socks and been reminded of the rule.

"Frances!" I said. "Are you supposed to be throwing your clothes?"

"Noooooo."

"You threw it, you can pick it up. Go over and pick it up and put it in the wash."

Slowly, she did; when she turned back from the hamper and I held her nightgown out to her, she started to cry. "It wasn't nice!" she said. "You yelled at me. It hurt my ears!"

"I didn't yell at you, Frances. I just told you to put your shirt in the laundry."

"It hurt my ears!" She clutched at them and sobbed. "It wasn't nice! You shouldn't yell!"

I didn't yell. I hardly even raised my voice, but clearly that tack was getting me nowhere. "Did it make you sad, that I was upset?"

She nodded.

"Well, that's ok. Look, sometimes you'll do things that I don't like and I will get upset, but here we are, and everything's ok now. Right? Let's get your nightgown on."

She cried still. "I need a kleenex."

I passed her one. "Do you need a hug?" She nodded, and I pulled her on to my shoulder. "It's ok, kiddo. You threw your clothes, something you know you're not supposed to do, and I got upset. That will happen sometimes. But you fixed it! You picked it up and put it in the laundry, and here we are, and everything is ok. See?"

She is crushed if I so much as raise my voice by a decibel; she never even needs time-outs. Instead of wondering why my discipline methods seem ineffective and nothing works, I have to consciously bring myself to heel and not ever inadvertently break her spirit by actually yelling.

Earlier in the evening, talking to her father on speakerphone, she said, "A didn't say sorry, and she didn't say she didn't mean to."

"Oh?" Her father said. "That wasn't nice."

"What was it she didn't say sorry for?" I said.

"She made a mess on the table," said Frances. "So did I. But I said I was sorry, and I said I didn't mean it."

"I see?" I said. "That was very good. I'm glad you apologized." And in the background, Erik chuckling over the phone.

Frances is a girl with a very strong commitment to form. Lucky me. Except her mother is not, and one day I will be the target of her moral appraisal.

Posted by Andrea at 8:13 AM | Comments (9)

Frances Friday: Mopey Edition

Frances has, somehow, effortlessly mastered social graces that I still have yet to grasp at nearly-33. It's no wonder she has as many friends as she does, when she tosses out compliments like candy at a scramble. "Oh M, that's such a pretty bag!" she says to one daycare friend on our way out the door. "I like your shirt, Mummy. It's pretty," she says one day when we are getting dressed. Or "That is a nice necklace, Mummy," when I put my pentacle on.

And how she loves to get herself all dolled up too, how she stands there in her red christmas dress and ladybug necklace, wearing white tights and her black party shoes, utterly conscious of her own adorableness, waiting for the compliments. Hands behind her back, twirling slightly, huge grin. "I look great! Someone say so!" Someone invariably does. Usually many someones.

~~~~~

Frances was so excited last week by her birthday party she did not want to go to sleep. I let her stay up late as it was (so she could play with all of her new toys), but still, when I told her it was time for sleep, she broke into sobs. "It's Not Fair!" she wailed. "I haven't had a ch-ch-chance to p-p-play with my bus y-yet!"

"Well, it is fair," I said. "But it's not going anywhere. You can play with it tomorrow."

Advice she took to heart, Dear Readers. Every morning this week she crept into my room between 6 and 6:30, determined to squeeze every ounce of playtime out of her morning routine that she could. She voluntarily went without any television so she could have more time with her toys. Every evening the same--don't bother with dinner, Mummy, and I don't want to watch Horton; just let me at my calico critters, we have serious playing to do.

~~~~~

Last night I sat for a while in the glider chair in Frances's empty bedroom. Her many sleep-time friends were piled higgledy-piggledy on her headboard; her fairy play set was still out from C's visit last weekend; the top of her dresser is covered with take-homes from school and clothes that need mending. There are grapes on her bookcase that need throwing out and her sheets need washing this weekend.

I suppose I don't need to tell you what I was feeling.

But that wasn't all.

I remembered the late nights priming and painting her room light pink, the colour she picked all by herself. I remember assembling the furniture, shopping with her for the new cover for her bed and the curtains with the bright red flowers and the bees. I remember finding the flower stencils and painting coat after coat so that they would be the exact right shade of red. I remember peeling decades of coats of various beige paints off of the closet door, needing to chisel it open because they'd painted it shut.

I remembered further back, too. Sewing the big bear floor pillow out of dark brown and beige fleece, when I was pregnant, cross-stitching the Peter Rabbit pictures on the wall. I remembered working on them after the first of the prenatal misdiagnoses, in the waiting room, wondering what news I would get that day, but believing that I was still going to get my happy ending. It wasn't the happy ending I envisioned way back then, when the only ending I believed could be happy was a normal pregnancy and a normal child. But I was right. I did get my happy ending.

I paid for it, but I got it.

There is a lot of love packed into that little bedroom.

Maybe this will be the same. Another happy-ending in disguise.

Posted by Andrea at 10:12 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: Good Mother

"These are all my babies," said Frances, arms full of stuffed toys. "This is Ella the Elephant, this is Baby Curious George, and this is Baby Duckie. They are my babies, and I am their Mummy."

"And you are a very good Mummy, too, aren't you? You take good care of your babies," I say.

"Yeah. I have three babies. That isn't very many." She puts them down on the couch.

"It isn't? I think three babies is a lot of babies."

"It doesn't look like a lot of babies," she said.

"No. But when you were a little baby, one was plenty for me."

"You mean when I was this big?" she says, holding her hands a few inches apart.

"Something like that."

"I was sooooo cuuuuuuuute," she says. She picks up her baby duckie and holds it against her shoulder, patting its fluffy back. "Shh shh," she says. "Shh shh. Oh sweetheart! Shh. It's ok, it's ok. I'm here now. Shhh. It's ok. I just went to the bathroom. I'm here now." She picks up baby Curious George and dumps him in my lap. "Here. You can be Curious George's Mummy."

"Ok." I put the monkey toy on my shoulder, but it receives nowhere near the level of solicitousness and tender care that the baby duckie is getting from Frances, who is now walking it around the room, still patting its back and murmuring soothing nothings in its ear. At least this time I get to be the Mummy--last time I was the Daddy. But my relief is premature, it seems; Frances brings the baby duckie back to the couch and wiggles her in front of my face, saying in her squeaky toy-voice, "Are you my sister?"

"I don't know. Am I your sister?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh. Does that mean Frances is my Mummy?"

"No!" said baby duckie.

"Awww, why not? Then I can lie down here and Frances can take care of me for a few hours."

"No!" says Frances in her own voice. She clambers up on the couch beside me. "You are my Mummy."

"You can't be my Mummy?"

"No!" she says, upset now, wrapping her arms around my neck. "You can only ever be my Mummy."

"OK," I say. "You know sweetie, I am always going to be your Mummy. And that's good, because I love being your Mummy. And you will always be my little girl."

"No, Mummy. I'm four. I'm big now."

"So you will always be my big girl?"

"Yeah." Soon, upset forgotten, she is pushing her feet against the couch, which digs her shoulder into my throat and makes Mummy croak in mock-asphyxiation. Frances is laughing hard, and her babies are in a pile on the couch. They must be sleeping.

Posted by Andrea at 9:54 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Not Fair!

Nothing is fair at our house right now, or so I've been told. It's Not Fair that she has to go to bed, and it's Not Fair that she can't watch one more TV show before night time, and it's Not Fair that I also want a turn on the computer or that I limit her total screen time, it's Not Fair that she didn't get to finish making her lego house for the baby girl, it's Not Fair that she's not done her dinosaur yet and it's time for dinner, and it's Not Fair that C didn't call on her today. It's especially Not Fair that she needs to eat a suitable quantity of healthy food before she can eat chocolate chip cookies (aha, yes, I caught on to that one. Sneaky kid. Sure, they say that kids will always eat a good amount of healthy foods when they are hungry--until they turn four, and then they will learn that if they pretend to be full after a few spoonfulls, they may trick you into an early desert). It's one big Not Fair world, and I am the Chief Officer of Not Fairness.

But it offers me so many opportunities to sound like a Cranky Old Lady, that I don't mind. For instance: "Well, I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is." Or: "That's what happens. When you choose to play with lego after supper, you run out of time for TV. But lego is better anyway. No, it's time for bed." Or: "You have to have a bath because your hair is getting dirty. Yes, it is. No, we're going upstairs now." Or: "Frances, this is my computer. I don't have to share it with you at all."

But my favourite so far: "I'm the Mom, and it's my job to make the rules, and this is what I am saying, and what I say goes. Now move."

This, also, is Not Fair. Just ask Frances.

~~~~~

This week has brought us several night-time adventures.

#1: Late and getting ready for bed when I hear a soft thump and a sleepy cry from her bedroom; in I go, to find Frances performing a handstand from her bed, hair all tumbled on the floor, pyjama top riding up her back. I grab her under (over?) her arms, and sit her in her bed. "Oh no, did you fall off the bed?"

Sleepy nod. Very big, very round, very blue eyes. Perplexed looking frown, with pinched little lips.

"Did you catch yourself on your hands? Oh no. Do you want me to kiss it better? Do I need to move the gate up a bit? How did you manage that, anyway? Let's tuck you in again. Here is your duckie; see, she fell out of bed, too."

Lay her down with her head on her pillow, put the duck in her arms, pull the sheet to her chin and she is asleep before I've left the room.

#2:
Frances: I just want to snuggle! (affronted tone)

Andrea: (jolts awake, stares at clock which reads 6 am) Oh. Hi, Frances. Good morning.

Frances: I just want to snuggle! I didn't wake up early! (clambers up on bed)

Andrea: I see. You just want to snuggle? Ok.

Frances: I slept later today! I just want to snuggle! (still affronted) Is it morning time?

Andrea: Sort of. Yes.

Frances: Yay! (happy fists in the air)

#3:
Frances: Mummy, I had a bad dream! I dreamed that Daddy yelled at me! He said, Get off of there! And then I cried! I was sad! It wasn't very nice!

Andrea: (jolts awake, stares at clock which reads 4:30) You had a bad dream? About Daddy?

Frances: Yeah! (clambers on to bed, fingers find baby mole--yes, she is still all about the baby mole when she is sad) He yelled at me! He said, Get off of there! And then I cried! He wasn't nice to me!

Andrea: Sweetie, it was just a dream. Come here, let me put the blanket on you. There, are you comfy? Just a dream. It wasn't the real Daddy. It was like TV, a pretend Daddy.

Frances: He yelled at me! I cried!

She stopped crying and put her cheek on the baby mole, an arm around my neck, closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Eventually I took her back to her own bed, but who wants to rush a sleep-time snuggle?

But #4 is the big one:

We are done with diapers at night time. None since last weekend. No accidents. She is very proud of herself.

~~~~~

Frances does not like it when other people call her small, which they have been doing at daycare lately, and she lets me know. "A called me small!" she'll say. "I didn't like it! It made me sad."

"Oh." I'll look for words. "Did you tell A that it made you sad?"

"Yeah. And she did! She called me small!"

"I see. Well, you can always ask a teacher for help. But, sweetie," and this is so hard to say, with her big blue eyes, her narrow shoulders, her small hands folded in her lap, all in front of me, "you are small. Some people are big, some people are small. You are small. But it's lovely. You are just the right size for you."

I'm never sure how far to take this. I hope that she'll show me what she needs when we reach a new milestone, because I'm walking blind here. She is small. I don't want her to grow up believing otherwise, or thinking that smallness is something to be ashamed of, or that mention of it is an insult. How do I share this with her when she is only four?

The other day, she did something, I can't even tell you what because this happens all the time, that was so adorable, that made her so irresistable, that I gave her a hug and a kiss and said, "My cute little girl."

"I am not little," she said. "I am four. I am big."

"So, you are my cute big girl?"

"No," she said, severely. "Cute is little. You can't be cute when you are big."

My lips twitched and I stared at the floor a moment to hide the laugh. I don't think I am ever fast enough, though. "You know, sweetie, you can be both. Cute and big."

She turned away, squared her narrow shoulders, set her lips. "I am smaller than other people. Other people are bigger than me." I don't know where she got those precise words; they are nothing I have ever said. Either she put that together herself or she has been talking about this at daycare too. Her tone was somewhere between wistfulness and resignation. It made me sad.

Posted by Andrea at 8:48 AM | Comments (12)

Frances Friday: All grown up

"Babies never touch tools," says Frances.

"That's right."

"Because when the baby duck touches my tools, it hurts her wing, and then I kiss it better, like this," smack, "and then she feels much better, and then I put her over here to dry. And that's why babies should never touch tools. Because tools are not for babies. They are for Mummies and Daddies, and big girls like me."

"That is exactly right."

"Does Grandpa have a tool like this?"

"Yes, I think he has lots of pliers."

"Does he have a lot of hammers?"

"I know he has one, I don't know if he has lots. You'll have to ask him."

"I'm going to build the old house."

~~~~~

"I'm going to do some Christmas shopping," she says. I hand her a small piece of lined paper and she scribbles on it to make her shopping list, puts it in her toy grocery cart, puts the baby duck in the child seat, and off she goes. "Oh, I need this," she says, and puts in the glitter glue, or the pencil crayons, or a pack of markers. And then: "Oh no! The monster's going to get me!" And she's off.

Lap one of the first floor: "The monster's chasing me!"

Lap two: "Aaaaaah! Mummy, quick! The monster's going to get you too!"

"What? He is?"

"Yes! You have to run with me!"

"I do?"

"Yes!"

Up I get, and off we run.

Lap three: "Phew. We caught the train." A moment of stillness and silence. "Oh no! The monster's on the train! We have to get off!"

Lap four: "The monster's chasing us! Oh no! I need a ... book!" The book goes in the grocery cart, and off we run.

Lap five: "Mummy, the monster got you!"

"It did? Does this mean I can sit down?"

"No! It means you have to run faster to get away."

~~~~~

"I want to Show and Share my pet shop, Mummy. First I will show it to you, and if you are good with it, then we will share. You come sit here." She pats the floor beside her.

"OK." I do as instructed.

"First you have to press this button, very gently. If you press it fast then the froggy will jump out." The pet shop sproings open.

"I see."

"Here is the lizard, here is the snail, here is the frog. Here is the crown for the frog. When you put it on, he becomes a frog prince, and it makes everything shiny!"

"Oooooh, lovely."

"The frog's home is on this lilypad. The lizard likes this log. Here are sunglasses for the lizard."

"I see."

"You can open this to put the pets in the bubble beds when they get tired. That's where they sleep. And here is a carrying case for when someone wants to bring home a pet. See? That was good sharing, Mummy."

"Thank you."

(Edited to add the littlest pets' naps: when placed into the bubbles, and a stern and wide-eyed Frances would approach telling me to shhhhhhh. "The pets are sleeping, Mummy," she'd whisper. "We have to be very quiet."

"Like this?" I'd whisper.

"No," she'd whisper. "Like this. And we have to walk around like this." She'd start to tiptoe around the living room. "Come on, Mummy."

"What, right now?" I'd whisper.

"Yeah!"

So up I got, and tiptoed around the apartment behind Frances, whispering "shhhhhhhhhh.")

Posted by Andrea at 9:18 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Four

You did it again, Frances; you grew another year older. Another year wiser and sweeter, and even a little bit bigger. Another year slimmer, your small self now taking on the contours of a young child instead of a baby, all traces of infant fat long since consumed. Your legs and arms are slim and muscular, your cheeks less rounded, your little shoulder blades moving visibly on your little back.

Beautiful girl, I am so head over heels in love with you. I have been since the moment you were born, your bitty baby self all folded in, short hair plastered to your scalp, huge dark blue eyes wide with shock. Placed in my arms in a little pink blankie just for a moment before the nurses whisked you off to help you breathe in the NICU. Maybe that's why I love you so intensely; because I had you and then you were taken away and I could sense the shape and size of the hole you left. I've never been able to take you for granted. I can't know if that's what made it different, or even if it's different at all. All I do know is, you are still my reason for living.

A day is coming when you won't thank me for it (maybe in thirty, forty years?), but right now you and I make a good pair.

There are things I can recall now, but only incredulously; like, when you were born, I could cover your torso with my hand. I could carry you with your head in the crook of my elbow and your feet in my palm, one-armed; I could envelop one of your feet with my hand. There was a time when you were too small for the baby bjorn. Where did this girl come from? This brave, resilient, clever little girl? Who jumps up and says "I have to go to the bathroom" while running off, to take down her own pants and put up the lid of the potty before I've even caught up long enough to turn on the light? Who goes to the TV cabinet and picks out a dvd to watch, opens the case, takes out whatever is in the dvd player, puts in the new one, and turns on the tv, all by herself? Who puts on her own boots and her own coat? Did you know I used to change your diapers? How is it that seems so incredible? Did you know I used to have to dress you in onesies that snapped up the front because you hated to have shirts pulled over your head, and you would lie there on your back with your arms and legs in non-stop motion, and I would have to do it all myself? You used to be a baby.

Shouldn't this be obvious? Intellectually I suppose it is, but it never means the same thing when it happens to you; and I find myself, these days, sometimes looking at people on the streets and thinking--"they used to be a baby!" and imagining them that way, their own mothers carefully dressing them, holding them and feeding them. We all began as these helpless little bundles of need. Most of us don't become Frances, though.

I am the world's luckiest mom. No one else gets to have you as their daughter, and you are as close to perfect, I think, as a person can be. I love it when we sit side-by-side and compare our pinkie fingers, or you pull on a pair of my socks and they go almost all the way up to your hips, or you go clump-clumping around the house in a pair of my flats. I love it when you ask me how to draw something, and when I try it, you say, "No! That's not how you draw it! I'll show you." Then you take the marker or crayon out of my hands and proceed to instruct me. "I see," I say. "That is pretty good." "Yeah," you say. "That's how you draw it."

You draw! I love to watch you drawing. You draw dragons and dinosaurs, with scaly backs, sharp teeth, eyes and noses and claws, bodies and legs. You draw bunnies with big ears. You draw persons (and I love it that you call them persons, and not people). You even draw snacks complete with cups of juice, though I'm not sure what makes them cups of juice. No offense. Your dragons are excellent.

And you do like to educate me. "Skeletons don't blink," you say; or "Witches can't pee." (I'm still waiting for you to give me permission again and my bladder is getting very full, so can we follow up on that conversation soon?) "Maybe toy birdies can't talk," you will say, directly before they all have an involved conversation about who is whose Mummy and who is whose brother and who doesn't have a Mummy or a Daddy and is very sad, so will fly around crying for help until someone helps them. "Persons have skeletons," you will tell me; "and muscles, and organs, and skin! The muscles and the organs are on the inside." And "A T Rex is a dinosaur, and he is big and mean and he eats other little dinosaurs!"

Despite your bloodthirsty glee with dinosaurs currently, you still have a mammoth heart (it must be where all of your calories are going). Last weekend you took it into your head to make C a Christmas card, and after having plastered a piece of cardstock with a couple dozen snowman stickers (very artfully arranged, all holding hands--er, twigs), walked around in a glow, saying, "I made this for my sister. I think she'll really like it." She did, too.

You are a great kid, Frances McBean. There are times when I sit in that apartment and stare at the (yellow) walls and feel like I am losing my mind; but five minutes of you sitting on my lap with your two broomhandle arms wrapped around mine and everything seems ok. That's not your job, kiddo. It's not your job to make your Mummy feel better, but you do, just by being your sweet, snuggly, clever, funny, bright-eyed, soft-haired, perpetual-motioned, brave, smiling little self. I don't rely on you for it, but I take it when I can. You make me smile.

I try to make you smile too. This has been such a hard year for you. You lost your home, your friends, you started school and a new daycare, you moved to a new neighbourhood, and your family fell apart. You took it all in stride, strong little girl that you are, but I know you miss your daddy terribly. You tell me so, every day, that you miss him and you want to see him. I know what you really want is to see both of us--you see me so much you don't get a chance to miss me. I wish I could fix this for you. I hate that I had to do this to you, Frances Bean. You are still just a little girl and you shouldn't have to deal with so many big, scary changes. The kinds of changes that many adults find difficult and overwhelming. Believe me, I don't forget it. I don't forget how much you've lost, and I don't forget that it was my choice, because I believed this would be better for you as well as me, and I take that very seriously--that I will make this better for you as well as me. I can't make you stop missing your Daddy--and I wouldn't, even if I could, because I want you to love each other and have the close relationship you now do forever--but hopefully I can offer you happiness and love and security enough to compensate you for it. I hope this is the hardest birthday you will have for many, many, many years.

In the meantime--dear girl, you will be four years old tomorrow. Four fabulous years. I am still waiting for your first temper tantrum.

Now I have to duck, while all the other moms throw rotten tomatoes at me. But it's not my fault you're so close to perfect.

I'm not biased, either.

I love you, sweet girl. You are my favourite person, ever.

Posted by Andrea at 6:47 AM | Comments (15)

Frances Friday: Still the happiest person I know

The daycare's holiday concert was on Wednesday evening this week, at 5:30 in the school gym. The kindergarten students, we were told, would be singing something for the audience. Erik and I met at the daycare at 5:15; I snuck up beside Frances and knelt beside her on the carpet, whispering "boo" in her ear. "Mummy!" she said, and turned to grab my shoulders. I stood up and hugged her back as hard as she hugged me. Then she turned and saw her Daddy and her little feet started kicking, and she reached her arms out and I transferred her over, and she was brimful of happiness.

She stood in line with her daycare friends to go down to the gym, and you should have seen her. Her little arms would fold in half and she would wriggle all over, like a duck shaking off water; then grin, and laugh, and jump, and wriggle. On the way out the door she stopped to tell the daycare director, "We're all going to sing in the gym!"

"I know!" M replied.

I found a spot near the front where I could see my wee girl, her little head not even reaching to the shoulders of her classmates, and as they got ready she would smile and wave at me, then at her Dad, then at me, then at her Dad; and there was pointing in there, and grinning, and you know what happens when Frances and I start grinning at each other. I'm afraid I was a disruptive influence, Dear Readers; I kept burying my face in my hands to laugh. Then it was time to sing Rudolph. Except the kids on the left-hand side were singing faster than the kids on the right-hand side, and Frances didn't sing at all, and at the end two kids near the middle started over again; so it was all a big jumble; so they all sang it all over again. This time all at the same speed and loudly and Frances joined in.

After, when they'd turned around to watch the school-age kids do their skits and recorder pieces (the joy of recorder pieces does not just begin when your own child learns to play, unfortunately), Frances would turn around on the bench to wave at me and, when I waved back, say excitedly to her friend, "She waved back!"

Her daycare friends, meanwhile, stood calmly and quietly when asked, sat down when requested, turned on cue, and with very little smiling, giggling, jumping, or duck-shaking. It was as if every bit of excitement and joy in the group had been condensed and shouldered by Frances, who quivered with it.

That big open heart is the best kind of heart to have. I wish my words could show you--the way she takes my face in her two little hands and turns it so she can plant a kiss on my cheek. How, when I tuck her in at night, she grabs my arm and wraps it around her shoulder and holds me so I have to give her one more hug. How she says, "I love your whole self, Mummy." She is fearless with it.

But those big open hearts are also the easiest kind to break, and sometimes, when I see how bravely she courts the ones she loves, how vulnerable she makes herself, how she never holds back, never tempers herself, her openness frightens me.

