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 i