Posted by Andrea at 6:27 AM | Comments (7)

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)

Frances Friday: Santa and All the Reindeer, and Rudolph

Nothing has made me feel so much like a Torontonian as standing cheek by jowl in a packed subway car on a Sunday morning, most of the floor space occupied by strollers, and a much higher than normal proportion of reindeer antlers and Santa hats; or afterwards, lining up to get into the elevator once we'd finally reached our destination. Despite the shoulder-to-shoulder-to-handlebar experience (which does not create anything like jollity on a Monday morning) everyone was smiling.

Once we got to the station and everyone spilled out onto the street, the jostling for position began; and that, too, brought the Torontoness of the experience home, as I settled us into one empty-looking spot.

"There are three adults going to be standing there," one very tall woman said. "You have to find somewhere else."

"OK." I bent down to put Frances's mittens on--because these adults weren't there yet, were they? And surely we should be able to stop for long enough to prevent Frances from getting frostbite? But no.

"Look, I'm not warning you, I'm telling you. I'm going to be standing right there. And three other adults. If you want curbside seats, you have to come early."

"Right," I said, putting on Frances's hat.

"Look, if you don't move, I'm getting a police officer over here to tell you to move. There are going to be three adults standing there."

"And that's what it's all about, isn't it? The adults?" I backed the stroller up from the curb. "So much for christmas cheer, Frances."

Twenty feet down the street we found a nearly curb-side seat, and I got Frances all tucked into her blanket. At 12:25 (the parade was to begin at 12:30) she said, "I'm cold. I want to go home."

"What? No! We've come all this way and it'll start any minute now. Just a few more minutes, ok?"

"OK," she said, with a miserable little sigh.

The woman sitting in front of us on the curb (there with her own preschool child) looked back. "Do you want to move her on to the curb? I can watch from behind her. It's no problem, really."

"Are you sure? That would be great."

"Of course I'm sure! The parade is for the kids, right?"

"That's what I always thought." I slid Frances's stroller to the curb, thanked Mystery Woman profusely again, and sat down in front of the stroll on a thin strip of cement. Soon, the clowns came in to view, and the mail workers collecting letters for Santa. Frances's eyes got very large. She sat very still. She looked very solemn.

And there she stayed.

I have dozens of photos of her in that pose: eyes large, staring, little solemn mouth, as if she were watching the closing arguments in the murder trial of the century instead of a bunch of elves and clowns and princesses in sparkly snowflake dresses. It was impossible to tell if she was having any fun at all. Especially when we kept having this conversation:

"Are you cold, Frances?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to get down and jump around a bit?"

"No!"

"Do you want me to pick you up and warm you for a while?"

"NO!"

"OK."

The group beside us, of which Mystery Woman was a part, was a big family, several parents and aunts and uncles and lots of kids, and they were having a good time. Jumping, laughing, dancing, marching in the street, talking to the performers, shouting "Merry Christmas!" and "We want Santa!" (Yes, the adults too.) It was a good spot to end up in.

It's a long parade, if you've never seen it, Dear Readers. There are marching bands (including the one from Queen's University which extemporized a little dance routine in the middle of their march), hordes of clowns including the ones that walk on their hands, elves, walking gingerbread cookies, puppies, cows, bears, toys--there were the floats, of course, like Clifford the Big Red Dog, and Mickey and Minnie Mouse, and Santa's Workshop with all the elves making toys, and trains, and polar bears playing hockey, and penguins riding down an icy hill. Two hours of it. By the end, I was up and stomping my feet to keep warm (silly Mummy, I wore shoes because it wasn't snowing).

Then:

"Frances! I see Santa!"

She looks down the street, mildly curious.

"It's Santa, Frances! Let me pick you up so you can see."

She calmly peers down the street.

"Do you see Rudolph and all the reindeer?"

She nods.

"And who's that in the sleigh?"

"It's Santa."

"Are you going to say hello?"

She waves. "Hi Santa!"

"Isn't that exciting? Isn't that great?"

She nods.

"Is it time to go home and have some carrot soup?"

"Yeah."

The the whole trip in reverse: waiting in line for the elevators, waiting in line for a spot on the subway, transferring, walking home, unpacking my icicle girl-child from her stroller, setting her up with carrot soup. I could not tell if she'd had any fun, though. She didn't point or squeal or laugh or shout. She sat and looked very solemnly. At least she didn't ask to go home again, I told myself, so she must have had some fun.

Later that night her Daddy called and asked if she'd seen the parade outside, like we'd planned.

"I saw Santa and all the reindeer, and Rudolph!" she said. She's been talking about it since, to anyone who's around.

So I guess she was excited. In her own still, solemn way.

Posted by Andrea at 10:11 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Bunny

Frances needed a new winter hat, as noted in last weekend's to-do list: the one from previous years was too small, and could no longer be pulled down to cover her ears. Accordingly, on Tuesday I went to find her a new one.

I found it in Gymboree: a white fake-fur hat with bunny ears and a bunny face embroidered on the front.

Frances is a girl who likes her make-believe. At last year's birthday party, one friend gave her a blue hello-kitty bathrobe and matching slippers; the hood on the robe has little cat ears. When she puts on her kitty-kat wobe, as she calls it, she becomes a kitty-kat, walking around on all fours, meowing, climbing up into my lap to scratch my arms and sniff my face. "I'm a baby kitten," she says in a high voice, "and you are my person."

"Hello, baby kitten. What a beautiful baby kitten I have," I reply.

"Meeeeeeow," she says.

So while a white fake-fur hat with bunny ears and a bunny face embroidered on the front might sound too precious and overdone for most kids, I knew Frances would love it--that she would put on that hat and become a bunny rabbit.

Last night I put it on her head when her Dad picked her up for their visit, and she hopped out the front door and down the walk, little pink-mittened hands held out in front like rabbit paws, white fake-fur ears flopping. "Bunnies go really fast," she explained to her father.

I closed the door, leaned against it and laughed.

What a beautiful bunny I have.

Posted by Andrea at 9:44 AM | Comments (11)

Frances Friday: Superstar

I was picking Frances up from daycare yesterday when one of her teachers sat down on the padded red preschooler seats and told me how wonderful my daughter is.

(I love those conversations. Don't you? Doesn't it just reaffirm your worth as a parent and the meaning of your life when someone who knows your child well values the good that you see in them too?)

"Frances is wonderful," she said. "Today she gave me three hugs."

"That's Frances." I grinned. "You're very affectionate, aren't you?"

"Yeah," she said.

"She is. She is so affectionate. And so caring. Whenever anyone else is sad, she is sad too," said her teacher.

"I'm not surprised," I said.

This went on while I zipped up her coat and helped her put her rainboots on; then she said goodbye to all her friends, and we went outside to where I'd parked the stroller, underneath an overhang to keep the rain off. On the way, we ran into parents of other daycare kids: "Oh, it's Frances!" they said, smiling and waving. As we were getting set to leave, one of her daycare friends came out, hand-in-hand with her mom. We smiled and talked a bit, and M (the little girl), turned and said, "Can I give Frances a big hug?"

"Maybe tomorrow," I said.

"OK!" Off she skipped.

Keep in mind that I was the bully of my kindergarten class.

Everybody loves her. It's not just me, her biased Mummy; or her biased family. Everybody loves her. What an incredible talent to have.

Posted by Andrea at 9:50 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Bumblebee

You know what they say about a body in motion.

.

.

.

.

Posted by Andrea at 7:31 AM | Comments (9)

Frances Friday: Hair

People are always commenting on Frances's hair: it is very long, very thick for her age, and a lovely ash-blond that's nearly white around her face. I've been cutting it since she was four months old. Not only was she born with hair, she was born with a lot of it--I joke that if she'd gone to term she would have come out with pigtails--and even before she was born, her hair was clearly visible on the ultrasound, much to my shock. At seven months, I had ultrasound techs telling me that Frances was going to have a lot of hair.

"You must have pretty bad heartburn," they'd add.

"Not a bit," I'd reply.

So Frances has never been bald. There was a time right around four-six months when she had a nice little tonsure from lying on her back all the time and rubbing the hair off, but she has never been bald.

Her daycare room at school has been asking parents to bring in baby photos of their children. The one I picked of Frances is around eight months, Frances dressed all in purple including baseball cap and little gelly sandals, on her back in the crib she wouldn't sleep in, kicking her feet and smiling with those enormous blue eyes (my other leftover baby photos showed an itsy bitsy jaundiced newborn Frances covered with wires and tubes in the hospital--not so much fun for sharing with your new school friends). Wisps of fine blond hair poke out from underneath her hat--a lot of hair for a baby but not very much for Frances.

"When I was a baby I didn't have hair." She laughs.

"Well, you had some hair, just not very much..."

She cuts me off: "And then I got bigger and bigger and growed up and my hair got long!" She waves her arms around her head as if to indicate a fountain of hair descending from her scalp.

I'm not sure what this means for the boys she knows, since most of them do not have long hair, but she has definitely latched on to long hair for women as a signed of grown-up-edness. As I was informed recently, I can't be a baby because I'm her Mommy and I'm all grown up and my hair is very long! These moments of watching her trying to piece what she knows of the world together into a sensible whole are a treat.

I should also mention, in case anyone has forgotten, that the earnestness on her tiny star-like face as she explains the true workings of the world to her clueless Mommy is a continual delight, well worth the effort in choking out a relatively calm "I see" until she turns away and I can shake in silent laughter.

Posted by Andrea at 7:21 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: She really is a big school girl

I was sitting on the couch, reading, when Frances walked up to me with a pad of paper in one hand and a red crayon in the other. "And how do you spell your name?" she asked, all pint-sized officiousness and solemnity. I could see the scene she was role-playing, a teacher or other official school-type person, approaching students, clipboard and pen in hand, to sort them for one activity or another.

I smiled and put the book down. "A. N. D. R. E. A."

And down she copied every letter.

OK, the D looked more like a lopsided O and the R needed some restructuring after the fact to lengthen the legs so it wouldn't look like a Q, but there they were, all more or less on a straight line, all recognizable, all by herself. "Look at you!" I said. "You're making letters! What a big girl. That's great, Frances. Can I give you a hug?"

She smiled one of her nuclear-sunrise smiles, and I gave her a big smothering hug. "You really are a big school girl," I said.

"Yeah."

She is also very popular.

Caveat: she is popular because she is small. The older kids find her stature irresistible and are constantly approaching her to squat down, pat her head, and tell her how adorable she is. I hear them whispering to each other as we pass, "Frances is so cute! She's so small," so I know I'm not making it up. Nevertheless, Frances is very popular. The focus on her size does not seem to bother her (unlike the assumption that she is a baby) so I let it pass.

But it's a bit like travelling with royalty. We enter the daycare room, and I hear a murmur of voices: "It's Frances! Frances is here! Hi Frances! She's so cute." And Frances stops, looks around at her admirers, smiles, and waves. One tiny little cupped hand, a sweep of the room. It reminds me of nothing so much as the Queen entering a party held in her honour. Every day.

Needless to say, she is not upset at being left there all day anymore.

Posted by Andrea at 7:06 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: Stumped

Tuesday after school we picked up Frances's bumblebee costume at the post office.

Initially she wanted to be a frog, but we couldn't find any frog costumes, and she liked the picture of the bumblebee one on the computer so we ordered it. Every day since then she has asked if we can go to the store and buy her bumblebee costume for hallowe'en, and I reminded her that there is no store, it was on the computer, and the costume is in the mail.

I wheeled Frances over in her stroller directly from the school, and she leaned forward, excitedly clutching the snack tray. I gave her the sticky note from our front door letting us know the parcel was in, wheeled her up to the counter, and she handed it over to the post clerk. "This is for my bumblebee costume!" she said.

"Aren't you the cutest thing?" the clerk asked. "Are you going to be a bumblebee? You're going to be the cutest bumblebee ever. Are you going to come in and show me your costume?"

"No!"

"No? But I just want to see it, I don't want to keep it."

"We'll think about it, eh Frances?" I said. The clerk went into the back room and passed the box over; I signed for it and paid the duties. "Here you go Frances, your bumblebee costume."

I wheeled her back to the elevator, and as I pushed the button, the clerk shouted after us: "Bye baby!"

Frances turned around and shouted, "I'm not a baby!"

The clerk laughed. "Oh, that's right. Sorry! Bye, little girl."

Frances was mad. She folded her arms in front of her chest and trembled, her lips turned down, staring at the elevator door. I could see the wheels spinning in her mind: I'm not a baby. Why does everyone treat me like a baby? I'm a big school girl!

I leaned in and kissed her head. "You're right, you're not a baby. You're a little girl."

But she looks like a baby. She looks like one. She is tiny, she doesn't look like she's two years old yet. And there is this tiny little girl in a stroller, with her tremendous blue eyes, who must just seem like a precocious toddler to strangers. "Bye, baby!" Yet Frances does not see herself as tiny, but perfectly Frances-sized. These comments are beginning to wound her incipient dignity, her sense of herself as a competent, independent, interesting, growing-up big school girl. "I'm not a baby!"

We went home and, after dinner, tried on her bumblebee costume, with the little black headband with antennae on it. So adorable, the yellow tulle skirt standing out like a tutu; she pirouetted like a ballerina in front of her bedroom mirror and admired herself from all angles. For a moment I could stand behind her eyes and see her as she sees herself: a beautiful little girl dressed in a beautiful costume that is exactly what she wanted, looking just like a bumblebee. She preened like a debutante before a ball. She certainly did not see herself as cute, or adorable, or in any way ridiculous. "Perfect," she said.

"You are a great bumblebee," I said. "Do you want to practice your bzzzzing?"

She ran around, flapping her arms and bzzzing mightily.

"That was great," I said. "I think we are going to have lots of time to practice other nights, too; but right now we have to get your bath."

While I was washing her hair, her father called for his nightly chat, and she described in great detail her wonderful new bumblebee costume. He laughed.

Oh I know why he laughed, and I know most of you have laughed too to imagine Frances in her little bumblebee costume--but to her face! All of the pride and excitement went right out of her. She deflated like a pricked balloon.

She deserves to be treated with respect. She deserves to be treated with dignity. She will need to learn to demand it, but neither she nor I can guarantee that this demand will be met. How do I get other people to see that while she may be small and cute, she is not ridiculous? And how do I get Frances to locate that deficiency in other people, and not herself?

~~~~~

(Footnote: Afterwards, I explained to Erik what happened and he agreed that we need to be more sensitive to this developing need of Frances's in the future. I'm not including it for ex-bashing, but because it was an integral part of the story.)

Posted by Andrea at 6:30 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Bike Ride

"Are we going to ride on the bike today, Mummy?"

"Yep. Get your shoes on and I'll help you with your helmet."

"This is my bicycle helmet. It's pink. It has lambs on it! It's so pretty."

"I'm glad you like it. Ready, kiddo? You wait outside while I get the bike." I steer it through the front door to the path and prop it on the kickstand, which the manual says one should never ever do with a seat on the back, and always to use two people. There's only me, so I'll have to figure this out. I strap Frances in carefully, tighten it up, snap on the lap bar, and off we go. Turning corners is fun with the extra weight in the back. "I see a squirrel, Mummy!"

"Is it cute?"

"Yeah. Awwww. I'll just pretend this is a back window."

"Oh? It's good to have a back window, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but this one is just pretend."

A few minutes later we repeat the process in reverse and I walk her into her classroom, undo her helmet and hang it up on her hook with her lunch bag and jacket.

"Do you like riding the bike to school?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, good."

"Sometimes. Not all the time."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Big, heavy sigh. "I know."

Suppressing a giggle, I kiss the top of her shiny golden hair. "I'll see you this afternoon, sweetie. You have a good day at school."

"OK, Mummy." She wanders to a table where other kids are playing a Franklin game and does not look at me as I leave. She's settling in. That's good. No more crying in the morning. I peek at her one more time on my way out, and feel oddly wistful that she is once again ok to be without me all day long.

~~~~~

This weekend she is spending an extra day at Daddy's. It was written into our separation agreement that he gets one floating day per month. Frances misses him terribly, I know, so it's good and I'm glad for her that they get this time together. And I have plenty to do: a date last night, a date with friends tonight, laundry, groceries, writing, furniture refinishing, sewing, reading, all kinds of things. Maybe even sleep.

It's a good thing, too, because that apartment is going to seem very big and empty this weekend. If I didn't have so much to do I might go crazy.

Posted by Andrea at 6:34 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Long Days

If I leave work at 5:20, I get to the daycare just before 6:00, which is when it closes. I walk into the kindergarten room and there she is, my wee girl, playing solemnly with a toy, generally spattered with something staining, the only or nearly only child left in the room. It is a long day for a little girl.

She looks up and catches my eye. "Mummy!"

"Frances!" I squat down and open my arms for a hug; she rushes into them. "I missed you, sweet girl."

"I missed you too, Mummy." She wraps her arms around my shoulders and I stand up, holding her. She looks excitedly to M, the daycare worker who is the last to leave. "This is my Mummy! My Mummy is here! She came to pick me up!"

M smiles. "I don't know how you stand it. 'I missed you too!' That is just too cute."

I laugh. "I manage."

We walk home, Frances running ahead and telling me I can't catch her, the setting sun before us, leaves starting to turn in patches and fall off the trees, squirrels feasting on pinecones. Then it's supper, playtime, bed. We only have an hour and a half in the evenings together, which is not enough time, but she needs her sleep. There is a chapter of Alices's Adventures in Wonderland, a Princess Frances story, a snuggle, a few tears, a protestation of non-sleepiness, a tuck-in, another snuggle, a few more tears, a reiteration that it is bedtime and she needs her sleep, another snuggle, a kiss, and lights out. She is always asleep within five minutes, and wakes in the morning happy and rested at a good time. But that hour and a half is never enough.

She looks forward all week to Thursday, when Daddy picks her up, and they eat dinner and play at his house, which is up up up! They go high up in the elevator, and then she sleeps in her old bed at Daddy's house, and he will bring her in to school tomorrow and pick her up. I'll see her again on Saturday, and we'll have all day Sunday.

Sunday is what I look forward to. A whole day with my dear girl, no schedules to keep. Maybe this week we will get her winter boots and a new coat, I don't think last year's will fit. Maybe we will get a cheeseburger and french fries, or chicken and dipping sauce, while we are out for a treat. Maybe we will go to a park and enjoy the cooling days. Maybe we will snuggle on the couch and watch a movie. Then Monday is my compressed day; she will have to go to school in the afternoon but in the morning we can sleep in, play, watch TV. I can put her on my lap and she can make a house for the baby mole with her hand.

All I know is I miss her already.

Posted by Andrea at 8:09 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Faith

World, please be kind to my little girl.

She is perfect as she is at this very moment. She is thoughtful and prudent, generous and kind, polite and sociable, clever and sweet, resilient and sensitive. I spend every day awed at how unlikely it all seems. How did I produce her? How did she learn to make friends so easily when I still stumble over small talk, at 32? When I was three I threw temper tantrums all day long. How is it she so easily follows directions? How did she learn to watch her step so carefully without ever seeming to lose out on any fun? How does such a tiny ribcage hold such a large heart? How is it that the smallest unkind word to herself or others moves her to tears, yet she bounces back from trauma without missing a step?

It's incredible. It's not just me, is it? She is an amazing person, the best person I have ever met. She knows what loss is, but she still throws her heart wide open every day. She is as sensitive as gossamer and yet tougher than old boot leather.

You and I both know, world, that you need a lot more people like Frances.

Today she is starting school.

I have seen her around her peers. They don't mean to be unkind, they just don't see her. She is so small that they barrel right over her, knocking her off her feet, and don't even notice. It's not intentional. But my wee girl gets bowled over time and time again (and gets up and dusts herself off and keeps playing). And she is different. Different is never easy on the playground. Different is like walking around with a target painted on your back. And this summer has already been so hard for her. She doesn't show it, but I know and you know that losing your family and your house and your neighbourhood and your daycare and all your old friends in a matter of weeks is no easy thing, not even for a big kid, not even for an adult. She is only three. Surely that much is enough. More than enough.

It is her resiliency combined with her sensitivity and her unreserved joy that is so remarkable. Such a hard combination to fathom. Millions of people, billions even, have them individually or even in sets of two, but how many have all three? How many let the world in so completely and with such happiness and don't get chewed alive? I'm about to let her step from her family and from the warmth and shelter of a daycare to start at school. Please don't bruise and destroy what I find most beautiful about her. Yes, she's resilient; yes, she's strong. Don't let that be an excuse to kick her and knock her down until the sensitivity is worn off like cheap gilt and her joy is ground to dust.

She'll have hard days, she'll face heartbreak, now that she's on her journey away from her family and towards herself. Just don't let it be enough to break her. I can't keep her safe anymore.

World, please be kind to my little girl. Her eyes are why the universe was born.

Posted by Andrea at 6:01 AM | Comments (18)

Frances Friday: Lonesome

It seems strange to do Frances Fridays, now that Fridays are spent with Dad. On the other hand, it's my best opportunity for writing, period. So Frances Fridays it remains, for now.

1. Frances and C are still sisters. Soul sisters, actually. We went swimming on Wednesday when the temperatures hit 33C and Frances was the belle of the ball, C proud to be able to tell everyone they were sisters, and watch her sister give her a hug!

2. Frances misses her Dad and is having a hard time adjusting to the new daycare (for no reason I can see except she would rather play at home, but who wouldn't?), but otherwise really seems to love it here. She loves playing with C, loves having friends over to visit, loves playing with her toys downstairs, loves her pink room, loves the squirrels and chipmunks out the back door, loves the park, loves the name of her new school, and loves it when it's cold except it's even better when you wear a jacket. She loves meeting all the neighbourhood doggies, loves putting on her rain clothes to go out and splash in puddles, and loves running up and down the slope out the back door shouting "SuperBunny to the rescue! And ZoomZoom too!" (She gets to be both, because she's special.) She still wakes up (way, way, way too) early every morning begging to go downstairs and play. She seems as happy as ever.

I think she may be the most resilient person I've ever met in my life.

3. I miss my girl.

Posted by Andrea at 6:13 AM | Comments (14)

Frances Friday: Single Mom, Good Lord

So here it is. Both better and harder than I'd anticipated.

I don't sit, is really the biggest change. I wake up and start walking and sit down sometime before I go to bed. Some of this is because of moving--unpacking and organizing and restocking. Some of this is because, in exchange for being able to rent a place with a yard that will not bankrupt me, we are doing without some of the modern conveniences to which I've become accustomed (like a dishwasher). Some of this is because of my choice to use transit instead of driving, which always necessitates more walking. So it isn't single motherhood per se that has me on my feet all day long.

But dear maude I'm beat.

Frances is amazing.

(You knew this was coming.)

She has taken all of these changes in stride, as pleasant, cheerful, well-behaved and polite as ever. She has not expressed any sadness or anger about leaving the old house behind. She asked where Daddy is and when he is coming a bit the first few days, but seemed satisfied with my responses and hasn't really asked since. Even more impressively, she's adapted to her new daycare this week with speed and aplomb--a transition I hadn't been planning on making, except that her dad is going to need to put her there all day on Friday, and I didn't want it to be too much of a shock.

What a trooper.

I'll leave you with a giggle or--if you're me--an uproarious belly laugh:

"I made a poo, and then a pee to go with it," says Frances. "Poos like that, because it gives them something to drink."

Posted by Andrea at 6:53 AM | Comments (13)

Frances Friday Encore: Another Milestone

Tonight, when I was getting her ready for bed, Frances asked me if she could put my hair in a ponytail, and then a braid.

As soon as she asked, I remembered such play from my own girlhood, messing with friends' hair, ponytails and braids and pretend styles, fancy combs and clips.

She had no idea what she was doing, just grabbed clumps of hair and pulled them this way and that, and then said, "There!" Whereupon it promptly fell out because she had no elastics and no idea of how to use them even if she'd been holding one. But what a lovely moment it was anyway.

Earlier in the evening, when Frances was being her usual good-natured self, I said, "You know what, Frances; moms the world over want to have little girls just like you. Girls who are polite and sweet and fun and well-behaved and smart. And I got you. I am very lucky to be your Mummy."

"And I am very lucky to be your daughter," she said.

*melt*

Posted by Andrea at 7:28 PM | Comments (11)

Frances Friday: Random Countdown Stuff

Frances taught me how to walk like a moose.

First you have to put on your horns, by slapping yourself, once on either side of the top of your head. Then you have to walk around on your hands and feet; if you are the baby moose, you must kick your feet in the air as you go. If you are the Mummy moose, you must follow closely behind.

Then the baby moose must stop, turn around, and say, "Mummy! Mummy!" Mummy must say "Baby moose! Baby moose!"

"Mummy! Mummy!" "Baby moose! Baby moose!"

Then they must have a hug.

Then it's back to walking on the hands and feet. Baby moose's favourite part is the kicking and walking. Mummy moose's favourite part is the hugs and hugs and more hugs.

~~~~~

I had forgotten how boring Barbies are to play with until Frances got another one from my soon-to-be-ex SIL. She clearly has also forgotten, and is dying to be able to purchase these bits of unrealistic plastic for someone and thinks she can't get them for her boys. I say, buy the damned Barbies for your own kids and leave mine out of it; it is not going to make their penises fall off.

Anyway, Barbies. Boring. All you can do is take their clothes off and put them back on again. I realize that this is excellent training for a substantial part of an adult woman's expected life role, but I don't want her to learn it. Fortunately she gets really excited about a new Barbie doll, takes the clothes off and gets me to put them back on for a few hours, then forgets she owns it.

She got another one last weekend from the soon-to-be-ex SIL. We played with it for a while (I am not completely ungracious) and poor Barbie was shivering in her altogether when Frances looked at her bum and said, "Look! She matches my tushie!" She thumped her wee bum with her right hand. "See? Right here!"

~~~~~

On Tuesday I sorted through the Frances clothing. Ten large boxes were somehow reduced to one small one (plus another small one I will send to my brother). Little onesies and blue jeans and sweaters and t-shirts and dresses and shoes and slippers and pyjamas, all crammed into black garbage bags and shipped out the front door to Goodwill along with my expectations of having another child one day.

I know. I know. I'm young, 32, plenty of time, yadda yadda. But not really. It's going to take a while before I can even think about trusting someone new without breaking out in hives, I have no idea how long; and going down that road myself seems too fraught right now.

It's not that I think it's impossible. It's not that I think it can't happen. I just think it probably won't, I don't expect it. It's not something I ever had so why it turned out to be so hard to bag up those expectations, say goodbye to the mental image of the family-of-four when I thought I'd done so back in March, I don't know. And I have Frances, my perfect tiny girl, her sweet high voice and small soft hands. Still.

Goodnight, Nobody.

Posted by Andrea at 7:41 AM | Comments (10)

Frances Friday: Big School Girl

How did this happen?

She has two more weeks off with her Daddy, then two weeks off with her Mummy, before she officially starts school. But she is no longer in her daycare, no longer a preschooler. I can't wrap my head around it. When did that little tiny baby whose head fit in the crook of my elbow when I held her tiny feet become this little girl with the blond pigtails in the pretty pink dress she picked out by herself? Wasn't it just last week that she learned how to roll from her stomach to her back? Wasn't it just this weekend that she took her first wobbly steps? Didn't I start back at work again just the other day?

Guess not.

Posted by Andrea at 5:57 AM | Comments (19)

Frances Friday: Zoo

As you probably guessed on Wednesday, I took Frances to the zoo on my day off on Monday. With the new camera, of course. And let's just say that the animals must be feeling pretty good these days, because there were a lot of babies.

There were baby babboons, clambering up the fake-rock cliffs on the side of their habitat, and then careening off each other, at times bouncing off the plexiglass right in front of our faces. There was a baby reindeer, a baby giraffe, four baby cheetahs. And there were the baby horses, who were "sooooooo cute!"

And awkward-inducing:

"Look, Frances. The baby is drinking from the Mummy. Isn't that nice?"

"Yeah." Long pause. "They like to drink pee."

It took me a second to put that one together, but it could look like that's where they're drinking from, couldn't it? A nearby mother with her toddler laughed.

"Nooooo, sweetie. It's milk. The Mummy's making milk for the baby horse."

"Oh."

Later, at home, it came up again.

"The baby horse was drinking milk from its Mummy."

"That's right."

"Milk comes from cows!"

"Some milk comes from cows. But Mummy horses make their own milk for their babies. And cows make milk for their babies--and person-Mummies make milk for their babies, too."

A long, incredulous pause.

"Really. I used to make milk for you, you know."

Dear Readers, I will spare Frances the future indignity of the conversation that followed, which revolved around where exactly that milk comes from and how babies get it. By the time she's old enough to read, this entry will be gone anyway; but you might meet her one day. Let's just say that we got a little farther into puberty than I had really planned to with my three-year-old.

~~~~~

Today is Frances's last full day at the daycare. Her last part day will be next Tuesday.

Erik is taking three weeks off, starting tomorrow; and when his three weeks are over mine will be beginning, and after that she'll start school. So she'll have a nice long break with her parents while her world is falling apart (the guilt is never far from mind, Dear Readers).

~~~~~

My brother's wife gave birth to their first child today, a boy. Given that my brother and his wife are both over six feet tall we were expecting a giant, but the baby is a respectable but by no means enormous 20.5" and 8.something lbs. This morning, I told Frances after she had put on her shoes and was waiting to leave, that she now had a new baby boy cousin, named L, who was just a little baby and only this big--holding my hands apart the requisit new-baby-all-scrunched-up distance.

Erik came back in. "Are you going to tell Daddy what I told you?"

"I have a new baby boy cousin!" Frances exclaimed.

"You do? Wow! That's exciting."

"Do you remember his name, Frances?" I asked.

"No."

"It's L. And do you remember how big he is?"

She held a hand up to the height of her own head.

I laughed. "Not quite. He's only a little tiny baby right now."

So she cupped her wee hands together and peered into them, as if holding a newborn bird.

"Maybe a little bigger than that."

She'll understand when she meets him--which is a ways off yet, Dear Readers, since they live on the east coast.

Posted by Andrea at 6:36 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Oh Happy Day

Guess who just got a spot in the before-and-after school daycare program at the local public school, thus allowing her to attend regular junior kindergarten this September?

And guess who is going to end up saving over $100/month on childcare costs because of this?

And guess who is beyond relieved to know that this is one thing she doesn't have to worry about anymore?

She gets a spot as of August 13th, which is before we move in; but that means that once we are living there, I can start transitioning her to her new care situation and she will have plenty of time to get used to it before I have to go back to work. It'll cost a bit more now because we'll have to pay for most of August (and while I'm on unpaid leave too) but save us a bundle in the long term, plus get her started in the local school right away.

Posted by Andrea at 10:32 AM | Comments (14)

Frances Friday: Beds

"So what do you want for supper, Frances?"

"I don't want anything!" She rolled on the sofa. "I want to watch Max and Wuby."

"But you have to eat supper," says her crafty Mummy. "I was going to take you out to look at beds for the new house after supper. So you have to eat supper, you see, before we can go look at beds."

"Ok!" she shouted, bounding for the kitchen. "I want a grilled cheese!"

A grilled cheese it was, then we went to look at beds at Sears and the Brick.

And yes I realize that these establishments are not bastions of my normal values or preferences. But Frances needs a bed and dresser, and I need to not spend several hours driving all over town looking at them.

Mind you, this could hardly have been more exhausting than the reality, which was a small person who exclaimed, upon entering the furniture store, "I want to run in here, Mummy!" And so she did. She ran and she ran and she ran. She ran more. She kept running. She said, "You'll never catch me!" She climbed on beds, she climbed on couches. Then she ran. Again.

I think, in between all the running (and running and running) that we settled on a fairly plain white mates bed with a bookcase headboard and drawers underneath the mattress. Its plainness should help to offset the overwhelming girliness of the rest of the room, and also carry through many years because she won't outgrow it along with the princess phase. And it has a lot of storage. It is also several inches taller than she is, so we may have to look at bed rails.

Here is my question for you today, Dear Readers:

If you wanted to paint an approximately 2 1/2 foot diameter cherry-red flower on a light pink wall, how would you go about it? Assume you are not an artist and can't draw.

Posted by Andrea at 7:27 AM | Comments (16)

Frances Friday: Perspective Edition

"So where's J today? Is E still sick?" I ask my colleague, D.

"No. No, I thought J was home with E, but it turns out J's been off this week because her friend's daughter died."

"What? That's horrible."

"And it was so senseless, too. She choked on a grape. One minute you have a happy, healthy kid and then five minutes later...."

"Oh my god. How old was she?"

"Three. And what's even worse is that she is seven months pregnant."

Three.

My happy, healthy three-year-old is, at this moment, playing with all of her friends at the daycare. Maybe they are tickling her feet, and she is laughing. This weekend I will have to put her on my lap and tell her that her world is splitting in two, and it will be the hardest thing I've ever done.

But it is so far, so far from the worst thing that could happen, it's not even on the same planet.

Posted by Andrea at 9:46 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday the Thirteenth

Frances has decided that I'm not the antichrist just in time for our family meeting about the divorce on Sunday.

That's right. This weekend we finally come clean about what all this errand-running, paint-buying, thinly-veiled-fight-having, house-selling and box-packing is about. Thirty-five days. Five weeks. An eternity for a three-year-old girl for whom an hour is still an age. An eternity for her mother, too, though for different reasons.

Yet perversely, not enough time to get everything done that needs to be done before we move in.

But, at least she does not hate me right now.

Yesterday I got to pick her up at daycare. She was inside, having just used the toilet to make a pee, as her friend S proudly informed me. Friends S and I tickled her feet as I carried her out the door (and who can blame them? Have you seen her smile? Have you heard her laugh? It's addictive. If I could sit around all day and tickle her, I'd do it too). We buckled ourselves into the brown car and as I pulled away, I heard her say something.

That can't be right, I thought. "What did you say?"

"I missed you, Mummy."

"Oh, thank you sweetie. I missed you too. Lots. It makes me so happy to hear that."

"I missed you today."

"I missed you too. I love you, sweet girl."

"I love you too, Mummy."

~~~~~

This week she has been making lots and lots of Whole Play-Doh Families: Mummy, Daddy, Sister, Brother and Baby.

This bears no resemblance to our own family configuration, and will bear even less shortly, as Frances will learn by Sunday. As we played, I tried to introduce the concept of families that don't look like that--with one or two Mummies, one or two Daddies. No. She would have none of it.

There is an episode of Max and Ruby where Ruby and her friend Louise are trying to stage a play about two princesses who go to a ball and dance with a handsome prince. I swear the gender roles on that show are more rigid than anything I've seen in real life. Anyway, at one point, they give up on Max playing the role of the handsome prince, and decide that one of them will play that part instead. They do the typical uber-polite Girl-Rabbit thing (since I've never seen a human girl at that age be so polite) and fight over who will give up the princess role to play the prince.

Says Louise, "We can't have TWO princes, Ruby!"

Says Frances's interfering Mother from the armchair, "Actually, Frances, they could have two princes. Or two princesses. Or the princess could go by herself. It's really very silly to think that you have to have one princess and one prince to go to the ball."

Frances says nothing, so intent she is on the repetitive and predictable drama playing out on-screen. But I hope it sinks in at least a little bit.

Posted by Andrea at 5:41 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: The Real Scooby Doo!

Thursday was our first-ever trip to a theme park. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. At just over thirty-two inches she's not tall enough for almost every ride at the park; and the distances are large and her legs are small. It's expensive just to get in, so the last thing I want is to pay to get inside and then have her hate it. And it being just the two of us, I didn't want to go loaded down with stroller and diaper bag and lunch box and the rest of it. Just Frances, me, and a large purse that contained a few extra diapers and a sippy cup.

Imagine my surprise when she absolutely loved it.

When she ran almost everywhere, almost the whole day--not walked, but ran. So that I almost never had to carry her. When every ride she could go on (the slow ones with no minimum height) was greeted with a large smile and a "This is fun!" and "oooh, I'm getting dizzy." When she was totally fine going on rides all by herself. When she was thrilled to bits to see "the real Scooby Doo!" and Blue and Tyrone in the (fake fur) flesh. When, in the playground, she climbed to the top of the Candy Factory treehouse and slid down the steepest slide all by herself, ten times in a row. Do you have any idea how tall that thing is? And how small she is? And how much work it is for her just to climb those stairs?

We only came home because it was two hours past her naptime. She did not want to leave. It was a great day.

Expensive, what with the forgot-my-camera-at-home-so-bought-a-disposable plus the tickets and a snack and parking, but so worth it. It's only a shame that it'll be another two years at least before she'll be able to go on any of the minimum-height-requirement rides, because I know she'd love them.

Running around in the hot sun for five hours was also enough to tire her out for a really good nap.

I can't wait to go back with her.

Posted by Andrea at 6:55 AM | Comments (12)

Frances Friday: Fill In the Blanks

I have no cute stories today.

What I do have is many versions of this story:

"No! I don't want to spend time with you. I don't want to play with you. I don't like you! I like my Daddy! I want to spend time with my Daddy!"

Complete with tears, hiccups, and near-hysterics. She cannot be distracted. She cannot be tempted.

She is fine when he isn't there. But when he is there, she wants nothing to do with me; and she doesn't want to go anywhere without him. So the only way to spend time with her, right now, is for him to leave the house.

So I have no cute stories.

But.

Because of getting the apartment on Sunday, I'm off on vacation for a week. And I have high hopes for cute stories next Friday, after spending some alone-time with my girl. Not a whole lot, mind you, since Monday is a holiday and next Friday is his compressed day; but a few days. A few days where, hopefully, "I don't love you!" is not the most common thing I hear.

Posted by Andrea at 7:38 AM | Comments (23)

Frances Friday: Favourites

Andrea: So do you want to go to the park, Frances?

Frances: Noooooooo.

Andrea: How about the backyard? I think your pink flowers need some watering.

Frances: Nooooooo.

Andrea: Are you sure? Or we can go in the basement....

Frances: Nooooooo.

Andrea: Well what would you like to do?

Frances: I want to go find my Daddy.

Andrea: Oh, sweetie. But I miss you. I'd like to spend some time with you too.

Frances: Noooooo!

Then she ran upstairs to find him.

~~~~~

Andrea: I love you, Frances. You're my favourite person.

Frances: I like Daddy best.

~~~~~

I don't know what to do about this. I don't know if anything can be done. She has so little time left with a full-time Dad that part of me thinks I should just let her go and spend as much time with him as she likes. Part of me thinks I'm over-reacting, and that he's always been her favourite; but this will only make what comes next worse. Part of me thinks that she's noticed how angry I am at him, and has decided that whatever is happening to her family and her life must be my fault. Part of me thinks that all I can do about this is wait, and hope she gets over it.

In the meantime, besides letting her reject me over and over and over and over again, I have no idea what to do.

Posted by Andrea at 7:15 AM | Comments (24)

Frances Friday: Daddy's Girl

On Monday, Frances had a nap. This would seem unremarkable if it were not for the fact that she so seldom naps nowadays, and that she woke up at 6:30 am. She had a nap. I was overjoyed.

Around 3:30, she woke crying. I went in, and she grabbed my neck and leaned her small wet head against my shoulders. "I miss my Daddy!" she cried.

"I know, sweet girl."

That is one working day's absence.

What we are going to do, how I am going to help her cope, when he is gone five days in seven, I do not know. This will be by far the worst of it. Worse than selling the house, worse than telling him, worse than adjusting my own expectations, worse than telling other people, worse than the fighting, worse than the lawyers, worse than all the rest of it put together. Frances's grief. That will be the worst.

~~~~~

Frances: Now you count to ten, and I hide!

Andrea: One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Ready or not, here I come! Hmm, where could Frances be?

Frances: (jumping out from behind the shrub) Here I am, Mummy!

Her method of playing hide-and-seek is unorthodox; but I love it, so I'm not going to tell her that she's missing one of the central tenets of the game: hiding.

~~~~~

In other good news: we sold the house. Closes August 24th. Later than I'd like, really, but thank the gods there's a date when this will all be over with.

Posted by Andrea at 5:51 AM | Comments (20)

Frances Friday: Potty Humour

Now that Frances has decided that learning how to use a toilet might not be an evil conspiracy designed to deprive her of her precious playtime, toilet contents have taken on a whole new aura in her eyes. No, there is nothing more fun these days to Frances than a truckload of potty humour.

"Mummy," she whispers in her quietest voice, eyes wide and sparkling, "Do you like peepee juice?"

"EWWWWWW!" I say, and wrinkle my nose. Frances laughs uproariously. "Yuck!" she says. "Yuck!" I repeat. "Blech," says Frances, sticking out her little pink tongue. And once the laughter and mutual derision of the idea of eating bodily wastes passes, another soft conspiratorial whisper: "Mummy, do you like poopoo juice?"

I can only assume that she is getting this from daycare.

~~~~~

I only have time for a quick note here due to various real-life intrusions (though I hope to fix this tomorrow), but I wanted to say thanks to Julie Pippert for sending a Perfect Post my way for Siding with Thoreau. (Look! I don't even have time to link to my own post! Very sad.) Thanks, Julie.

Posted by Andrea at 6:09 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: Big News, Little News

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm thrilled to say that after many, many (many many many) months of trying, Frances is finally interested in underwear.

See, Frances, she's a smart kid. She had us figured out. Why should I wear underwear? she thought. In diapers, I never have to stop playing, and Mom and Dad take care of everything. Diapers are great! I'm retiring in diapers.

And so for lo these many months I despaired that while everyone says not to worry, your kid won't start kindergarten in diapers, that Frances would see fit to break that bit of parenting wisdom as well (she is after all starting kindergarten very young).

But last weekend, she decided that she wanted to wear underwear, and this week she has been doing scarily well, with only a few odd accidents.

Why, you ask?

Because her best friend S at the daycare wears underwear.

Ah, glorious, blessed peer pressure.

(Shut up.)

~~~~~

Also, a conversation we had this week:

Frances: It's not nice to say bad words. (apropos of nothing)

Andrea: That's true. Do ... people at the daycare sometimes say bad words?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: Yeah? Who says bad words at the daycare?

Frances: I don't know.

Andrea: Oh. And what happens when they say bad words?

Frances: I get a time out!

Hmm.

Posted by Andrea at 6:53 AM | Comments (16)

Frances Friday: Mother to the World

You will not be remotely interested to learn that Frances has never deliberately hurt a single one of her toys (notice that I did not refrain from telling you) and, in fact, when she drops one by accident, she picks it up and kisses its owwie better. And gives it a hug and puts it down for a nap.

But I knew that Frances's maternal instincts were revving up again when I found her carrying her basketball around the basement the other day, on her shoulder.

"It's a baby basketball, Mummy," she said.

"Oh? It is?"

"Yeah! It's so cute.."

"Mm-hmm. It sure is."

"It's cwying!"

"Oh no! Is the baby basketball sad?"

"Yeah. She misses her Mummy." Then she nestled her cheek against the basketball, murmured "shhh, shhh," and returned to pacing the floor with her small round charge.

She is a born caretaker. She jumps to help us put away the groceries, and likes taking kleenexes out of the box and pretending to wipe her nose primarily so she can crumple them up and put them properly in the garbage can. The most fun thing to do with the wooden family living in the dollhouse is a big group hug, with everyone saying, "I love you!" and "I love you too!" and "Thank you!" and "You're welcome!" When one of the twin baby kittens cries, the other immediately runs to comfort it. Besides human and animal figurines (and balls), trucks, trains, books, crayons, markers, shoes, boots, socks and mittens have all been known to be in need of Frances's comforting touch.

This is more than her mirroring back our care, though it is thrilling when she uses the same phrases and caresses. This is her own enormous heart. More than anything else she is or does, it is what I am proudest of. And no matter what else she does or doesn't do with her life, no matter who she becomes, if she holds on only to this, her life will be a success.

"Are you happy, Mummy?"

"No, not right now. I have a headache."

"Oh no! Your head has an owwie?"

"Yeah."

She clambers on to the couch beside me, stands on her tiptoes and kisses the top of my head. "There! Is it better? Do you feel happy now?"

My head is still pounding, but what can I say except "yes"?

On the rare occasions she does something we've asked her not to, no threatened discipline will reach her. We can take away a toy, remove a privilege, put her in time out--the only thing that works is to tell her that she has made us unhappy. Then she will apologize and try to make it right.

I try to imagine a world filled with unstintingly generous, caring people who want to be a source of happiness. I imagine a world where our leaders don't care about toys and privileges, and want to take care of people. Baby girl, if you don't want kids someday, at least let someone take a crack at your genome. We need a lot more people just like you.

Posted by Andrea at 6:58 AM | Comments (13)

Frances Friday: Froggie!

On Wednesday, we saw our first froggie of the year in the backyard--stump almost entirely gone, about the size of Frances's hand. For a while we watched it; then I caught it for her and placed it on her hand; then, after it jumped off, we ran inside for Frances's camera to take a picture.

Frances's froggie commentary:

"It's a frog! Look Mummy, it's a froggie! It's grey! It's grey and black! It has black eyes! Can I hold it? It's sticky! The froggie is sticky! Awww, what a cute little baby froggie! It's a baby! It's so cute! It jumped! It jumped again! Look, Mummy, it jumped! It's sticky, Mummy! Look! It jumped again! It's so cuuuute! It's a big frog. It's my friend!"

Thanks, froggie.* You took one on the chin but it sure made my week.

~~~~~

*YES. I know. Not actually a frog. A toad. You try communicating the differences to a three-year-old in the throes of froggie fandom.

Posted by Andrea at 6:39 AM | Comments (10)

Frances Friday: White Flowers

The last year has been hard for the maternal ego.

Because, you know what? As I alluded to earlier in the week, Erik never goes anywhere, until he leaves town. He is always at home. My theory is that his hobby has replaced his friendships. In any case, there he is. And there I can't be, because I've been so angry at him (consciously and not) that I can't stand it. So I go upstairs and read a book, or scrapbook. Go downstairs and read emails. Go out for a walk. Sit in the same room on the couch with a book and try to avoid conversation.

You're wondering what this has to do with the maternal ego. See, Erik is always there, and Frances is always there, and my choice for the last year has been to get away from Erik (thus getting away from Frances too) or sit and stew and be a horrible bitchy person around Erik (and thus around Frances too). Leaving the house with Frances is an option but it's not something I can do every day, especially in winter. There was a brief time in March when I blew up at him and told him he needed to back the fuck off and give me some space because I was leaving him for a reason and didn't want to sit around playing happy family until I moved out, where he made an effort to get out of the house most nights and on weekends. This lasted for two weeks. Now, he is always there again, and I am left with my old dilemma.

It's been hard not to wonder how well I'll be able to function as a single mother when I end up spending so little time with Frances because Erik is always there.

And then I finally get a rare hour or two with Frances away from Erik, and realize that we'll be more than fine.

Monday was one such day, though it didn't start out that way. I got home at nearly 5 with a bad headache and an asthma attack, and spent an hour in the craft room organizing things while the codeine and the steroids kicked in. Frances was outside with Erik. Then I went outside to see Frances--Erik stayed--one showing ended and I went inside to do a quick workout, since Erik was obviously not going anywhere. I finished. I went upstairs. I changed. It was 7:00; Frances goes to bed at 8:30; Erik was still there. He was not leaving. He was not even leaving the room.

"Frances, do you want to go to the woods?" I asked.

"And then the park!"

"That sounds like a great idea."

The immediate lightening of stress when I wheeled her out of the garage in her red wagon proved what a good idea it was.

First of all--there were doggies! Doggies everywhere. Fluffy doggies, out walking their owners. Friendly small doggies, who let Frances give them gentle pets, and who kissed her fingers in return. She grinned, she jumped up and down, she said "Hi Doggies!" and "Bye doggies!", she burrowed her face into my t-shirt in shy joy when they wagged their tails and sniffed her arm.

And then, at the park? There were rock walls to climb, bridges to run over, tunnels to crawl through; and the tunnels had windows at which pudgy-cheeked faces needed to be pressed so she could say, "I see you, Mummy!" "I see you too, Frances." "No you don't!"--and off she'd run.

Between was the woodlot, with its paths lined partially with flat boulders (making a much more interesting walkway) sloping up and down hills. Frances would run up them full tilt, and you can imagine that her full tilt going uphill is not very fast, even though her tiny legs were working pretty quick. The leaves are coming out. And the trout lilies and trilliums. The forest floor is briefly green.

"Oh Mummy, look at the white flowers," she said.

"Aren't they beautiful? I love trilliums."

"Me too! I love trilliums! Look at them all, Mummy! Look over there. Ooooh. Look over there! Look at all the white flowers. Aren't they beautiful? Ooooh. Can I pick one, Mummy?"

"Oh, sweetie. Trilliums are special. We shouldn't pick them."

"Please? Can I please pick a white flower, Mummy?"

"I don't know...."

"Please? Please?"

"OK. You can pick one. You can pick one white flower, on the way home, if you are a really good girl at the park."

"Yay!"

As she picked her white flower on the way home (and I instructed her to pick only the flower, not the leaves, because if you pick the leaves the plant won't come back the next year) and I stood and looked at the hills carpeted in tall white and shy yellow flowers, all I could think was--at last. Thank god. At last. They're back.

After she was asleep, I downloaded the photos I'd taken. Her pudgy grin through the holes in the tunnel. Skipping over the gaps between boulders on the way to the park. Standing surrounded by trilliums near a large tree. I added the best ones to the "print" file and looked through Sunday's images--her cuddle with R, feeding the goats, running and laughing on her way to the animals, smiling up at me in the backyard.

Someday soon, this is how it will be. Not all the time, not every day, but more than now. Me and my girl.

~~~~~

Addendum: Yellow Flowers!

Do you remember when you thought dandelions were flowers?

Frances is at that age now, and so are all her daycare friends, including S, one of her many many best friends. On Tuesday when I went to pick her up, S's mother was there at the same time, so S and Frances got to walk out together. Between the daycare's doors and our car (and their bus-stop) was a field of dandelions. Ooooooh.

They stopped to pick them, of course, S giving Frances three of hers, to each of which Frances said "thank you," and S said "you're welcome." After Frances had a nice little handful, S said to me, "You can make a centrepiece!"

"That's true! That would be nice, wouldn't it Frances?"

"Yeah!"

"Hey Frances," said S, "Wanna race?"

"Yeah!"

Off they both ran, full tilt, to our car, giggling and laughing. Of course the 'winner' was never in doubt, as S is at least seven inches taller than Frances; but she didn't care about winning and Frances didn't care about losing. They just lost themselves in joy to be running together on a beautiful spring day, fists full of dandelions.

Posted by Andrea at 6:20 AM | Comments (11)

Frances Friday: Sick Bunny

If there is one thing that is worse than spending a beautiful sunny spring weekend inside with a bad cold, it is spending a beautiful sunny spring weekend inside with two bad colds, plus war, pestilence, famine, death, cancer and other serious diseases, accidents, and the evening news.

Fortunately for us, we were spared most of those, and only had to deal with Frances's concurrent colds. Yes, concurrent. She picked up the cold I had earlier plus a new one from daycare and spent a truly miserable weekend flopping on shoulders, refusing food, crying piteously when her coughing prevented her from sleeping at night, and demanding an all-zookie diet. How do I know there were two colds? Because I am getting the second one. It's different than the one I had two weeks ago, believe me.

Which meant that no one got to sleep. She coughed--no lie--six hours straight one night. She dozed a bit between fits, but other than hold her, there wasn't much we could do.

Add to this bodily injury, the insult of a home in upheaval; furniture rearranged for upcoming house showings, boxes being packed and belongings shipped to the garage to declutter, all her toys moved to the front room, strangers (real estate agents) coming over to give us their pitch, and Mummy and Daddy already behaving strangely and sleeping in separate rooms--it would be enough to give anyone, especially a three-year old anyone with two very bad colds, an excellent excuse for a bad mood.

Then throw in Monday, supposed to be a fun Compressed Day at home with Mummy, spent instead running errands. Running to the bank to take out cash for a money order for a deposit on the apartment, running to another bank when the first one had no working machines, running to the post office to get the money order, running to the apartments to sign the lease agreement, running to the school to pick up the registration forms. In and out of the carseat, which every time she climbed into all by herself, quite a production for my wee girlet. The carseat, naturally, exacerbated her coughing so she spent all our cartime hacking. I wish we could have stayed at home and snuggled on the couch instead, but with only four compressed days off between now and school getting out for the summer, and the lease starting, there's a lot to do and not many hours to do it in. When all of this plays out and the crap settles, I am going to owe her one hell of a holiday.

But the entire time she was cooperative, good-natured and uncomplaining, asking only for kleenex and zookies and Green Eggs and Ham on repeat. On the other hand, I was in a foul mood, waspish and snapping with everyone but her. She's my hero.

Posted by Andrea at 5:53 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Best Friends

One day last year when I had picked Frances up from daycare and was driving her home, I sang her a silly, made-up song and turned around so I could see her reaction. She was staring at me with bright, wide-open eyes and a big soft smile; her face said "I love you completely" more clearly than any words she was capable of using at the time.

"I'm doing something right," I thought, though as anyone can tell you, you have to work really hard to make an infant or toddler hate its mother. Still, I've never forgotten that moment, that one moment when I got to see that I already had the one thing I wanted more than anything else. I wish I could put it in a bell-jar, protect it from the storms and chills of growing up, and know that she would always love me that much. I don't expect to ever see that look on her face again--not directed at me, anyhow--but I'm so happy to have seen it even once.

Frances is entering a snuggly stage. Normally, when she watches one of her "best friends" on TV (the Grinch, or Horton the Elephant, or Sam-I-Am are currently on heavy best-friend rotation), she sits in her lion chair by herself, but lately she wants to sit beside me on the couch. I lift her up and she takes advantage while my arms are still raised to snuggle in so that I am forced to wrap my arms around her. She leans in to me. I kiss the top of her head and stroke her unnaturally soft arms. She tells me what her best friends are up to: "Oh no! Horton is sad! He's tired. He has to find the clover in the field. Are there a lot of clovers? Poor Horton. He is sad. Now he's happy! He found them! ... There are the monkeys. Where is the yop? Is that the yop? Oh, the monkeys are mean! They are singing! Horton is sad! There is the yop! Now the monkeys are nice."

She also comes running to hug our knees, lately, which she hasn't done before. Only most of the time they're not hugs. She will wrap both arms around my thigh and hold on so tight I can't move; "what a great hug," I'll say. "Thank you sweetie."

"That wasn't a hug!" Frances will say. "I'm holding you up. I'm saving you."

"Oh sweetness, you don't have to save me." I'll pick her up and we'll have a traditional hug using arms and shoulders; she'll thump me on the back and burrow her head into my shoulder. And I'll wonder. Is it the thought that counts?

Posted by Andrea at 7:59 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: Frances is the best medicine

Another, unextolled advantage to the NEW AND IMPROVED Spring! we're all loving this year, and its immune system challenge, is this great cold I've got right now. It's in the phlegm-factory stage (not that this will stop me from enjoying the nice weather we're finally getting).

Monday was my compressed day with Frances, and given the cold, rain, and cold (two colds in one!), it wasn't the greatest ever. We had a Pyjama Day. No one got dressed. That was the highlight. Frances wanted to do more exciting things, like chase! and fly the Baby Owl all around the house, but Mummy was only able to sit up on the couch and prop her eyes open with toothpicks. I managed to smile and croak out the occasional, "Wow, look at Baby Owl fly! She's really been practicing, hasn't she?"

I even took a nap while she was napping. The last time that happened, Frances was maybe two months old.

By 8:00 I was for all practical purposes unconscious. My eyes were open, and I was ambulatory, but this was merely a clever guise for getting my wee girl tucked into bed, at which point I collapsed in my own and pulled the blankets up to my chin. I turned out the lights. Bliss. Deeply medicated bliss.

I heard the door rattle; then saw four tiny fingers wrapped around the edge, then a slice of blond hair, then a forehead, then two blue eyes.

"Is that a Frances?"

She walked into the room. "I just wanted to snuggle with the baby mole."

"Ok. Come on up, we'll have a quick snuggle."

She clambered up with Baby Owl and we snuggled under the blankies for a few minutes, then I sent her back to bed. I fidgeted, read for a few minutes, then settled myself down again. Shortly, I heard the door rattle. Then the four tiny fingers, slice of hair, forehead, and face. "Is that another Frances?"

She walked in. "I just wanted to visit."

I sighed. "Frances, Mummy is sick. I really need to sleep. We can snuggle again, but then you have to go back to your bed and stay there."

"OK, Mummy." Up she climbed, and we snuggled under the blankies again. "Are you sick?"

"Yes, I am. I have an owwie in my throat."

"Can I kiss it better?"

"Oh, sweetie. That is so nice of you. But no, I just have to take medicine and get some sleep, and it will go away in a few days."

"Your baby mole can make it better."

"It can?" My lips twitched. "I see. OK kiddo, let's go back to bed. I'll tuck you in again, but this time you have to stay there. I'll see you in the morning. Now Mummy needs to get some sleep so her cold will go away."

By this time it was almost nine; thanks to the deeply medicated state I was in, I drifted off quickly and woke only once, near five, to swallow some more codeine for the sore throat. (It was that sore.) In the morning I staggered into the kitchen, where Frances was eating her multigrain cereal. "Good morning, sweetie."

"Mummy! Are you feeling better?"

"Not yet." I pulled her on to my lap. "How are you feeling? Do you have any owwies?"

"No."

"If you feel any owwies in your throat, you tell S or C, ok?"

"OK. Mummy, can I give you a hug? It will help you feel better." She wrapped her arms around my neck and thumped me vigorously on the back. "There! Do you feel better now?"

"That was a great hug, sweetie. It made me very happy."

"But are you still sick?"

"Yes, I am. But that's ok. It will go away in a few days."

"Should I give you another hug?"

"You should eat your breakfast. You can give me another hug before we leave, though."

"OK. It will make you feel better."

"Yes, it will."

Posted by Andrea at 6:32 AM | Comments (10)

Frances Friday: And They Say Friday the 13th is Bad Luck!

Did you know that I have an amazing girl?

You might have figured that out by now.

But just in case, more evidence:

I've started throwing out stuff I'm not planning to move into an apartment, and moving things around to make them a bit neater and showier for when we list the house. Part of this involved taking all of her pretend food out of the large diaper box we had stored it in (the pantry) and putting it in a small blue container that fits on the bookshelf. As any parent in the audience can verify, this immediately made the pretend food interesting again, and we spent Easter weekend playing with it.

We ate pretend hamburgers and hotdogs, squirted pretend ketchup and mustard on pretend buns, nibbled on pretend cheese, and the Mummy chicken nugget made very sure that the Baby chicken nugget got lots of sleep and cuddles.

Say again? Yes, it's true. Two pretend chicken drumsticks have become a little Mummy-and-Baby family, and the Mummy takes very good care of the baby. What a cute little baby chicken nugget it is, too, especially cuddled on Frances's shoulder while she pets it and says "shh" because--you know--it's cwying.

This anthropomorphizing of ... well, everything ... also made easter somewhat complicated. The egg hunts (plural) were marvelous. So much fun was the first egg hunt that we needed to have a few dozen more, you see, some where I hid the eggs, some where Daddy hid the eggs, and some where Frances hid the eggs. Soon I'm going to hide the eggs in the cupboard and hope that Frances forgets about them because I'm not sure I can tolerate another round of hunting for eggs.

But it was the chocolate bunnies that did us in.

The chocolate bunnies, the large one and the little ones, became a Mummy and her babies, you see. And the Mummy and Baby chocolate bunny rabbits had many hugs and kisses and snuggles, and talked to each other, and sang songs, and were carried around on Frances's shoulder or proferred in her hands (along with "Look at the baby bunny, Mummy! Awww. She's so cute!"). They could not, under any circumstances, be eaten.

Until Monday. Now they're fair game. It must be hunting season.

~~~~~

*clears throat*

Erik "needed a break" this week.

I am trying not to be too vicious or catty about it by, say, wondering publicly exactly what it is he needs a break from (oops), but he needs a break. And this needing of a break manifested itself as taking a week off to go see his parents in Montreal.

It's lovely to have the house to ourselves, from a purely selfish perspective. I have no end of fun with Frances when I'm not wasting my emotional resources being pissed off at Erik, which is another nice validation that I'm making the right decision. But oh Maude, the logistics. The logistics of being a single mom when all of our decisions had been based on Erik's convenience. Like, you know, having her daycare in Erik's office building, which is in the opposite direction from my office, and which adds over an hour to Frances's time in daycare each day, and almost two hours to my working day.

So Erik is getting a break, and I am running myself ragged, and Frances is spending extra time out of her home and family when I know she is already upset and confused and now she's missing her Daddy too. It's great. I really hope Erik is enjoying his break.

But!

But! When I picked her up Wednesday, and we stopped to get the mail, and there was a suspiciously dvd-shaped package waiting for us, and I gave it to Frances and she said, "Could it be Green Eggs and Ham? It's coming in the mail!" because she remembered me ordering it online a week ago, and how excited she was carrying that little package home, and then how happy she was to open it and see that it was! It was Green Eggs and Ham! She loves Green Eggs and Ham! Green Eggs and Ham is her favourite! That was great.

And it was great to put it on the basement dvd player while I jogged on the eliptical, thus getting in a workout and not feeling as if the entire day was spent facilitating Erik's "break."

And it was great to make her macaroni and cheese. Yummy! She loves macaroni and cheese! It's her favourite! And how nicely and quietly she sat on her kitchen chair waiting for the macaroni and cheese to be done, only asking for a preemptive snack a few dozen times.

Not so great was when Daddy called, and they talked for a few minutes, and she wasn't saying anything because she's still trying to get this phone thing, so Erik said, "Ok then. I guess I'll say goodnight. Goodnight, Frances!" And Frances sobbed. So then Daddy decided he didn't have to go yet after all, and Frances very carefully cradled the phone in both hands and stared intently at the receiver for about twenty minutes. She's never before been so upset when one of us goes out of town.

But after this, we snuggled on the big bed, and she asked to go under the blankets, all the way. And the baby chicken nugget snuggled with the baby mole, and then we read a story and I tucked her into bed, and went into the basement to try to get a few things done, and when I came upstairs--an hour later--I found my pink-stripey-pyjamaed girl lying on her back by the gate at the top of the stairs, hands folded on her stomach. "You see, Mummy," she said philosophically, "I'm just really not that tired."

So I tucked her into bed again, and she was asleep in five minutes.

And get this: I've gotten her ready in the morning, taken her to daycare, gone to the office, put in a full 8.33 hours, picked her up, brought us home, cooked supper, tidied up, cleaned dishes, organized and taken out the garbage, worked out, written, read, blogged and even slept--all by myself. I'm sure this is not what Erik had in mind, but I'm feeling a bit more competent today than I did last week, single-mothering wise.

Now, technically, today was supposed to be Frances's day at home with Daddy on his compressed day off; but this is difficult to arrange when he's in Montreal. I've been talking myself into being ok with this (I spend a fair bit of time talking myself into being ok with things). It's only one day, she likes her daycare, etc. But I'm not. Frances misses her Daddy, first of all; and not only is it hard for her to miss a day off at home, when I know she really wants one ("But Mummy, I don't want to go to daycare today. I want to stay at home! Don't you want to stay at home?"), but extra hard for her to have an extra-long daycare day in its place. Especially considering the circumstances, when all my instincts are telling me that she needs a bit of extra coddling and cuddling.

So, dammit, today is OUR day at home. Together. Plus my regular compressed day on Monday. And I'm not thrilled at having to use one of my precious vacation days to mitigate the potential damage of Erik's break, but I know if I'd gone into work I'd have spent the whole day wondering how she was and if I'd done the right thing. And I'll do a little bit of work from home to assuage the worker-bee guilt.

Frances and I are going to have a marvelous day if it kills me.

It's starting with Green Eggs and Ham.

Posted by Andrea at 6:59 AM | Comments (18)

Frances Friday: Toys That Talk

We were home on Monday, playing in the basement, when Frances turned on the radio with the remote. I can't remember what was on, but it was horrible: loud, overly sexual, poorly done.

"Do you like this, Frances?"

"No."

"What would you rather listen to?"

She paused; then excitedly said, "I want to listen to Frances on the Radio!"

"We haven't made any new shows for a while. Would you like to make a new show, and then we can listen to that?"

"Yeah!"

"What would you like to talk about on your radio show?"

"Toys that talk!"

So here it is. I should mention that it's more "Toys that Sing Row Row Row Your Boat" than "Toys That Talk," but it's still way better than whatever that atrocious song was. And before I hear any complaints: listen, you have no idea how many renditions of Row Row Row Your Boat were removed from this broadcast. Enjoy!

You can listen to it here (click on the above link) or find us listed on iTunes (under podcasts) or Bloglines as "Radio Free Frances." Happy Easter, everyone.

~~~~~

Bonus Conversation:

I requested some information packages on different insulin pumps, and the first one to show up (Cozmo) came with the requisite dvd movie about all of their fabulous features. I popped it in on Monday when I was home with Frances, just to see what it was all about. Then, on Wednesday:

Frances: I want to watch the insulin pump movie!

Andrea: What?

Frances: I want to watch the insulin pump movie! I LOVE the insulin pump movie!

Andrea: Umm... what? The insulin pump movie? You don't want to watch the Lorax, or....

Frances: No! I want to watch the insulin pump movie! Let's watch the insulin pump movie!

Andrea: Umm. OK. You're sure?

Frances: Yeah!

Andrea: Here we go.

Frances: Yay! I LOVE the insulin pump movie!

I can't wait to see how excited she is when the new insulin pump (whatever it turns out to be) actually shows up!

Posted by Andrea at 6:56 AM | Comments (14)

I'm alive, and Frances is adorable

I wouldn't want anyone to worry over the weekend, and you probably aren't anyway, but just in case: my doctor kindly provided me with a few cartridges of fast-acting and long-acting insulin and two insulin pens for free, leaving me with only the cost of the pen needles to shill out for, and I have been insulined since about 11:00 yesterday morning. No comas for me! Hurrah!

Of course, it's not working as well as the pump. I woke up today at 11.8 (normal is 4-6) because I was afraid to give myself a correction bolus with the pen last night, not knowing how well the doctor had estimated the basal pen dose. And it's weird to have to be in the mindset of poking myself in the stomach again whenever I want to eat anything. And not being able to dial up portions of units, only whole ones. And just generally feeling like I have no idea what's going on in there, again.

But the strangest is not having anything in my pockets, and no tubing hanging out anywhere. Nothing to struggle with when I stand up and sit down. No sensitive site to pat carefully when it catches on the waistband of my jeans, to make sure it's still attached. If you're not a pumper or using some kind of medical device, this probably doesn't make any sense. But I am so used to being attached to that small, blue, pager-like device (which recently was mistaken for an iPod--a new one for me) that to not have anything attached is ... both strange, and freeing.

The loaner's not going to show up until Monday. I intend to enjoy my pump vacation this weekend and milk it for all its worth. I might even wear something without pockets! Watch out, world.

It's like: Hey, did I leave my arm at home? Woohoo! I hated that arm anyway.

Weird.

Anyway, I'm alive, I'm going to stay alive.

But can I just bitch a little bit more about minimed? Sure I can. It's my blog, it's made for bitching. After getting the loaner form madness straightened out yesterday, I started calling around or filling in online forms to get information packages on different kinds of pumps mailed to me. The only online form that didn't work? Minimed's--it scolded me about not filling in my doctor's first and last name, even though I had, and even though they weren't marked as mandatory fields. And what happened when I called them, you ask? ("No, I didn't ask, Andrea, and shut up about this boring pump stuff already.") The lady took my name and phone number, refused to take my address, and told me that someone would call me back shortly with my information package. This made absolutely no sense, but I gave it a few hours, and sure enough, no phonecall. When I called back later, the man who answered the phone didn't understand it either: "She didn't take your address? She wouldn't let you give her your address? Oh. Well. Why don't you give me your address, and I'll send you an information package." Anyone want to bet on whether or not it shows up?

On to more interesting subjects, and the reason all of you show up on Fridays: Frances.

As we've been spending more time outside, we've been around more dogs. This is the suburbs, there are dogs; many of them bark. I don't want her to grow up afraid of barking dogs, so whenever we hear one, I translate: "What do you think that dog is saying? Is he saying, hello! Hello! Come over and play with me!" "Yeah!" says Frances. And she has taken this message to heart. Now whenever we hear a dog barking, she'll say to me, "Is that dog saying, Hello! Come and play with me! He is, Mummy. I want to go play with him. Can we go to the doggy's backyard?"

And then I have to explain property rights.

She is also thrilled with short sleeves, and for reasons long-term readers will be familiar with:

"Mummy, you're wearing short sleeves just like I'm wearing short sleeves."

"Yes, I am."

"I can see your mole!"

"Umm...yes. Yes, that's true."

"Can I hug it?"

"Ok. Yes. I suppose so."

"Awww, cute little baby mole!"

"Umm...."

"I LOVE my baby mole! I really love it!"

"I see."

"It's so cuuuuute! Aww! Cute little baby mole!"

I sigh.

"What beautiful big eyes it has."

"I'm sorry? It has eyes?"

"Yes. Beautiful big eyes."

And what can I say to that?

Posted by Andrea at 7:30 AM | Comments (15)

Frances Friday: Mr. Rabbit, Wait!

When I was picking up Frances's new camera on Sunday, turning her magic gift card into a toy, I saw my favourite childhood movie sitting on the racks, on sale for $17: Alice in Wonderland.

I can't tell you how many times I saw that movie when I was growing up, or the mark it left on me, let alone how often I read the book and its sequel, Through the Looking Glass. So when I saw it, I had to get it--and I knew that it was for me. Frances's attention span has not yet managed more than thirty minutes of anything, let alone any of the children's movies in our collection. She'll watch it someday, right?

She watched it on Tuesday; today as I write this. The whole thing. I put it on and she sat, transfixed, watching the White Rabbit and the Mad Hatter and the Caterpillar and the Queen and what she called the Go-Fish Cards, after the only card game we've yet tried to teach her. She even took photographs of the movie while it was playing.

Still. Alice is a complex movie. The narrative arc is not simple: Alice finds maturity in Wonderland. She starts off chasing the White Rabbit, but before the end, she gets fed up with all the nonsense and she only wants to go home. The nonsense itself is plenty distracting: the growing and shrinking, the ocean of tears, the silly animals, painting the roses red! How much could a three-year-old get out of it?

It's been forty-five minutes, and I've already been pressed into service as the White Rabbit, the Chesire Cat, and the Governess.

But my favourite was watching her run around the kitchen table, by herself, crying, "Wait, Mr. Rabbit! Wait!" Then periodically stopping, shoulders slumping, head downcast, and sighing, "Oh, dear," in such a perfect imitation of lost-Alice that I buried my face in my magazine and choked on hysterical laughter. "Mr. Rabbit! Mr. Rabbit, wait! ... Oh, dear. ... I'm lost! I'm trying to find my way home! Oh, no."

Maybe it will only last for the night. Maybe by tomorrow she will be over Alice, and back to Curious George and Scooby Doo. But I am so happy to have been able to share this with her, if only for one night.

Posted by Andrea at 7:16 AM | Comments (13)

Frances Friday: Thanks, Kid

I've managed to convince Erik to practice joint custody in advance--not that I framed it with those particular words, but I advocated strongly for us not pretending to be a happy family while awaiting the official separation, a point of view he saw the wisdom in almost immediately, though not happily. Anyway, it means I am spending a nice chunk of time alone with Frances. Which is lovely.

On Sunday, Erik left for the bookstore; and Frances and I roughhoused in the master bedroom. I tickled and chased her and held her upside-down by her ankles, after the last of which she lay, dazed, on the floor and said, "I'm sick."

"Uh oh. Did being upside down make you feel sick?"

"Yeah."

This is a lingering reflux issue; the sphincter at the top of her stomach still doesn't work all that well, and it doesn't take much for food to re-enter the esophagus. A bad cough will do it. Or her clueless Mummy, hanging her upside-down.

We snuggled and I petted her and apologized, and I thought we'd made it through. (You can hear the ominous music, can't you, Dear Readers?) Until thirty minutes later, when she projectile vomited her half-digested cheese and pasta all over the kitchen floor. And herself. And me.

It was no more than I deserved (and far more than she did, poor poppet), so I cleaned us up, got our clothes in the laundry, got her in the bath, re-dressed us, put Frances in her blue kitty-cat robe (which, Kim, Frances absolutely loves), and we sat down to watch a bit of TV while drinking a bit of juice and eating some arrowroot cookies. All clear. Except the guilt.

"Mummy, you held me upside down. It made me sick."

"I know. I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again."

"Then I made pukies. I puked on the floor, and I puked on my pants, and I puked on your shirt!"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

"It was pretty gross."

"Yes. Yes, it was."

Not that she seemed upset about it by this time, but of course I was. And it was by far her favourite topic of conversation for the rest of the afternoon.

I cleverly distracted her later on by calling my parents to schedule a visit next weekend--I put them on speakerphone, so Frances could talk too.

"Hello, Frances!" said my Mom.

"It's Mumms!" said Frances. "Mumms, Mummy held me upside down, and it made me sick!"

"What? What did she say?" asked my Mom. I couldn't answer. I was laughing too hard.

~~~~~

I think I have a performer on my hands.

I know a lot of kids are hams, but this is different.

For instance, she loves to pretend to be Ruby (the rabbit), pretending to be a magician. She puts on a paper crown and a paper-clip a tea towel to her shoulders for a cape; she wields a shiny pencil as her magic wand, and seats me on the ottomon as she begins, with a flourish. "Ladies and gentlemen!" she cries. "Now it is time for our grand finale!"

Then she comes to pull me to my feet, and grabs a leg so she can steer me to her stage. "OK, Mummy; you can be my volunteer from the audience."

"OK. What do I have to do?"

"Just stand here. No, not there. Right here." She backs up a pace or two, waves the wand and says, "Abwacadabwa! You've disappeared, Mummy!"

"Have I? So I have. Wow, that was fun."

"Yes." Then she grabs my leg and steers me back to the ottomon, races back to the stage, and begins again: "Ladies and gentlemen! Now it is time for my grand finale!"

You are not convinced; so, for exhibit B, I present "Where is Thumbkin."

Frances begins by putting her hands on her hips, smiling, and saying, "That's a good choice."

Don't ask me why it's a good choice, or what the other options are. It's just the first line in the performance, and it cannot under any circumstances be passed over.

Then she begins, holding her two pudgy fists in front, index fingers extended, and wriggling them on cue. (The wriggling fingers! Those tiny, twig-like index fingers, squirming out the lines: "How are you today, sir?" "Very well, thank you.")

Once it's over, she puts her hands back on her hips, smiles again and awaits the applause. Nothing like the euphoria of applause from the audience.

I'm going to have to sign her up for dancing or music lessons just so she can have the recital at the end. I think, if she could do it, that she'd find it--the costumes, the routines, the applause at the end--magical.

Posted by Andrea at 6:58 AM | Comments (14)

Frances Friday: A Possible Career Option

On Sunday I forced myself through a lower-body workout for the first time in a month (several colds and a few stomach bugs took February out of circulation) and, as I was finishing up, Erik and Frances came downstairs.

"What are you doing, Mummy?"

"I'm exercising. See?"

"Can I watch a little bit of television?"

"No, I'm using it right now. But you can play down here until I'm done."

"OK!"

She clambered onto and off of the bench, reunited the Mummy and Baby Horse and the Daddy and Baby Cow, and in general puttered around until I turned off the TV and finished stretching--then ran over.

"Mummy, can I exercise now?"

"Sure."

She rolled on to the green yoga mat and, with much squirming and wriggling, got herself centred, onto her side, and balanced in a classic leg-lift pose. "Now," she said, "let me show you how to do it."

No wonder she has such perfect little legs.

~~~~~

This Monday's Mission is the press release, and for those of you who'd like to play along but have never written one, I found two links with examples:

Publicity Insider

Lunar Eclipse

Watch out for the pop-up and pop-under ads, though. I guess it's only to be expected from advertising how-to sites.

Posted by Andrea at 6:32 AM | Comments (3)

Frances Friday: Progress!

Remember this post?

We hid the toy successfully for many months; but today, she insisted on finding her "animal contest" and when we had no idea what she was talking about, cried real tears. When I finally figured it out--"you mean the one with the animal things that light up and play music? And you play hide and seek? Yeah?"--and we tracked it down, I was fairly resigned to an active evening of hiding coloured plastic pieces while she tracked them down.

Instead, Frances decided to play it all by herself, taking care of both the hiding and seeking.

"I'm going to hide them!" she shouts, and runs all over the first floor tucking them in such out-of-the-way spots as in the middle of the floor or right beside the telephone.

"Now I'm going to count to ten!" she cries, and hides her face by the pantry to do so. "Ready or not, here I come!" Then off she dashes to find all of her carefully hidden animals to put them back in the base. When she finds one, she jumps up and down in excitement. "I found it! I found it!"

And as a result, I can sit still and blog about it.

Posted by Andrea at 7:09 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Yet More Proof that Frances has More Social Graces at Three than I had at Thirty

Andrea: Hi, baby. Are you going to come sit with me on the chair?

Frances: I'm not a baby. I'm a big senior girl.

Andrea: Right! Sorry.

Frances: That's ok. You can use this stool, and I can use this stool. (Clambers up beside me.)

Andrea: That's a good idea.

Frances: Yeah. (She leans into my shoulder and wraps one small arm across my chest.)

Andrea: Aww. Sweetie, did you know that you're my favourite little person?

Frances: Mm hmm. And you're my favourite BIG person.

Andrea: Thank you. That's so sweet. I love you, sweet girl.

Frances: I love you too, Mummy.

Andrea: Thank you.

Frances: You're welcome. Are you happy?

Andrea: Yes. Very happy.

Frances: Me, too.

~~~~~

Erik tried a bold new experiment in parenting last weekend: vacuuming while Frances awake and in the house. I don't know what we were expecting, but it certainly wasn't Frances stalking Daddy like my SIL stalks garage sales, excitedly asking, "Can I help?"

It began innocently enough: Erik said, "Yes. Can you lift your stepstool out of the way? Thank you! That's so helpful."

Whereupon she followed him around with the stepstool, brandishing it and offering to move it out of the way again. And again. And again. Occasionally she would put it down, ask "Can I help, Daddy?" and lift a portion of the central vac tubing off the floor.

Eventually I was drafted to help Frances with the helping--pointing out things that could be moved other than stepstools, say, and then suggesting where they could be moved to. Who knew so much fun could be had by vacuuming?

~~~~~

There is little more humourous in parenting than a very small child unselfconsciously using adult phrasings more-or-less in context without having the faintest clue that they're not precisely appropriate. We ask her if she wants spaghetti for dinner, or if she would mind picking up one toy before playing with the next: "Well, that sounds like a good idea." We tell her it's time for bed: "No, I don't think so. Maybe later, ok?"

But my favourite is her toy laptop, which has all the prestige and importance in her eyes as her Mummy's:

"Are you working on your computer, Mummy?"

"Yes, I am. Let me finish this email and I'll turn it off, ok?"

"No, that's ok. I'm going to work on my computer for a little bit." She flips it open, turns it on, and exclaims delightedly: "It's a monkey game!"

Posted by Andrea at 7:00 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday Double Feature: Curious Frances

It began innocently enough: with playing back an issue of Curious George we'd saved on the PVR.

"George is a great monkey!" said Frances. She laughed. "He's making funny monkey sounds. He's a friendly monkey! I like George. George! Oh George! Silly monkey!"

It was only after the episode ended that the trouble started.

She wandered over to her dollhouse, and we began to hear suspicious noises coming from her mouth: "Oooh. Ah. Ah. Oooh."

I giggled. "Listen to that," I said to Erik.

He laughed. "Are you Curious Frances?"

"No. I'm Curious George. And you're the Man in the Yellow Hat!"

She galloped down the sofa one way. She galloped down the sofa the other way--both times with Curious George's peculiar hand-over-hand gait. "Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!" she shouted. "Ooooh! Ah! Ah! Ah!" She draped herself over Erik and patted his shoulder, cooing: "Ooh. Ah. Ah." She clambered down to the floor and jumped up and down: "Ah! AH! AH! AH!"

She hasn't said a word for thirty minutes. Nor has she stopped jumping, galloping, or leaping.

We're telling ourselves that it will tire her out for bedtime, and they make more tylenol.

Posted by Andrea at 5:32 PM | Comments (4)

Frances Friday: My Valentine

Tuesday evening, Frances helped me pick out which of her Scooby Doo valentines (selected by hers truly) she wanted to give to which daycare classmate. She folded them, I wrote the names on, then she peeled the sticker from the sheet and sealed the cards by herself. They were slightly, charmingly off-kilter, and won't be anywhere near as beautiful to their intended recipients as they are to me. We did this even though the weather forecasts said we might be having a snowday on Valentine's, because if we didn't, goddammit, Frances would need her cards.

We also picked out cards for her teachers. "Would you like to give one to C?" I asked. C is the Executive Director of the centre, and she adores Frances, even though lately Frances has been dragging her sleeping mat to her best friend's side during naptime because she's not ti-ohed,, thus disrupting everyone else's naptime, and as a mother I understand how crucial a solid naptime is to a caregiver's mental state.

"Yes," said Frances. "It will make her look vewy happy."

I know it made me look vewy happy.

When she brought home her bundle of Valentine's goodies that afternoon (and OH MY GOD will the world stop with the escalation of minor holidays? Your kid's just getting a card, do you hear me? Just a card! A cardlet, no less, a mere scrap of pre-printed paper upon which will be emblazoned a cartoon character with some cheesy punnish sentiment. I refuse to descend into candy and cookies, or next thing you know we'll have to buy individualized gifts for each classmate with their names engraved on a gold plaque, and I am not sliding down that slippery slope. If you are very lucky, we might make a card, one day, when Frances is capable of wielding both scissors and glue without supervision. Until then, tough cookies), we opened all the cards and the CANDIES and the PRESENTS including plastic JEWELERY, and no I am not hyperventilating, and we paused to admire the handmade card that S had given her.

"That's beautiful. Isn't that beautiful, Frances?"

"Yes. S is my best fwend."

"Aww, I'm so glad you have a good friend at school. That's great."

"And she's my Valentine."

Of course, S got a crappy Scooby Doo valentine cardlet from us. Actually, she got two, because Frances wanted to give her two, because she's her best fwend and vewy nice. But she also got a few of the photos I took of her and Frances holding hands at the Hallowe'en daycare parade, and that's just going to have to be good enough.

Posted by Andrea at 6:47 AM | Comments (10)

Frances Friday: Girls' Nights In

This week, one of Erik's infrequent business trips made me a single mother for a few days, and I turned it into our first ever Official Just Us Girls Event. This might bring to mind shopping or glittery nailpolish but ... umm, I took Frances to the library, then we went to the bookstore, then we went out for supper. Yes. I am a barrel of monkeys.

If, by monkeys, you mean books.

It was good. I worked hard at having fun with the alone time, and at being Super Extra Prepared, and it paid off. Also I got to catch up a bit on my sleep.

But Frances was less convinced. Oh, she shrieked and laughed as much as ever during our idiosyncratic games of Hide and Seek (Frances: OK Mummy! Now you hide again, and I'll count to ten! Andrea: But I just hid thirteen times in a row. Frances: I know. But I like to count to ten.) and she lovingly piled the playdoh family on top of the playdoh baby when it was having a tough time napping in the playdoh bed, and she chortled as much during Scooby Doo ("Scooby Doo is a nice dog! He's funny!"). But she missed her Daddy. I could tell when I overheard this conversation between the Dollhouse Daddy and the Dollhouse Son:

DD: Bye bye! I'm going on a long trip.

DS: I'll miss you!

DD: I'll miss you too!

DS: I want to come with you.

DD: No, it's a long trip. You have to stay home with Mummy.

DS: OK. Bye Daddy. (DS walks back into the house.)

DD: Bye, little boy. (DD walks away from the house.)

Besides the internal tick placed on the developmental checklist of the mind ('roleplaying with toys now includes physical movement'), my mammoth intellect guessed that she might be processing the absence of her beloved Daddy (with a nifty sex change operation thrown in for herself for good measure).

And if that doesn't have you melting into a warm puddle of goo, I'll throw in this too:

Picture a tea party. Picture Mummy and Frances sitting side by side with our matching sets of cups, saucers, bowls and spoons. Picture a missing teapot. Picture Frances running to her dollhouse to get her dolls' teapot, when the regular-sized one couldn't be found. Picture her saying, "I'll be right back, Mummy. I'm just going to get the tea."

Andrea: OK.

Frances: I'm home! Here's the tea!

Picture her pouring infinite cups of tea out of a teapot no bigger than her pinkie fingernail. Picture her running back to the dollhouse between each course to put it away ("I'll be right back, Mummy. I'm just putting the teapot away") and then going back to get it again when we'd drained our cups ("I'll be right back, Mummy. I'm just getting the tea"). Picture her running back and forth carrying this teapot for more time than she sat at the table, drinking.

Picture her dropping the teapot on one of these trips, and standing, aghast. "I spilled the tea!" said Frances. "I have to clean it up." Picture her running to the kitchen to get a teatowel, then mopping up the vast lakes of tea that had somehow spilled out of this miniscule teapot after it had filled and refilled our people-sized teacups a dozen times each.

Picture me, sitting, holding my teacup, praising her diligence in cleaning up the tea spill, not giggling.

Posted by Andrea at 6:34 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Let's Go Fly a Kite

What do you call a toddler-sized green plastic bowl filled with sea animal-shaped sponges and taped to a long piece of grey satin ribbon?

Why, a kite, of course!

And how do you fly this kite?

You hold the end of the grey ribbon ("string") and say, "You hold the kite, Daddy!/Mummy!" Then you run around the room while your doting parent holds the bowl aloft behind you and says, "whoosh, whoosh, whoosh."

Occasionally, you stop and say, "Oh no! The kite is stuck on this tree!"

Your parent then places the bowl down on whatever piece of furniture is closest to hand. You pull the string and grunt mightily; and the kite is magically born aloft once more, whooshing freely in the sky.

"Fly, little kite; fly!" you say. And fly it does. It's a miracle.

Posted by Andrea at 7:02 AM | Comments (9)

Frances Friday: I Swear She's My Kid

This week, Frances had a Very Bad Cold. The kind of cold where your child wakes up after their nap with a face covered in dried snot. The kind of cold that causes deep, continual coughing the moment one is not entirely vertical. Which kept her up for hours each night. Which kept me up for hours each night. Especially when, upon awakening to a body-wrenching deep cough, she would decide it must be morning-time and come into my room to find me.

"Is the sun waking up?"

"No, sweetpea. It's sleeping time. Go back to bed, please."

Cue deep, heart-stricken wails.

It did mean two days at home with her this week, and if you're wondering why this didn't mean some wonderful piece of bloggery, it's because these days were filled with snot- and eye-crud-wiping, snuggling, changing of videos, fetching of spurned drinks, mopping up of spilled drinks, changing of outfits, fetching of spurned foods, failed brainstorming of potential spurned food replacements, temperature taking, medicine giving, and lots and lots of comforting when the coughing got so bad it became crying. All on basically no sleep. At which some of you are saying, "Bite me, Andrea!" because at least I get to count on having sleep, most nights. I understand completely.

Still, while there was a bit of writing, egads. Feel fortunate I instead dragged two half-assed entries out of the vault. No, they weren't literature; but they were better than what I wrote.

But there were compensations, such as witnessing her recent boom in conversational abilities:

"Good morning, baby girl. Did you sleep well?"

"I'm not a baby. I'm a senior girl."

"Oh, that's right. I'm sorry."

"That's ok. Can I bring Baby Bear downstairs?"

"Sure."

"Here are baby bear's ears. And her eye. And the other eye. And her nose. And her mouth. And her belly. And her foot, and her hands, and the other foot!"

"Indeed!"

"Awwww, she's so cute!"

~~~~~

"Hi sweetness. Did you have a good nap?"

"I'm still sick!"

"Oh, I know. It's yucky, isn't it?"

"Yeah! I coughed! And I'm still coughing! I have a cough!"

"I know."

"It's a bad cough! I'm sick. I have gunkies in my eyes!"

"Would you like me to wipe them out for you?"

"No, that's ok. I'll do it myself. Can I have a kleenex, please?"

~~~~~

So the subject matter wasn't always my favourite. But hearing how she puts her words together lately was a treat, as was our little art session:

"What are you drawing?"

"That's a circle. And that's another circle. Now I am going to draw a person."

"Oh!"

"That's the head. There's the eye, and the other eye, and the nose, and the mouth, and the chin, and the forehead. [Note: I realize her decision to draw in the chin and forehead are unconventional, but they are her favourite facial parts and apparently require markers.] And lots of hair. And arms, and legs!"

"Very good."

"That's a C."

"That is a C!"

"That's an E. And that's an S."

"You're right! That is an E and an S!"

"Yeah. Can you help me spell Frances?"

"OK." I held my hand over hers and we drew the letters together; I didn't so much direct the marker as stabilize it. "First an F. Now R. A. N. C. E. S. And what does that spell?"

"Frances!" Then she drew in the letters over top, by herself. Wobbly and strange, but recognizable.

"You are drawing letters!"

"Yes. Now I want to draw flowers. Can I have the purple marker, please?"

There followed flower drawing, and person drawing, including a nice sketch of herself complete with blue winter coat and purple mittens. Then she drew me (I had three arms; but it was my own fault, as I suggested the extra) and Daddy (who had feet but no torso) and NB, her friend from next door.

I think, though, that her sudden realization of what telephones are for is my favourite. Erik called me at work this morning to tell me that Frances's fever is finally going down, and Frances asked to talk to me.

"Hi, Mummy."

"Hi, sweetheart. Are you having a good time with Daddy?"

"Yeah. Charlotte is the baby and I am her Mummy, and Daddy can be the Daddy."

I wasn't expecting the Elektra complex to appear for a few more years, but whatever. "Oh, I see."

"I can be a good Mummy."

"You sure can."

"Charlotte is cute. She is a spider!"

"Yes, that's right."

"She has eight legs."

"How are you feeling, Frances?"

"I'm good."

"Are you sick?"

"Yeah. I have a cough."

And I would relate the chat she had with my Dad by phone on the weekend, but I only heard half of it (which went something like, "Hi Grandpa! Yeah. Mmm hmm. I'm eating a zookie. It's good. Mmm hmm. Chocolate. Mmm hmm. Yeah. I'm good. I miss you too. Bye bye!" and which, I am assured, made sense in context).

But what amazes me, even more than the disappearance of my baby and her replacement with this competent, bright, confident little person, is how cheery she is through it all. I'm sick! I have a bad cough! Let's play! Where does she get it from?

Posted by Andrea at 6:47 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: More Fans

On the weekend, we visited with my parents, my brother, my mom's sister (Aunt H) and her husband (Uncle B), the latter two of which had not seen Frances since the day after she got out of the hospital over three years ago. They brought her a Dora doll; therefore, Frances loves them.

When I was a young girl, everyone said I looked just like my Dad's side of the family and had nothing of my Mom except my smile. A caricature drawing purchased by whim on a field trip when I was ten changed that--you wouldn't see it to look at me, but that drawing looked exactly like my Aunt H. (This was a revelation to my mother too, who finally had proof that aliens had not dropped a changeling into her womb.) Since then I've noticed other similarities: we both write on the side while resenting the hell out of a day-job, for instance.

A substantial difference is that my aunt is capable of speaking about herself in conversation:

"So what do you do with your stories, after you write them?" asked my Mom.

"I entered them in a few contests," said my Aunt.

"Andrea always liked to write too," said my Mom.

"Remember that 'write a paragraph' assignment in grade 1?" asked my Dad.

I groaned and hid my face in my hands.

"Oh yes." My Mom smiled.

"What was that?" asked Uncle B.

"Her teacher assigned the class to write a paragraph about anything. Well, Andrea filled the notebook, and that was the end of Chapter One. Then she started Chapter Two." Everyone laughed.

"I've always struggled with brevity," I said. More laughter.

"Well, what six-year-old doesn't?" asked my Dad.

"Oh, I don't know," said Uncle B. "All of them?"

"I think S [my cousin; their daughter] can write, too. She has a blog. It's funny!" said Aunt H.

I concentrated on my salmon.

"So does A [another cousin]," said my brother.

"Yes. I like hers, too."

My salmon was delicious. Erik, gods bless him, was similarly enthralled by his dinner during this exchange.

So a dinner conversation almost entirely dominated by discussions of writing somehow completely excluded any mention of my own blog or the webzine or my forthcoming publication (which is still coming--the issue was delayed, but you can see my name in pixels on the Challenging Destiny website).

Meanwhile, Frances applied herself with diligence to her mashed potatoes and apple juice. She ate quietly, sat mostly still, used her big-girl fork properly, and kept all complaints on how long the adults were taking to finish their dinner to a minimum. Once set free she ran, and jumped, and ran into and out of her pop-up tent, and carried Baby Susie and gave her kisses and hugs whenever she cried, and petted the dogs, and played with her play-doh. The adults beamed; Frances swelled at the beaming; the adults melted at the swelling.

"I'm very impressed," said Uncle B.

"She is a sweetheart," said Aunt H.

"Yes, she is." I kissed the top of her head.

"I'm ready for grandkids," said Uncle B. "I told S: 'Remember those talks we had about not getting pregnant?'"

Everyone laughed. "Yeah," said Aunt H. "Anytime now! We're ready!"

Frances remains the World's Best Advertisement for Childrearing. I wish I could take credit, but it's all her. Just remember, like the tiny print underneath the before-and-after photos on weight-loss ads--these results are not typical. Your experience may vary.

Posted by Andrea at 9:57 AM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Good Mama

For Christmas, Frances received Yet Another Baby Doll Dressed in Pink. This one, named Baby Susie, cries or giggles if you press a button on her tummy (which is too stiff for Frances's wee fingers, and so requires parental assistance). Frances likes the giggle, but prefers the crying.

No, wait. It's sweet.

She prefers the crying because it gives her a chance to express her mammoth-sized nurturing gene.

"Baby Susie's cwying!" says Frances, gingerly picking her up, resting her plastic head against her shoulder and gently patting her back. "Shh shh, it's all wight. It's all wight. Shhh."

Baby Susie stops cwying; "See?" says Frances. "I can be a good mama."

"You sure can," I say. "What a great mummy you are. You take such good care of your toys."

It's a thrill, lately, to watch her competence and confidence increase. She is (as she proudly declares at least half a dozen times per day) a "big senior girl," and she can put on her own coat and her own shoes and her own sweater (as long as Mummy helps with the buttons) and her own pants, and she can brush her own teeth and climb into a chair at the kitchen table, even if once she's there she can't eat because her jaw is at table-height. She can operate the mouse-thingie on Mummy's laptop and open Internet Explorer and play with Elmo and call up Google, egads. (I think this last was an accident, but I'm not taking any chances.) She can turn on the TV using the mewote. She can push her stepstool from the bathroom to the fridge and use it to remove all the magnets on the freezer door.

"What a big girl you are!" we say.

"I'm a big senior girl," says Frances.

Frances frankly enjoys other people taking care of her. None of this striving after independence for our snippet, none of this foolhardy "me do it!" her peers are so fond of. Usually this makes our leaves immeasurably easier, because as every parent knows, letting a young child do something for themselves takes at least ten times longer. Yet it has caused me concern, because of course Frances needs to learn to take care of herself; and I would rather not force it, but how do you encourage someone to want to be independent?

Fortunately, she seems to have taken care of this herself. Is she not perfect?

Last weekend Erik and I were looking over the junior kindergarten registration materials.

"What are you doing, Mummy?" asked Frances.

"We're deciding whether or not you should go to school. Are you ready for school?"

"Yeah!" cried Frances, running for the stairs.

"Frances? Where are you going?"

"To school!" came the distant reply. She was almost at the top already.

"Not today, sweetie. In a few months. Can you come back down please?"

My beautiful bee is more than ready, except for the small matter of potty training, which will have to be dealt with another day.

But in her (comparatively) mad rush to independence, I am glad that she still asks me to carry her up and down the stairs at least a few times a day. She will stop on the third step, turn to me with upraised arms and twinkling fingers and say, "Can I hold you, Mummy?" And what a pleasure it is to settle her on to me the way she holds her Baby Susie, with her head on my shoulder, one hand on her back, and my nose in the nape of her neck. "Sure, baby," I say.

Except now she says, "I'm not a baby. I'm a big senior girl!"

Oh! Right.

Posted by Andrea at 6:50 AM | Comments (13)

Frances Friday: So How Small Is She?

Back in the crazy days, when I spent all of my free time scouring the internet and medical databases for clues about Frances's small size, I came upon the following description of childhood: the period of our lives characterized by growth.

I winced. What if your child doesn't grow? Is it a failure of parenting? Are they then not children? What about people with primordial dwarfism, who top out at nineteen inches, who never really grow at all? What about that boy in the book In the Little World, who at four years is approximately the size of an average newborn?

I don't know how you would define childhood without relying on growth; but I wish someone would.

A few months ago, Jennifer said she'd like it if I could try to describe Frances's size in a way she could visualize. I'm going to try.

~~~~~

As I mentioned before, Frances had a starring role in Erik's workplace talent show; she was the opening act and the only solo from the daycare, since she was the only kid who knew all the words to Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. That morning we dressed her in her most casual party clothes--a pair of green velour pants and a red velour shirt with an embroidered teddybear on it, holding a star that dangled from a string. It was festive and comfortable; and we put her in her shiny black patent party shoes, and her hair in a ponytail using an elastic with shiny baubles on it. Frances was thrilled; she never doubts her own beauty. First she demanded to see herself in the mirror; I held her up so she could see all the way down to her shoes. Then she ran to the stairs, saying, "Daddy! Daddy! Look at me, Daddy! Look at me! Daddy!" After Erik had admired her sufficiently, they were off, digital video camera in tow.

I watched it a few days later. There was my girl, led out on to the stage by the Daycare's director. There were the giggles and "awwww"s from the audience. There were the reindeer antlers they put on her head, and the red paint on her nose. She sang it all the way through, not missing a word or a beat, and I found myself mouthing it along as if by doing so I could guarantee she'd get it all right.

Then it was over, and the auditorium burst into applause. Erik tells me about three hundred people were in the audience, so you can imagine the noise. Unflappable Frances hopped and skipped about the stage in glee at being the centre of adoring attention. Then her senior class daycare friends joined her on the stage to sing Jingle Bells.

And, in the midst of knowing that she was the sweetest, smartest, most lovable child there, I also noticed that every child in her class cleared the top of her six- to eight-inch reindeer antlers by at least an inch.

~~~~~

Climbing the stairs is still work. Each step of our main staircase comes just below her knee, and the handrail is still out of reach. Imagine how you would scale twenty stairs in similar circumstances.

Unsurprisingly, she still frequently clambers up or down them on hands and knees. It's faster, easier and safer. Surprisingly, she more and more often insists on walking up them "like a big girl." This involves jacking up each leg to near hip level, gripping the next railing, and heaving herself up with a little grunt. "Woh! Woh! Woh!" One step at a time (meaning instead of taking each step with one foot, each step gets both). All the way up the stairs. Going down involves grabbing the next railing and carefully letting herself down; again, each step gets both feet.

The whole business looks and feels so precarious that, whether going up or down, I stand one step below, just in case.

~~~~~

When she learned how to walk at 19 months, she could walk clear under the kitchen table, including all the support woodwork. She can't anymore. Her head now clears the top of the kitchen table by about an inch.

~~~~~

On a trip to Montreal we visited with Frances's cousins, one of whom is three months older and eight inches taller than she is.

"You'd never guess they were the same age," I said, shaking my head and admiring Frances's tiny proportions. She is a ballet dancer in a world of basketball players.

"Yeah, but T's big. If he were an average height for his age, you probably wouldn't even notice the difference," said T's mother.

Excuse me? I see Frances around other kids her age all the time; they are all several inches taller than she is. Your son is on the charts. The top of the charts, granted, but on them. And why are you trying to pretend my daughter isn't tiny?

She is. There's nothing wrong with that. And if people pretend not to see it or not to notice, a) it reflects a prejudice against small size on their parts, because you wouldn't pretend not to see something positive; and b) it's not going to help her adapt to her environment or her environment adapt to her. The opposite, in fact. If you think it's insulting or problematic to even notice how small she is then how will you ever offer her the physical aids she needs to navigate in a giant's world?

My FIL harrumphed. "She'll catch up someday."

No, she won't. She's so far below the first percentile that we can no longer plot her length on the regular growth chart; it runs into the weight section. If she did catch up, that would be a problem. She'd have to grow so much, so fast, that in and of itself a growth spurt of that magnitude (especially when compared to her growth patterns to date) would be a clear sign of something pathological. She would have to grow five and a half inches next year just to catch up to the third percentile. The average growth rate at that age is just over two inches. She has never grown by even an average amount since the day she was born. It's not going to happen.

And why would I want it to?

She's smart, beautiful, charming, sweet, nurturing, funny, good-natured, easy-going, and talented. I'm not waiting for her to be normal. Why are you?

Posted by Andrea at 7:11 AM | Comments (26)

Frances Friday: Birthday Edition

Dear Sweet Baby:

Today you are three. This means you are growing up.

Quit it. I'm serious.

You are perfect at this age; I want to freeze you just the way you are right now. I could be happy for the rest of my life to come home every day to a little girl who shouts "Mummy!" at the sight of me, then runs joyfully into my arms. I could spend the rest of my life watching you bounce with happiness or excitement, or listening to you chortle and chuckle your way through every conversation, every interaction, as if life were one enormous joke.

"Frances, are you hungry?"

"Ha ha ha! No!"

"Do you want something to drink?"

"Hee hee hee! No!"

"OK. Well, you let me know when you want something."

"Ho ho hee! Ok, Mummy!"

"And can you put your puzzle away, please, before you take out another toy?"

"Oh ho ho ha! Ok!"

You are still the happiest person I know; and the older you get, the more of an accomplishment this becomes. The most charitable word that could be used to describe my general temperament is "irritable" with regular forays into "stubborn" and "critical." Your father, while more phlegmatic, is more prone to complaint than to spontaneous joyful outbursts. Wherever you got this from, it's all your own, and it brings both of your parents limitless joy and continual amazement. How did two such crotchety people manage to produce this perpetual walking giggle?

This is not the letter I am supposed to write on your third birthday. The end of this year was supposed to be a time to celebrate the winding down of the Terrible Twos, according to all the baby books. I am supposed to be drawing a big breath of relief at having survived twelve whole months of tantrums, stubborness and needless tears. We still have not seen a tantrum, and your version of stubborness is to say "No!" once, emphatically, before doing whatever it is that we've asked you to do.

Either I saved a million people from certain death in a previous lifetime, or the world is not fair, because there's no way anyone could ever do anything to deserve this. I am the luckiest mom in the world.

It's true that you have your moments of solemnity, to contrast with the giddiness. For instance, yesterday you objected to a part of our post-bath routine, in which your father and I each hug you, one from either side, and call it a "Frances sandwich."

We did; and at first you laughed, but then grew serious. "I am not a sandwich!" You declared. "I don't want to be a sandwich! I am not a sandwich! I am FRANCES."

"But you look so tasty and delicious," I said.

"No!" You grew teary. "I am not tasty and delicious! I am not a sandwich! I am Frances!"

The temptation to giggle is immense; but I remember the seven-year-old I once was, asking my father not to call me 'kiddo' anymore because I was all grown up. So I won't call you a sandwich. But I don't care what you say; you are tasty and delicious.

You were asked to perform in a talent show for the building employees, held yesterday. All week you have been practicing your song, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. And all week I have been toying with you, just a little, by creatively rearranging the lyrics.

"Rudolph the red-nosed snowball..."

"No! Reindeer!"

"Had a very shiny toe...."

"No! NOSE!" Then you laugh, delighted with the opportunity to set your silly Mummy straight on some important holiday issues.

Yesterday morning we dressed you in your green velour pants and red velour shirt with the monkey on it, and your party shoes, and put the pretty flower clip that Marla and Josephine gave you for your birthday in your hair. You love to wear your party clothes; you take such pride and delight in your finery. "Daddy, look at me!" you cried as I carried you to the stairs, all dolled up. "Look at me, Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Look at me!" As if either of us ever look at anyone else. When I was your age I scowled at anyone who called me "cute"; you thrive on it.

I had my doubts about this talent show, but I've been told you carried off your first public solo performance with great aplomb, not only singing on pitch all of the words in the correct order, but giving a little skip jump to signal the end and then bellowing, "Hi Santa! I'm Rudolph!" to the nice man dressed in the red suit. Daddy got it on video, and I can't wait to see it. "And then Santa clapped his hands!" you said. "And everybody clapped their hands. And they laughed. And we sang jingle bells." Daddy tells me he was getting compliments on your performance all day.

Not quite three years old, just over thirty inches, not yet twenty pounds, dressed up with a red nose and reindeer antlers on a stage in front of a roomfull of strange adults, singing a whole song with the right words clearly and correctly and happily--you are my hero, Frances.

Every day you've been demanding to watch the Grinch, the classic cartoon version, and we've been having a tough time holding the line at one viewing per evening. You have that honey/vinegar/flies equation all worked out, and know that all you have to do to make it nearly impossible for us to deny you is to be thrilled with every viewing. "It's Max! Max is happy! Oh no! Max is sad! Poor Max!" (It might be called the Grinch, but as you and I both know, it's really all about Max.) "Did Max fall down? Is the horn better for Max now? Is Max happy? Is that the Grinch? His eyes are blue! Now they're red again! Now they're blue! He got the sleigh! Max is happy again!"

There are a million things I could tell you about how perfect you are. How you sit down on the play mat in the living room, pat a space beside you and say, "Are you coming to my tea party, Mummy?" Then you pour me a pretend cup of tea and forbid me to add any sugar or cream (probably a good thing, considering the diabetes). How sometimes when you sit on my lap you wrap my arms around you and buckle them, "like a seatbelt." The sight of your tiny pink-swimsuit-clad body making a perfect star in the toddler swimming pool, just like the instructor asked you to, while all around you other children your age and older cavort and splash and cling to their parent's shoulders. The way you type, oh god; how you carefully select a letter, announce it, press it deliberately with one tiny finger, and then point at the screen to show us that it worked, look at that Mummy, an F! Your exuberant hugs and contagious smiles and the way you answer almost everything these days with "just because." How advertising confuses you, and when Charlie Brown's Christmas broke for commercials you demanded we skip over them and watch "the next Charlie Brown."

Right now, I am supposed to want to poke my own eyes out with a rusty fork. I am supposed to desperately need a break from your never-ending contradictory demands and constantly shifting moods. I am supposed to be exasperated and worn out. Instead, I want to go home and put you on my lap and keep you there.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl. You are my favourite person, ever.

Yours always,

Mummy.

Posted by Andrea at 6:49 AM | Comments (22)

Frances Friday: A Reunion

This week I went to Ottawa on business.

It was not all bad. I got a hotel room, which means two decent nights of sleep. I got room service. I got a quiet room all to myself, which means some time for writing and planning and a wee smidgen of thinking space, sorely needed. I got to see Dani and Tanya, though sadly not at the same time, and Tanya introduced me to my new favourite fish and chips.

But oh I missed my little girl.

She called me twice, though. She's getting the hang of this telephone thing, though not so much the etiquette; both times, as I picked up the handset, instead of the customary "hello" I heard, "That's Mummy on the phone!" "You're right, that IS Mummy on the phone."

And almost better than the little conversations we shared was the stomping of her tiny feet, in the background, as she jumped up and down in joy to be talking to her Mummy (on the phone!). "Hi Mummy!" thump thump thump "I'm good." thump thump thump "I miss you." thump thump thump "I'm jumping!" thump thump thump

When I came home, there was the sound of my beautiful girl's voice: "That's the front door, Daddy. Mummy's home!" And there she was, running to the front door, then stopping to bounce. "It's Mummy! Mummy's home! You're home, Mummy! Daddy, Mummy's home! Are you home, Mummy?"

"I think so. Am I home?"

"You are! You're home!" thump thump thump

She hugged me and kissed me, sat on my lap, lay on my tummy, rolled over me, and even tried to eat my nose. And after we inspected her fingers and toes and belly button and determined that they had not changed, except for maybe being a very little bit bigger, and after watching the Grinch again and sympathizing with Max and agreeing that Cindy Lou Who really does look a lot like Frances, and after opening the box on her advent calendar, and after me giving Frances a bath while Frances bathed Elmo, and then into jammies and on to the big bed for a long snuggle, and then tucking Frances into bed with her bunny rabbit and Baby Bear and Ella the Elephant where she fell quickly asleep, a bad low sent me down into the kitchen for rocket candies and a drink. And though I still feel as if I've swallowed several large pieces of broken glass that shift whenever I move, I was left knowing that I'm a lucky woman. My bite-sized babe makes up for a lot.

~~~~~

I have today off. This morning I'm dropping some gifts off at a women's shelter, then going to see Frances's daycare holiday pageant, after which I'm stealing her away and we will spend the afternoon catching up. We have a gingerbread house or two to make, and those sugar cookies aren't going to roll and frost themselves.

Posted by Andrea at 6:52 AM | Comments (9)

Frances Friday: To the Rescue!

I don't have much material for Frances Friday today, which is not necessarily a bad thing. You are the most patient readers on the internet.

But two stories on the WBPE, BN:

We put up the tree on Saturday, which Frances found alternately enthralling and dull. In the enthralling moments, she hung a few beaded stars and icicles and cross-stitched ornaments--all on the same two branches, proclaimed she was going to live in the tree because she loved it, and when it was done, she gave it a hug.

Yeah. Awwww.

In the dull moments, she raced around, demanded help to scale the piles of branches (we have a fake tree), wanted cheese and crackers and cookies (none of which she ate), and grabbed at delicate glass ornaments for the thrill of watching Mom and Dad both shout NO!

She hasn't done it since. She is the world's best, you understand.

Yesterday she spent half an hour in the basement with Daddy while I reread Spin by Robert Charles Wilson, which I'm plugging because he's an amazing sci fi author based in Toronto who does startlingly original stuff that is intelligent and thought-provoking and Spin is a beautiful and disturbing allegory of an apocalypse that sneaks up on you so quietly, you never notice what's going on, much like I went on about in my meandering Social Justice post the other day. So read it.

Anyway, Frances was in the basement, and I was reading, when I heard the thunderous little feet and hands clambering up the stairs while she shouted, "I'm coming to save you, baby Mummy!"

And what could be so horrible when SuperFrances is coming to save her Baby Mummy? I ask you.

Posted by Andrea at 7:20 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Birthday Party Edition

The fun for Frances started Friday evening, when her Oma and Opa from Montreal arrived for the weekend and she spent two hours dancing in circles on the kitchen floor. Hop skip twirl laugh clap! Clap twirl skip jump skip! Jump clap twirl wriggle kick!

The party itself was wonderful. We started at 10:30 so all the kiddos could get home for a reasonable naptime, except for my parents, who forgot when it started and arrived around noon. The snacks and pasta were eaten. The big plastic tablecloth on the floor for the kids to eat their cake on minimized our sweeping. The Elmo party hats were well-liked, and the cookie-cutter goodie bags seemed to be too (note for attendees reading this: the thought was you could use them for cookies, or play-doh, or turn them into tree decorations if you're a tree decorating kind of family).

Of course, inviting the babies of bloggers to one's child's birthday party does present certain logistical challenges. For instance, how to make sure that everyone knows everyone else's secret online identity without letting the blogging cat out of the family bag? I think we managed it. And you know what? It worked. Really, surprisingly well. My family and friend and online worlds did not create a matter/anti-matter collision and wreak the death of the universe, for which we can all be grateful.

It does mean there are some things I'd love to show you, and can't.

1. The HUGE pile of presents (and thank goodness I did ask people to minimize the gifting, or can you imagine?) with the little boy of one of my blogging friend's standing beside it, jaw slack and eyes round with dumbfounded amazement.

2. The other blogging friend's daughter sneaking a taste of icing off the birthday cake while Erik removed the toppers. (Although you can visit her site and see the photo for yourself.)

3. A friend's daughter slung, monkey-style, between the coffee table and the couch.

4. A group of children gathered around Frances's brand new laptop, each vying for a chance to play with the mouse. I can't figure out how exactly they knew what laptops are. Any guesses?

5. A room full of kids (ok, eight) hyped up on sugar and snacks and wearing identical Elmo party hats, ranging in age from just-past-two to six, all being polite and respectful. No one stealing someone else's toy. No hitting, pinching, kicking, poking or biting. Temper tantrums only when it was time to go home (and that's a compliment, I think).

It was great. Exhausting, but great.

The laptop, by the way, was a hit. Frances is not yet bored of it, and for a modern children's toy that counts as longevity. In fact, as I type, I am using the laptop on one side of the kitchen table and Frances is using hers on the other. Does that count as family time? She uses the mouse and presses the letters and numbers and turning it on and off and closing it and opening it and commenting on how the monkey is crying now and the monkey called it a letter zee, Mummy! Occasionally, a small blond head with two big blue eyes will pop to the top or side and say, "I'm working on my computer, Mummy!"

I'm looking forward to reading her dissertation any day now.

Posted by Andrea at 6:41 AM | Comments (8)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nooooooo," said Frances.

"Yeeeeeees."

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah!"

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Posted by Andrea at 6:39 AM | Comments (7)

Frances Friday: Can I do some typing now?

I picked up Frances at the daycare Thursday. "Mommy!" she said, and rushed at me for a hug. "Mommy!" She turned to the class, as I picked her up, and shouted, "This is my Mommy!"

I beamed. It was insufferable, but oh how sweet, to have her so publically (and so loudly) declare her affection for me?

"Are you going to say bye to your friends, Frances?" I asked.

"Bye bye!" she said, and just as we were about to head out the door, "This is my MOMMY!" With a big hug, a snuggle, and a happy sigh.

~~~~~

One of the things I loved about this week's WholeMom was Marla's comic.

(I'll wait while you click through to read it. Go ahead. You'll like it.)

I always love Marla's comics. She's more gifted (in this and other things) than she gives herself credit for. But this week's was particularly appropriate, as I have been battling Frances nightly for the laptop now for some weeks. Or I'd say I've been battling her, except I've lost.

"Can I do some typing now?" she asks.

"Not yet, baby. I'm still reading my emails. In a few minutes, ok?"

"Can I do some typing now, please?" she asks.

And what's a mother to do? How can I not reward such polite asking? "OK. Just let me finish this. Just a second. Frances, I can't see the monitor when you sit like that, and then how am I supposed to finish typing? Sit there. Good. Now wait--just a second--no, not yet! Yes, that's a very nice letter F, it's just not where I wanted it. No! Don't press that button! Or that one! I'm almost done. Just ... hold ... on. OK. Done."

I call up the notepad program and put it on caps lock so Frances will recognize all of the letters, put the laptop on the floor so I don't need to worry about it falling, and then I ... leave.

Yes. I leave. Frances has the laptop, my precious new laptop, all to herself. For typing capital letters in Notepad, and for five minutes or so it will be all her heart desires. Then she will ask if she can watch the Elmo video, and I'll call up the Sesame Street website and let her pick a game to play. And then I'll leave again.

I know she's not even three yet. And how amazing is that? I still remember the Vic20 my parents got when I was in grade school, and here's Frances using a laptop computer, all by herself, not yet three! This is largely a generational thing, yet I can't help but see a special giftedness in her ability to manipulate the mouse-touchpad-thingie (note my prowess with technical language) with such precision. Most adults I know become hamfisted around those finicky little things.

And she's entirely trustworthy. She doesn't hit it, kick it, spit on it, sit on it, shove it, maul it or in any way cause me any worry for either her or the machine. She just types.

The other day when I asked her to turn it off, we'd played enough with the computer that day ... she did. By herself. I never taught her that. Any day now she'll be giving me lessons in the large and ever-changing collection of TV remotes that Erik has bought for particular tv-related purposes. I know which one turns it on and off, and which changes the channel, and how to turn the volume down. Don't ask me to put on a DVD, though, and soon I won't have to, because Frances will.

We're having her birthday party early this year. Erik's parents are coming into town the weekend of the 25th, and we thought it's close enough and it's the only opportunity we'll ever have to get them to her birthday party and this way it can be her special day instead of being lost in Christmas, so what the hell. Her party is the 25th, almost a month early. A kid's laptop computer is waiting for her in the master bedroom closet. It has a full keyboard and a little mouse-like thingie and a small screen on which small children can play games.

I bought it three weeks ago. I think she's outgrown it already.

Posted by Andrea at 7:31 AM | Comments (11)

Frances Friday: You are not a shoe!

Frances has a hand-me-down toy that I loathe.

It is plastic. It has little translucent coloured parts that light up when music plays. The little tranluscent coloured parts are removable, and correspond to the part of a melody, and when that part of the toy is removed, that line in the melody stops playing. Oh, the evenings I have spent listening to it harrumph along in monotone while only the blue part remains inserted: "Bloop .... bloop bloop bloop ... bloop!" It is tinny. It is loud.

While trying desperately to disable it this week by removing and hiding all of the coloured plastic bits, we invented a new game that is fun for the whole family. Toy hide and seek!

It goes like this:

Frances sits with Daddy on the couch, who tickles and otherwise distracts her while the toys hide (with some unacknowledged assistance). They only have short legs, so they can't go far.

Frances is let loose. She peers under chairs and tables and around furniture and in boxes and behind toys and in plants and shoes and cups. She finds them. Sometimes she needs a wee bit of help, as in, sometimes it's right in front of her but she doesn't see it until I pick her up and point her at it. Then, "I found the blue one!"

"Yay!" Erik and I clap. Frances does a victory lap, translucent coloured toy part held aloft. It is reunited with the toy, and she searches for another. As each rejoins its family, the melody is gradually restored in all its fully, plastic glory.

Now, these toys are pretty clever, as you might assume from an ambulatory coloured plastic bit that knows how to hide itself in shoes and boxes and behind teddy bears, so Frances occasionally coverses with them on their way back to home base. "Silly toy!" she'll say to the red one, found in the case of pop in the kitchen, "You are not a Diet Coke!" "Sneaky!" she hollers at the yellow one, found upside down in the top of the bromeliad. "The blue one was in my snowboot Daddy!" she shouts. "Silly blue! You are not a shoe!"

We can play this game for thirty or forty-five minutes at a stretch (and each finding session takes only about five minutes, so that's a lot of repeats) because I love to hear what she says to the toys as she finds them. "Are you a book? You are not a book! Silly green!" I love to see her wave them in the air, jump up and down, and run through the house while brandishing her find like an Olympic torch. I love to see her run, period, especially when it is from such evident excitement and happiness. She found the red! Again! This is even more exciting than the last time she found the red! Oh, my! There's nothing for it but to run top-speed and reunite this beloved red toy with its siblings!

Her face lights up when she sees one. It's like Christmas morning, only forty times in forty minutes. And when they all are reunited, she jumps up and down like a hyperspeed rubber ball and shouts, "Again! Again! Again! I have to go sit with Daddy on the couch! And they have to hide! And I will find them! I'm going to sit with Daddy!"

It's an exclamation-mark extravaganza.

Posted by Andrea at 6:37 AM | Comments (10)

Frances Friday: Boo!

We had been talking about Hallowe'en for a few weeks. Frances knew what she was dressing up as--a lion--and she knew what lions say, and what to say at the door, and that people would then give her candy. She was excited ("I'm going to be a LION! rroar!") but it was impossible to know what she made of it.

Until the first house.

We rang the bell. "Trick or treat!" said Frances, clear as day. "Aren't you cute!" said they, dumping a fistful of candy into the bag Laura made her. Frances stared speechlessly at the miracle of free candy in her blue bag, until I reminded her: "Thank you!" said Frances. We climbed down the steps, and Frances bounced up and down on the driveway. "I want to go to another house!"

Rinse, repeat; for an hour.

Yes. An hour.

And at the end of that hour, having gone up one side of the street, down and around an adjoining crescent, and then back down the other side of our street, all of it on her own two little feet, collecting a huge amount of candy, roaring on request, and saying "Trick or treat" and "thank you" at every house, what did she say?

"I want to go to another house!" Bounce bounce bounce.

"There are no more houses, sweetpea. Let's go home."

"No! I want to go to another house!" Bounce bounce bounce.

I swear, she would have gone to midnight if I'd let her, and if all of the houses wouldn't have been bolted by then, the doorbells answered by bleary-eyed parents who have to work the next day and what on earth am I letting my baby trick-or-treat for at midnight, what kind of mother am I? Frances, if she'd been capable of answering the question, would have said, "the best mother in the world, she let me trick-or-treat until midnight!" As it is, I am merely a mediocre sort of mother, who only let her trick-or-treat for an hour.

I tell you, it was exhausting. There are a lot of steep stairs in our neighbourhood that my wee girl would have to scale like the Himalayas on a regular evening. Padded out as the world's roundest lion, they were impossible, so I did a lot of bending and lifting. Yes, I know the ergonomists say to bend at the knees. I didn't. I am paying the price, so you don't have to say anything, ok?

My thirty-inch lion was as brave as any Serengeti feline. When faced with a haunted garage draped with fake blood, skeletons, ghosts, eerie music and other appropriate decor, she marched in, found an adult, held out her bag and said, "Trick or treat!" She collected her candy, said thank you and left. It was as if bodiless heads floating in barrels were a regular part of her day. When, on climbing the steps to another house, the jack-o-lantern lights began to flash and blink and cackle, she stopped and stared at them, and turned to me, and said, "The pumpkins are laughing, Mummy!" Then she went to the door, knocked, said "Trick or treat!," then "thank you," then left, still fixated on those laughing pumpkin lights. "The pumpkins are laughing!" she marveled again, staring at them over her shoulder while marching to the next door.

When pre-teens dressed as skeletons or murdered prostitutes or serial killers ran by in packs, screaming in a sugar-induced frenzy, and her trick-or-treat partner NB wailed and begged his Daddy for a hug, Frances would stand stock still and comment on their costumes. "I'm a lion," she'd say, and roar. "I'm scary!"

Laughing pumpkin lights, costumes and free candy. Truly, Hallowe'en is a day of miracles.

There is so much more I could say--about her pumpkin commentary, for instance; which pumpkins were happy, which pumpkins were sad, which pumpkins were crying, and which pumpkins were fancy. About how if a pet came to the door, she'd be so excited she'd have to croak out her "trick or treat" between many repetitions of "look! A doggie! Doggies say woof!" About how careful I was to acknowledge the many many many many many many many "oh my god she's so cute!"s while also encouraging Frances to roar and then tell her how scary she was, because she wanted to be scary and believed she was scary. Only scary is a tough look to pull off when you're thirty inches high with fluffy blond hair and humongous blue eyes, even when you're not dressed as a chubby lion. And adults and older kids don't necessarily know that you want to be scary when you look like you're just over one year old.

At least, when people asked how old she was and I said "almost three," I didn't get any "she's so tiny!"s. Score one for Hallowe'en sensitivity to the dignity of tiny lions.

When we got home and took off the costume, she pronounced herself "Frances again," and pored over her bag of loot. She had two and a half candies (couldn't finish her lollipop) then was off to bed, where she slept like the dead.

Mummy didn't. She was too excited. Plus, she'd only eaten candy for supper.

Posted by Andrea at 6:33 AM | Comments (27)

Frances Friday: Now Featuring Your 8,462,026th Guilt Trip

Last night, on the way up the stairs, Frances bit me on the shoulder. Not hard, but hard enough to hurt.

"Ow!" I said. "Frances, did you just bite me? That gave me an owwie!" I was startled, but I didn't yell.

She looked at me. Her lips began to tremble, and her eyes widened and filled with tears. She looked past my shoulder at Erik and said, "Did I give Mummy an owwie?" Then she sobbed.

I got her to say sorry and kiss it better then spent ten minutes comforting her for having bitten me.

~~~~~

Matching is new.

"Mummy, your eyes are blue."

"Yes. They are."

"Do they match the blue car? They do match the blue car! And your pants."

"Mm hmm."

"My shirt is pink. It matches you! You are pink! And Daddy is pink, and I am pink."

"What colour is Daddy's hair?"

"Brown. It matches the floor. My hair is yellow. It matches the bananas!"

Everything is a big colour-coordinated wonderland.

~~~~~

Thursday afternoon, Frances and I snuggled on the big chair in the front room while I read my email and Frances rearranged her yellow Dora band-aid on her hands. She got an owwie, she said, When Erin pushed her down. But it was an accident, and she said she was sorry.

"What else did you do today?"

"I rode on the bicycle, and then I made a poop!"

"Oh. Did you do anything else?"

"No."

"Nothing? Did you play with any toys?"

"No. Please can I type now?"

"No. Mummy's typing."

"Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now? Please can I type now?"

"Frances! I said NO. Did you hear me? NO!"

"No?"

"No! Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Can I type now?"

"NO."

"Sheesh."

~~~~~

I meant to add this one before posting it, and forgot. I call it "Why I call Frances our Little Literalist."

Last night, Erik made spaghetti for dinner (he is our household warmer-upper-of-jarred-pasta-sauce, and he does it very well).

Frances: I am eating pasgetti. Are you eating pasgetti, Mummy?

Andrea: Yes, I am. Is Daddy eating spaghetti?

Frances: He is! He is eating pasgetti!

Erik: Everyone's eating spaghetti.

Frances: No. Oma's not eating pasgetti.

Erik: ... No, probably not.

Frances: Mumms and Grandpa aren't eating pasgetti.

Erik: You got me there.

Posted by Andrea at 8:01 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: That's Frances on the Radio!

As part of our bedtime routine, Frances asks to snuggle on the Big Bed (aka our bed). Sometimes we say yes; usually we say no, it's getting late and you have to get up early tomorrow.

When we do say yes, Frances asks to hear Mummy and Frances on the radio--or, in english, our podcast. I dial it up on the iPod and plug it in and for a few giddy seconds, Frances is the happiest child on earth. She laughs at her own jokes. She sits still and stares at the magical white box. "Is that Frances? Is that Mummy and Frances talking on the radio?" She asks. "Yes! It is Mummy and Frances talking on the radio!" She answers.

The original deal, last winter when I started this, was that you, my Dear Readers, could determine the content of Radio Free Frances by asking her whatever questions you would like. I would record Frances's answers and put them on the air--or web, or whatever--for you. It goes on the podcast (which, by the way, you can subscribe to via bloglines or iTunes if you're interested--url is http://www.athenadreaming.org/radiofreefrances.rss) and I put a link to the file here, too, for whoever wants it the older-fashioned way.

Well, we're out of questions. Except for the snow one, and even though the forecast called for snow last night, I am resolutely ignoring it. Dear Readers, the future of this exciting innovation in radio programming is in your hands: What would you like to ask Frances?

You can visit the Radio Free Frances category in the drop-down menu on the left sidebar if you want inspiration; or you can ask whatever you'd like, within the bounds of reason and good taste. (Don't ask me to define those, ok?) Leave the question as a comment here, and someday soon, the whole world (or at least a few hundred people) will be able to hear Frances's insightful answer.

Posted by Andrea at 7:27 AM | Comments (6)

Frances Friday: Am I Drawing a Circle?

Wednesday morning we had severe thunderstorms; as I picked out her clothes for the day upstairs, Frances had the following conversation with Erik over Cheerios:

Frances: Do you hear the thunder monster?

Erik: Yes. I do.

Frances: Do you see the lightning?

Erik: Yes. Do you see it?

Frances: Yeah. Are we going to be scared?

She has started talking about herself and to herself the same way that Erik and I talk about and to her--with questions. And with hints, too:

Frances: Am I hungry, Mummy? (eyes extra wide, nodding seriously)

or:

Frances: Am I drawing a circle? Am I drawing a pink circle? (nodding, and pointing to the pink circle)

or:

Frances: Am I sick? Do I have a cold? (while coughing)

or, while holding up a bandaid that she pulled of a 'little scrape':

Frances: Do I have a bandaid? Is it a Dora bandaid? Is it yellow? Is there a Dora on it? Is there a Boots? Does it match my t-shirt? It does match my t-shirt!

And in the "Wow, that was fast" department:

We got the pictures back! Beautiful photos of a small girl with soft blond hair falling to either side of plump cheeks, huge blue eyes and a wide, genuine smile, two small hands folded neatly together on top of the carepeted box that all school photographers seem to have. And in the class photo, sitting on the right end of the front row, with her more typical solemn face on, as if she had just won the Nobel Peace Prize for her work saving starving children and to smile would be inappropriate.

Do you want to see them? Are they up on the photos site now? (nodding)

Posted by Andrea at 7:51 AM | Comments (14)

Frances Friday: Girl Power

Erik tells me that the daycare workers got quite a kick not only out of her special Party Outfit on picture day, but her reaction to it: apparently, whenever anyone new entered the room, she would run over and preen for them so they could admire her fancy duds.

I can picture it: my small blond girl, walking quickly but carefully so as not to scuff her special shoes, to stand in front of whoever has entered, and wait, thinking, "Hello! Aren't I adorable? Love me!"

And who could help it? If you were they, and in front of you was a thirty-inch girl with huge blue eyes and fluffy blond hair, wearing a forest-green corduroy skirt with flowers embroidered on it, and a cranberry-red knit vest over a cream shirt; and if that girl was clearly pleased with herself and the world and her place in the world, and was thrilled and proud to be looking her best that day--wouldn't you melt?

I melt just thinking about it, and I'm not biased, either. I haven't analyzed this (and maybe I shouldn't) but it warms and cheers me to know that she believes she is beautiful.

Apparently, when I was her age, I scowled at anyone who dared to call me "cute." (I still do.)

When I get the pictures back, they will be going on Frances's photos site, so whoever has the password combo will be able to see them. If you want to see them and don't have the password, feel free to ask, and if I know who you are I'll let you in.

Posted by Andrea at 7:23 AM | Comments (15)

Frances Friday: Thick Skin Edition

Frances, bless her innocent heart, believes that the internet exists so she can play Elmo games. And that's fine. In small, i.e. thirty-second, doses. What I want to know is, why does she have to stick her hands in her mouth and get her fingers all slimy before she starts bashing the keys on my precious laptop?

Anyone?

I am also pleased to report that Frances's eyes are still blue, and very big; and her opinion of me appears to be undiminished. When I got home on Wednesday after a day of site inspections, we spent a few minutes admiring her toes (her leaning forward on the couch, me leaning toward her, both of us giving her toes the proper degree of attention, and the toes themselves wriggling away in her little white socks), then had a nice snuggle on the black chair. "I missed you today, Mummy," she said.

The bitterness of others has not darkened her sweetness. Her smile is still atomic. When she wraps her tiny, deliciously edible fingers around her big-girl Winnie the Pooh cup for a sip of orange juice that is then spilled to discolour her t-shirt, I still lose myself in admiring them, so preposterously sized, and yet so perfectly functional and competent. I can still stare happily while she eats, all solemnity and business; the sight of her filling her tummy with food still fills me with a sense of rightness in the world. For no reason at all that I can fathom.

Her laugh is still infectious, and no matter what she's done, when the giggle gets going the game is up--I try, but I can't help it, I laugh too. I laugh, then she laughs harder, then I laugh harder, and the next thing you know, she's on my lap and my head is bent over her shoulder and we are both shaking and choking from laughing so hard. Daddy is going to have to be the disciplinarian. I'm hopeless.

She still doesn't like to finish a puzzle, preferring to put it half together and then abandon it for something else.

She still takes an hour to fall asleep at night, babbling and laughing and talking to herself, to drift off north of 9:30.

She still asks, when I've finished "Where Is Boots?" for the third time in a row, "Can you read it one last time again, Mummy?" When I say no, she still says, "yes," slyly, with a smile.

When I tell her I love her, she still says, "Awww, that's so sweet! I love you too." She still wants the Mummy Carrot to hide so the Baby Carrot can find her. She still tells Max that his overalls are disgusting, and once they've bought new ones, there will be no money left.

She still fits on me perfectly, her head on my shoulders, her feet at my hips, her weight resting on my right arm. I still carry her up and down the stairs, because it's faster, and because I like to. She still looks at me and waves her arms like little whips when she asks, "Can I hold you Mummy?"

She is my life.

And when I close my eyes, there she is, day or night. Big blue eyes, tiny fingers, atomic smile and all, looking at me with the total love she still has for me at this age. Whether she is with me or not, I can see the person she believes me to be in her eyes. I can see everything that is good and pure about human potential; I can see how little age or education or size are correlated with worth. I can see both how true the next statement must be, and how unjust the saying is.

I can be the bigger person. I can let it go.

~~~~~

And in that spirit, a conversation from this morning:

Andrea tiptoes into the kitchen, bends over Frances's booster seat, and leans in to her ear. "Boo."

"Mummy!" Frances leans her cheek against mine and, when I wrap my arms around her for a hug, wraps her own arms around mine.

"What a nice hug," I say, and move to the front of her chair.

"Mummy, I really like your teal shirt. It matches your pants!" Frances fingers the hem.

"Thank you," I say, even though it doesn't, because the shirt is teal and the pants are blue jeans. But she's two, what do you want?

~~~~~

Yesterday, I got home before 4 and spent an hour and a half worrying about Erik and Frances, who are normally home by 4:30. At 5:20, the phone rang:

"Hi. We're on our way home."

"Hi, Erik. Did your course run late?"

"No. Somebody broke her glasses. We're just leaving the eyeglass store now."

"Oh no! What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

In the background, I dimly hear Frances say, "I want to talk to Mummy." The phone is passed to her: "Hi, Mummy."

"Hi, Frances. How are you?"

"I broke my glasses."

"So I heard."

Posted by Andrea at 7:17 AM | Comments (13)

Frances Friday: Too Much Kissing

One of my favourite episodes of Little Bear is the one where Mr. & Mrs. Skunk get married; putting aside all of the tiresome heterosexism in the show as a whole, it's still sweet to see all of Little Bear's friends playing kissing tag, especially when the Zen Frog announces:

"Too much kissing."

It's so obviously a kid's sentiment in an adult voice--not one, mind you, that Frances shares these days.

If I ask her for a kiss, I get one--and then another one, and another one, and another one--on my cheek, my forehead, my lips, my jaw, my shoulder, my arm, whatever happens to be closest. Her warm dry lips press in lightly with a little huffy out-breath through her nose, and a little "smooch" sound. Sometimes, she likes to make sure she got it right: "Does that make you feel better?" she'll ask, or, "Did that make you happy?"

At what point does one stop being deliriously in love with one's child?

At what point will she stop being deliriously in love with me?

In the meantime, I'm taking every kiss she'll give me, and I don't care what the Zen Frog thinks.

~~~~~

Yesterday was a fundraising barbeque at Frances's daycare. I got to tour her new senior room (!), and she showed me her favourite toys and introduced me to her friends. Except for one.

Some time ago I wrote about how the bully at Frances's daycare has adopted her and protects her from the other kids. Yesterday, I got to meet her when she tried to save "Franny Fran" from the evil clutches of this woman pretending to be her mother by lifting Frances completely off the ground and turning away from me. (This is a big girl.)

"Mummy!" said Frances, not a bit disturbed. "Down, please." Her friend warily released her, and she ran into my arms. Clearly her champion has done this before.

It was reassuring, too, to see how well she managed in a classroom built for bigger children. Sure, the play table came up almost to her chin; but it didn't stop her from stacking the magnetic blocks. Sure, the sink in the bathroom is too high off the ground, but she just pulled out the yellow stepstool and climbed right on to wash her hands.

It was a shock to see just how much smaller than her classmates she is. It always is a shock, the first few times; and having just been transferred to the "big girl" room and being surrounded by average-sized children who are also older is a big difference. Some of them looked about ten inches taller than Frances.

When we got home, the latest newsletter from the Little People of Ontario was waiting for us. Besides information on the upcoming Christmas party, it also had the back-to-school info packet for parents, with sample letters for schools and teachers explaining a dwarf child's special needs in the school and classroom. For stepstools and help opening doors and something in the washroom, with sternly worded phrasing that this is a child's right, not a privilege, and the school is legally obliged to provide it. Based, of course, on achondroplasia since that is the most common form of dwarfism; but much of the information is the same, so we'll hang on to it for next September.

Next September.

How is it possible?

Posted by Andrea at 8:03 AM | Comments (4)

Frances Friday: Special Bonus Edition

I am watching Frances sweep the kitchen floor. Really. With her own Frances-sized teal-lime green-and-orange broom and dustpan. She sweeps a bit of dust into the pan, opens the cupboard door under the sink, and taps the dustpan out into the garbage can.

~~~~~

Yet more and more proof of her World's Best Preschooler Ever status: When I got home from my errands this afternoon, she was playing with Erik in the driveway; I opened the car door and she ran and hugged my knee.

Erik said, "Is there something you want to tell Mummy?"

Frances looked up at me and said, "Hi, Mummy! I love your new haircut. It looks beautiful."

I laughed. "Thank you! Did Daddy coach you all the way home to say that?"

"No," said Erik. "Not at all."

I still think it's suspicious.

Posted by Andrea at 4:34 PM | Comments (5)

Frances Friday: Vacation Edition

There has been a lot of pressure on this week off.

Not just the insane list of things to-do that just built up over the months beforehand, which didn't get done. And not just the ever-present knowledge that I have only three weeks of vacation a year, and had better enjoy what I get.

If all goes according to plan, this will be my last week of solid alone-time with Frances. There is always the possibility that nothing will go according to plan, in which case I will have many years of solid alone-time with Frances in my future, but at the moment I'm not considering that. It's more likely that it will; and then at some point, Frances will have to share me. I will have to share me.

As I write this, I am watching Frances talk lovingly to a baby duck and putter around the kitchen making sure all of her toys feel appreciated. Tuesday we went to get her hair cut, and she was so good--sitting quietly, looking down when she was asked to look down--that afterwards I bought her some french fries as a special treat. The hairdresser too told her over and over again how cute she was--and it's true, you know.

Andrea: Are you cute? And smart? And strong? And fun?

Frances: *nods to them all* Beautiful, too.

Then we went to the scrapbook store and, after I asked her a few times not to run, she instead walked very briskly through all the aisles, giggling hysterically. She so charmed the sales staff that they gave her some free stickers. (There is no more sure way to win Frances's affections than to ply her with free stickers.)

Frances: (to the big duck) You are not scared. You are happy!

It's idyllic. It's not supposed to be. She's two-and-a-half and we are still waiting for that first temper tantrum and the terrible twos that follow. It'll catch up with us someday, but in the meantime, we are living in a golden age, with a sweet little girl who is almost always well-behaved and easy-going, who thrives on our attention, who doesn't demand much; and two parents who have more than enough to give.

Frances: The sun's going to bed. It's not waking up again.

I want a second child, but I know that what I have now is pretty damned good, and I want to appreciate it while it's here. I'm so glad we did wait for a few years to start trying again. I'm glad I can focus on my little girl and appreciate her for the wonderful person she is, without distraction.

Frances (in the voice of the baby duck): Where is my mommy? Oh! There she is! I'm so happy now! (big hugs for all)

Wednesday afternoon, after going to a local park and admiring the geese and swans and riding the chair swing, we came home and did an arts-and-crafts project with some flower foam shapes I had left over from my time as a Big Sister. Frances did amazingly well with the glue stick, scarily well, where-the-hell-is-my-baby well. She made a beautiful picture for her Daddy, and when he got home, I went to Michaels to return a scrapbook tool I got in the wrong size. (Long story.) While I was there, I saw a huge display of foam shaps of all different sizes and styles and colours, and I couldn't resist. I got a big bucket of Christmas ones so she can make her own cards this year; I got a few hallowe'en types for some fun crafts projects in October, and I got a few little bags of everyday kinds of shapes. When I got home she was playing with NB in the driveway, but when she saw what I brought her she could hardly wait to go inside and play with them. We did, and she made another lovely picture, peeling the backs of the self-sticking foam shapes all by herself and arranging them on a sheet of red construction paper.

Thursday we met up with Marla and Josephine at the local farm, and then came back here to play. Both girls were angels (considering their ages), and eavesdropping on their conversations was delightful. I am still not over Frances having conversations, especially with other people. I'm not sure that Josephine was equally thrilled, considering Frances has developed a bit of a bossy streak and could often be heard shouting, "Josephine! Come back here!" Among other things. But they shared their lettuce (for feeding the animals) and talked about their toys and said please and thank you with minimal prompting. How much better does it get?

Frances: Josephine, I will write you a story. Look, isn't it beautiful?

After they left, Frances asked to colour with the teal marker. In the two minutes it took me to read one email message, she'd covered her left arm.

Andrea: Are you a leopard, Frances?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: What do leopards say?

Frances: *growl*

Today Frances is at the daycare so I can try to cram a week's worth of errands into eight hours. This week went by so fast, and I won't get another one until Christmas, which seems forever away. I miss my girl already.

It's harder to know that this might be the last week we have together, just the two of us.

Andrea: Can I have a hug?

Frances: *laughing* No!

Andrea: Can I please have a hug?

Frances: *laughing* No!

Andrea: *pouts*

Frances: Are you sad, Mummy?

Andrea: Yes.

Frances: Why?

Andrea: I really wanted a hug!

Frances: No you don't!

Andrea: I don't?

Frances: No! You want a nice kiss.

Andrea: Can I have a nice kiss?

Frances: *leans up, kisses Andrea on the cheek*

Andrea: Thank you! What a lovely kiss.

Frances: You're welcome.

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

Frances Friday: The Word Gene

Next time I get the urge to show how smart I am by writing satire, will somebody please hit me?

Two hundred people--TWO HUNDRED--came to read my last satirical effort between 8 pm and midnight yesterday, and something tells me that it might not have had the desired effect. I feel a bit like Jonathan Swift: "Ok, but I don't actually want people to eat babies, all right? That was kind of the point, you know, the rich feeding off the poor and everything .... never mind."

If anyone's curious: I'm against eugenics in all forms, I'm a whole-hearted supporter or every type of reproductive rights including both the right NOT to have children and the right TO have children; so if you read my application form and thought "this is horrible!" then, good! That was my point. Thank you.

~~~~~

As part of Frances's transition into the senior room at daycare, she has been spending part and whole days there whenever there's a spot. This past Tuesday was a whole day with the Big Kids, including using the big kid bathroom. Except that she couldn't reach the sink, even with the stepstool. This isn't unusual and frankly I don't know of any way to fix it because the problem is that her arms are too short to reach from the edge of the sink to the tap.

So one of the teachers held her up a bit closer, and Frances put her hands under the faucet, and the water started. Said Frances, "It comes out automatically!"

AUTOMATICALLY, she said. Correctly. In context. In case you haven't counted, that's six syllables. It's bigger than she is.

I think she got my word gene.

The funny thing is, while she's got "automatically" down, she's struggling with "sick."

She knows what it means, I think; maybe it's more fair to say that she doesn't really understand the underlying concept of disease, because this week whenever I said I was sick and wasn't feeling well, she'd smile at me and say, "I'll make you happy, Mummy."

Awwwww. And what else can a sick Mummy say except, "You make me very happy, Frances"? Anything else would make her very sad. She hates it when Erik or I aren't happy, and will keep at us with, "I make you happy. Do I make you happy? Are you feeling better? I can make you happy," until we relent and agree that we are happy now.

It's so sweet. I can't tell you how much pride puffs my heart to bursting at her care for the emotional state of the people close to her. She has such a big heart; whenever she does something that upsets us, the worst part for her is that fact that we're upset. So, for example, if she won't eat her dinner and Erik gets frustrated, what drives her to tears is Erik's frustration, and she'll keep tearfully repeating, "That makes you happy Daddy. Do I make you happy?" until he says "yes." If she throws one of her toys (which she knows she's not supposed to do), she'll smile: "I make you happy, Mummy."

"No, that didn't make me happy. That made me sad. It made your toy, sad, too, to be thrown on the ground."

"Did I make you happy?"

"No. You made me sad."

"Sorry, Mummy." Sorry! She says sorry! She apologizes, correctly and in context. Actually she takes it to extremes and has been overheard apologizing to ants if she steps in their path. "Sorry, ant!" she says, then stands still while it scurries around her.

"That's ok, Frances. Thank you for apologizing."

"Are you happy now, Mummy?"

"Yes, I'm happy."

She says please, she says thank you, she says no thank you (or no thanks, which is too freaking cute), she says you're welcome, she says SORRY. I am the world's luckiest Mom.

The only fly in my ointment is Barbie.

On Monday, when we were getting ready to meet up with a friend and her daughter at the mall and Frances picked out her frilliest dress to wear, and we put it on, and set her in front of the mirror to see how it looked, she said, "I look beautiful!"

"Yes, you do."

"Just like a barbie doll."

Scream it with me now, Dear Readers: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I've also been informed that Ruby (the rabbit) is beautiful "just like a Barbie doll" when she is carrying a purse.

She didn't get it from me, she didn't get it from Erik, she hasn't seen any of her other relatives recently enough for them to be the culprit. There is only one possible source: the daycare. And I have no idea how to handle this. I don't do the drop-off or pick-up because it's at Erik's office, so I can't casually bring it up. Is it big enough to make a deal of it and call them?

Frances and I had a little chat then about how all kinds of people look beautiful, and you don't have to look like Barbie to be beautiful, and not everything that's beautiful looks like Barbie. I don't think she got it, but I'm going to keep at it for a while--pointing out beautiful people and and animals and plants and things that look nothing like Barbie. I even pulled out the big guns: "It makes Mummy very, very sad when you say that, Frances. There are so many ways for things to be beautiful. Lots of things are beautiful that look nothing like Barbie. OK?"

I am heartbroken that she is already learning that beauty looks like Barbie dolls.

Posted by Andrea at 7:40 AM | Comments (17)

Frances Friday: No More Baby Girl

Frances: Mummy! Can I hold you, Mummy?

Andrea: Of course you can. *picks her up* I love to hold my Frances girl.

Frances: You're cute Mummy.

Andrea: You too.

Frances: I missed you, Mummy.

Andrea: I missed you too.

Frances: I love you Mummy.

Andrea: Awww....I love you too!

Frances: That makes you happy?

Andrea: That makes me very happy. Frances always makes me happy.

Frances: Are you a big girl, Mummy?

Andrea: Yes, I am. Are you a big girl?

Frances: No, I'm not.

Andrea: Are you a baby?

Frances: No, I'm Frances.

Andrea: Are you a baby Frances?

Frances: No, I'm just Frances.

Andrea: You're not a baby?

Frances: No. I'm a little girl.

And there it is. Not just once, either, but many times over the last two weeks.

I always said that when she told me she wasn't a baby anymore, I wouldn't call her my baby anymore. And she did.

It's not the only evidence, either: Frances is moving to the senior room at daycare in September.* The senior room! Isn't that absurd? How can they put a baby in the senior room? Just because she'll be in junior kindergarten next September is no reason to call her a preschooler.

No more World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None.

Now I need to have another one.

~~~~~

*Evidence that her daycare is fabulous: They bought her footstools for when they move her over in September. We didn't even have to ask.

Posted by Andrea at 8:12 AM | Comments (10)

Frances Friday Presents: Masterpiece Theatre

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

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

~~~~~

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

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

My genius baby.

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~

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

"Happy Birthday Daddy!" said Frances.

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

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

"Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you."

"Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you."

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

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

"He's upstairs asleep, kiddo."

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

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

"It's your birthday, Daddy!"

"Yes, it is."

"It's your birthday, Daddy!"

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

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

"Oh, thank you."

"Happy Birthday Daddy!"

"Thank you, sweetie."

"Happy Birthday, Daddy!"

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

~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

"Wow. Look at all the lightning."

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

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

"No, I didn't!"

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

"No!"

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

"Can you sleep on my tummy?"

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

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

"You sure can."

"I'm a little tiny baby."

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

~~~~~

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

Posted by Andrea at 8:56 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: The Reunion

As always, Frances didn't even notice I wasn't with them, and when Erik called home she refused to talk to me. She did bellow, "Hello Mummy!" and "Bye bye Mummy!" and "I miss you Mummy!" in the general direction of the phone while enjoying her toys and playmates, but actually stop and talk to me? Are you kidding?

This is good. No, it is. It means she's well attached and secure and happy, so that she's able to not see me for a few days without losing her shit. And I'm glad of it. But I wish she would miss me just a little, enough so that she would want to talk to me on the phone.

She was spoiled, of course; not only was there a little treasure trove of doll stuff in wait for her, but while she was there she picked up a toy squirrel and another pink bear and rabbit and a new puzzle and some new clothes. Because she needs more clothes. I mean, some outfits she's had to wear three whole times, and that's just not acceptable.

Meanwhile, I didn't sleep well and had cookies for dinner. I thought it might be productive time, but it wasn't because I couldn't think. I'm a sad sap of a Mum.

Actually, what I am now is a happy sap of a Mum, because Frances is home.

~~~~~

On Monday, already lonely at the thought of her leaving the next day, I played the role of Super Fun Mom and took her to the Zoo. Because no matter what they've got for her in Montreal, it's not the Zoo. Therefore, she would want to come home again.

She didn't want to do any walking once we got there until we entered the Kids' Zoo, when she started running and agitating to go up and down the Treehouse. What's more fun than lions and giraffes? Stair climbing! That's what.

~~~~~

On Tuesday, while watering the blondkopfchen tomatoes (ripening like mad now), I noticed a large mushroom in the back of the pot. Three or four inches across, whitish grey with dark brown flecks, close to the ground. Hang on, I thought; It wasn't there yesterday. How did it get so big so fast?

As I leaned it to take a closer look, it jumped; it was a frog. Or a toad. If Frances were here, she would have loved that. It jumped right through the porch railings, and I was scared that it'd splattered froggish guts all over the ground, so I went to check. No guts, no whitish frog/toad; but there was a small dark green frog/toad sitting behind the chairs stacked by the fence.

"Where's Frances?" It seemed to ask. "Aren't you going to catch me so she can bonk me on the head?"

"Not today, froggie," I thought. "Come back Thursday, please."

~~~~~

Blondkopfchen tomatoes are indeterminate, which means they flower and ripen until the first frost hits, and they are incredibly prolific. I have several bunches of green tomatoes hanging already like grapes off the vine, a dozen at least to a group, and more flowers blooming and developing every day. They've been insanely easy to grow, too; just keep them well-watered once they start flowering--and no matter how much water you give them, they'll use it--and put a bit of composted manure in the soil before planting and on top as a mulch every few weeks for the nutrients. Don't "eww" me, it works.

Frances has found the growing process fascinating. She loves to go out with me and look at the little baby tomatoes, and talk about how they will turn yellow. She pets them (and has on occasion picked an unripe one) and says how cute they are and asks, "Can I eat one?"

"When it's yellow like Bert," I say. "If you eat it green it will give you a tummy ache."

"It's a baby tomato. It's green. It's going to turn yellow, then I can eat it."

"That's right."

"Awwww, it's cuuuuute." Then she starts to poke them. "That's a baby tomato. And that's a baby tomato. And that's a baby tomato. And that's a baby tomato." And you know, with at least sixty tomatoes hanging on the vine, there's a lot of pointing to do.

Before Tuesday, only one had ripened. Since, at least ten have turned to a beautiful, rich golden yellow. I've eaten two. They're delicious, sweet, like candy tomatoes. The rest I saved for her. I didn't think she'd actually eat them, but I knew she'd want to see them now that they've turned "yellow like Bert."

At one point, the black squirrel with the bald left knee who likes to follow Frances around, came up and sunned himself on the top stair of the deck. He stared at the glass door, as if to say, "Where is she? Who's going to give me my peanuts?"

The whole house missed her. Her little baby kitten in the pink diaper lay forlornly on the black living room chair, unmoving for two whole days; the pens lay still beside the pads on the kitchen table; the potty's lid didn't clatter or thump; the TV was quiet; the Little People in the basement stood in their rows and ignored the barn and roller coaster. Bath-time Elmo sulked on the back of the toilet in the upstairs bathroom.

~~~~~

When I pulled into the driveway yesterday, Erik was waiting for me. But Frances? Where was Frances? He put his hands together beside his head, miming sleep.

Oh well. At least she's home.

He regaled me with stories about how sweet she was on the drive down and back, and how she giggled her way to a new roomful of toys, and how much she loved to drive the inflatable firetruck around the pool, and how everybody wanted her to stay one more day. We downloaded the pictures and stared at her happy face with big goofy grins.

At 5:30, I walked quietly into her room and sat on the pillows beside the bed; she rolled over, opened her eyes, and looked at me.

"Mummy."

"Frances." I wrapped an arm around her.

"Mummy."

"Frances."

"Mummy."

"Frances."

"Mummy."

"I missed you so much, baby girl."

"I missed you too, Mummy."

"Can I pick you up and give you a big hug?"

She nodded. I picked her up and settled her on my shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around my neck.

"Mummy."

For an hour yesterday evening she kept one hand planted on my mole while she rolled all over me, grinning and giggling. (I think she missed me.) (Yay!)

On the deck, later, NB came out to play. "IT'S NB!" she shrieked. "NB! NB! NB!" Of course, once they were in the same place, they largely did their own thing--Frances tucked her Mama Horse and Baby Horse into a nap using a face wipe for a blankie, while NB took his race car around the backyard and on safari (which is what I called it once when he went into the back garden near the fence, and it stuck).

Frances was very proud of her tomatoes, and would point at a nice, bright yellow one and say, "Can I eat it?"

"Do you want it?"

"Yeah!"

I'd pick it, and give it to her, and she'd carry it around the deck for five minutes, with me saying all the while "Aren't you going to eat it, Frances?" Eventually, "No, you eat it Mummy." So I would, and then 20 seconds later she'd ask for another one. So there are no more brightly ripe tomatoes on the vine, but a whole bunch that should be ready for tomorrow. Yum.

~~~~~

Frances's memory is amazing. I keep testing it, because I'm shocked. And proud. And I like to brag. What I most like to do is ask her some question based on a book she likes, and then she rattles off a few pages of it:

Andrea: So, how does it start again? Is it, "I'm sitting in my silly chair?"

Frances: Nooo! My timeout chair!

Andrea: Oh. And what's next?

Frances: Because my mother put me there. She said, you try my patience child! I do not like it when you're wild.

(Note: The pronounciation is not this perfect. It sounds more like, "Because my mother put me thew. She said, you twy my patience chi-ohd! I not like it when youw wi-ohd!")

Andrea: Oh! And what's next?

Frances: Wild? Who me? That's so absurd! How could she even use that word?

Andrea: "If I were..."

Frances: If I were a lion, I'd growl and roar. I'd knock the dishes on the floor. I'd scare the hair right off the cat! But do you see me doing that?

This is where I clap and tell her how brilliant she is. I'm sure she could do the whole book, but sadly, my memory is not as good as hers and I can't remember more than another few pages of prompts.

~~~~~

We watched the episode of Little Bear where Mother Bear is babysitting the baby raccoon, Ick. Frances thought this was hilarious and for the rest of the evening she'd say, "Ick!" and laugh her head off. Later on, while snuggling on the big bed, it became a game:

Frances: Ick!

Andrea: Ick.

Frances: *laughing* Ick!

Andrea: tick.

Frances: *laughing* Tick!

Andrea: slick.

Frances: *howling with laughter* Slick!

Andrea: stick.

Frances: *tears streaming down face* Stick!

And so on. I think we went through all of the words that rhyme with "ick." Brick, kick, trick, vick, hick, lick, mick, pick, yick, wick, quick, rick, sick. OK, not all of them--no dick, no prick.

At 9:00 it was time for her to go to bed, but we were having so much fun, it physically hurt to tuck her in.

It's Friday; in a few hours, I'll be home, and we'll have the weekend together. My parents are coming to visit, so maybe I'll go to that farm and pick us up the fixings for a nice supper. I work on Monday; but have Tuesday mostly off for a combination doctor's appointment/visit with Rachel. Then a short three-day week, then a four-day weekend on which I am hoping to meet a fabulous bloggy friend (details hush-hush until it's a sure thing), then a three-day week again. Lots of Frances time coming up. Maybe by the end of next weekend it will have finally been enough.

Posted by Andrea at 8:25 AM | Comments (8)

Frances Friday: Me!

Andrea: Did you know that I love your toes, Frances?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: And did you know that I love your knees? Such nice, pudgy little knees.

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: And did you know that I love your little button nose?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: Do you know what else I love?

Frances: Me!

~~~~~

Andrea: I love the way you run, Frances. It's such fun to watch you.

Frances: *clambers into my lap* Does that make you happy, Mummy?

Andrea: Yes, it does. Do you know what else makes me happy?

Frances: Me!

~~~~~

(Erik, Frances and I are in our backyard with NB and his parents. NB brought over his toy lawnmower and is having a great time pushing it around, while Frances watches, clearly pining for a turn. NB's parents are trying to encourage him to share.)

NB's Dad: NB, where's Frances? Are you going to let Frances push it? Where's Frances, NB? Where's Frances? Do you see Frances? NB? Where's Frances?

NB: *pushes lawnmower, carefully ignoring his father*

Frances: *looks at us* Here I am!

~~~~~

Frances: The birdies are singing, Mummy!

Andrea: Yes, they are. Don't they sound pretty?

Frances: Yeah. Awwww, the birdies are so cuuuuuuuute.

Andrea: Yes, they are. And you're pretty cute, too.

Frances: Does that make you happy, Mummy?

Andrea: It sure does.

Frances: Do you know what else makes you happy, Mummy?

Andrea: No, what?

Frances: Me!

~~~~~

Frances: You're cute, Mummy.

Andrea: Oh, thank you. You're pretty cute, too.

Frances: No, I'm not.

Andrea: Yes, you are. You're very cute. You're the cutest.

Frances: No, I'm not!

Andrea: No? Aren't you a cutie-pie?

Frances: No, I'm not!

Andrea: Where is my cutie-pie? Where's my cute girl?

Frances: *points to herself* Here I am!

~~~~~

Andrea: Did you know that you're adorable, Frances?

Frances: *nods* I'm smart, too.

~~~~~

What do you think? Does she seem reasonably secure in our affections? Happy with her place in the world? Is her self-esteem high enough?

My sweetness. I love her so much.

Posted by Andrea at 7:49 AM | Comments (14)

A Friendly Squirrel. Or a Lion. Or a Rabbit.

Even the local wildlife loves Frances; last night, when we were playing in the forest (aka shrubs) in the front yard, a black squirrel followed us and sat by the front steps, begging for peanuts. I gave Frances a peanut, she thundered up the walk towards the squirrel, it would run around in conflicting panic and hunger, she would pitch the peanut at its head, the peanut would land just beyond Frances's big toe, and the squirrel (now driven to a frenzy of competing instincts) would, eventually, somehow, grab it. "My squirrel!" she shrieked. "My squirrel! Come back! My friendly squirrel!"

Then Frances would beg for a peanut for herself, which her father would crack open. Apparently, she's not allergic. And she can really stuff them in there, which led to the following conversation:

"Are you part squirrel?" I asked her.

"No."

"No? What are you, then?"

"I'm a friendly squirrel."

"Ah. That explains everything."

~~~~~

She still loves to hide in the forest in the front garden, and has convinced her BFF NB to hide there with her. They play hide-and-seek and chase, which both look remarkably alike, consisting of two uproariously laughing toddlers running in circles through the garden and around the front walk. They never hide, they never seek, they never tag, they just run. Run, and roar.

"RRRRROAR!" says Frances. "RRROAR!" says NB.

"Oh no, is that a lion?" the adults say. "What a scary lion!"

Frances grins. "RRRROAR!"

~~~~~

Frances: Are you Ruby?

Andrea: I don't know. Am I Ruby?

Frances: Yeah.

Andrea: Who are you?

Frances: Max!

Andrea: Oh. How are you, Max?

Frances: I'm pretty good. How are you, Ruby?

Andrea: Good. What would you like to do, Max?

Frances: I don't know.

This conversation and it's many TV-sponsored variants (Franklin & Harriet, Elmo & Grover, Thomas & Percy, etc.) are a daily event now. Sometimes the toys get in on the act and start talking and bouncing back and forth: "Hi, Mummy!" the Max doll will say, or the Little Person, or Stuart the Pink Bear, or the Elmo puppet, all in a squeaky falsetto that sounds eerily similar regardless of the character.

Someday, they will have an answer to "What would you like to do?" What will it be?

~~~~~

As you know, my paltry stabs at anonymity here are insufficient at best. I use our real first names. I talk about where we live, though I try to leave photos of the house out of it. Sometimes I talk about my employer. With this basic information it would be an hour's work for any random stranger to figure out who I am.

Then I talked about my story, which may or may not be published, and which I promised to share with you if it is. At which point (though I'm not sure anyone but me has put this together yet) all reasonable facsimiles of anonymity here imploded. Because, you know, I published it with my real name, so by December y'all are going to know exactly who I am. If it's published.

Still, I hesitate to include the following anecdote because it acknowledges this fact an entire five months before it is really necessary. I am choosing to trust you, Dear Readers. Don't disappoint me. OK?

Andrea: What's your name?

Frances: Frances.

Andrea: What's your last name?

Frances: Frances McDowell.

Andrea: What's my name?

Frances: Mummy!

Andrea: What's my other name?

Frances: (pause) Mummy McDowell.

Andrea: No, I mean, what does Daddy call me?

Frances: Erik!

Hmm.

~~~~~

Back in January, I wrote about how Beanie Baby was intended to be a record of Frances's early years, and so I was splitting off another blog to deal with the Andrea Overflow. Anyone who's actually bothered to read the other blog will know that it hasn't been working so well. I simply don't have the time to maintain two blogs about various parts of my life. It was a good experiment, and now I know, but the other one will be closing down and reintegrating here.

This leaves me with a dilemma: How to make sure that Frances remains the star of her own website? Especially when, in the not-too-distant future (knock on wood, cross all appendages, ward off the evil eye) she might have to share the stage. Here is my answer: Frances Fridays, because alliteration is the sine qua non of respectable mommy blogging. A weekly post should be enough to keep myself (and all of you lucky, lucky souls) updated on the major developments in the Life of Frances, give me some reassurance that I am creating a good respository of her early exploits, provide you with a reliable source of Francestime, and leave me with ample guilt-free opportunities to write about other things. That's not to say that Frances won't show up the rest of the week, but she definitely will on Fridays. Like today. Ta Da!

There may even be pictures. Maybe videos. Definitely some audio (I haven't forgotten about Radio Free Frances, but she's not keen on going in the basement when it's warm outside and she can hide in the forest instead). And lots of stories.

Posted by Andrea at 9:49 AM | Comments (10)