Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
"Lesson Learned"
Your Grandma G. whisked you away last evening to spend a few fall days with her and Papa And All The Animals. This email I received from her this morning:
Lesson 1- Do not present a new Fisher Price play set to a 2 AND A HALF year old in the late evening.
Lesson 2- Remove above mentioned play set from packaging unless prepared to shop for other sets shown on back of box.
Lesson 3- Do not think letting above mentioned 2 AND A HALF year old take set to bed will lead to sleep.
We made it home safe and sound after a delicious dinner at McDonalds. Lil' dude ate very well and was so polite, asking if I would like to share her food and never forgetting to say thanks. She also used the bathroom, big job at her own request. She fell asleep right before we hit the freeway and slept the rest of the way. I let her open the Little People camping set when we got home, loves it but had already slept too late and too long to be interested in a reasonable bedtime. She went happily at 10:10 PM with the pieces but was still playing at 11:10 PM, good thing the characters had sleeping bags so was then able to tuck all 3 girls in and had success in arriving at some sleep for all. She was so good but just wanted to play. I suppose the promise of tomorrow just doesn't mean anything to her yet. Today she plans to go shopping for a dog (featured on back of box) to take camping and Barbie could really use a friend her own size. She talked or sang the whole trip until she fell asleep.
This is not your first rodeo, little girl ... not your first rodeo!
Lesson 1- Do not present a new Fisher Price play set to a 2 AND A HALF year old in the late evening.
Lesson 2- Remove above mentioned play set from packaging unless prepared to shop for other sets shown on back of box.
Lesson 3- Do not think letting above mentioned 2 AND A HALF year old take set to bed will lead to sleep.
We made it home safe and sound after a delicious dinner at McDonalds. Lil' dude ate very well and was so polite, asking if I would like to share her food and never forgetting to say thanks. She also used the bathroom, big job at her own request. She fell asleep right before we hit the freeway and slept the rest of the way. I let her open the Little People camping set when we got home, loves it but had already slept too late and too long to be interested in a reasonable bedtime. She went happily at 10:10 PM with the pieces but was still playing at 11:10 PM, good thing the characters had sleeping bags so was then able to tuck all 3 girls in and had success in arriving at some sleep for all. She was so good but just wanted to play. I suppose the promise of tomorrow just doesn't mean anything to her yet. Today she plans to go shopping for a dog (featured on back of box) to take camping and Barbie could really use a friend her own size. She talked or sang the whole trip until she fell asleep.
This is not your first rodeo, little girl ... not your first rodeo!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
On Sharing
You suck at sharing.
There, I said it. And, so bluntly, I might add. But, it's the general attitude I have toward your new inability to share.
In social settings, I always wanted you to be fair- toward others and toward yourself. I've written before the way you gave in or expressed fear and trepidation in groups broke my heart. I knew it was a lesson you'd have to endure, and eventually you'd learn to handle groups of your peers. Up until mid-summer, you were the shariest-sharer there ever was, and it made me proud. You consoled your littles with packs of fruit snacks, trucks, blankets, and baby dolls.
Not anymore. You cry and throw real-live fits if your friends take what's yours- even when you're supposed to be sharing. Daddy and I have given you free reign on two items that can be off-limits for anyone but you, and that's your NaNa and your stuffed Beagle. Those are your lovies, and it doesn't make sense for you to have to share. You have clearance.
But you DO have to share everything else. Every last thing. This battle we fight with you is just so hard, plain and simple. It makes you so mad- and sad. Perhaps you don't understand. In the midst of the biggest, most vocal battles, you look at me with fury in your eyes, and total sadness. You ask me why? and it makes me swallow a big lump every time. I try explaining to you it's because that's the way humans are. We share with each other. We give what we can, and we delight in this. It's hard. You're two. I'm torn. But, we're navigating this season of your life together.
At the State Fair two weeks ago, you were gifted a yellow, stuffed monkey from some teenaged boy who handed it to you near the midway. It was a simple, sweet gesture and you were delighted.
Well, someone else we know was delighted too.
The monkey is a chintzy, cheap one, and one of 25 stuffed pals you own. You didn't need it in your life, but it was yours nonetheless. You cried and threw a fit when we asked if the Beagle could have the monkey forever. He already sleeps with two blankets AND a stuffed moose, so we knew how much he already loved this one.
You ran to your bed and grabbed Curious George for offering instead. You understood the concept, but that wasn't fair. You would have missed George by bedtime. We kept gently pushing the topic, and finally, you relented.
That's not Lil' Dude's new monkey. That's Beagle's. For his bed.
That's right! We encouraged. You're such a big girl to share.
It appears we're making baby steps in this endeavor ... puppy steps, but still.
I'm proud of you!
There, I said it. And, so bluntly, I might add. But, it's the general attitude I have toward your new inability to share.
In social settings, I always wanted you to be fair- toward others and toward yourself. I've written before the way you gave in or expressed fear and trepidation in groups broke my heart. I knew it was a lesson you'd have to endure, and eventually you'd learn to handle groups of your peers. Up until mid-summer, you were the shariest-sharer there ever was, and it made me proud. You consoled your littles with packs of fruit snacks, trucks, blankets, and baby dolls.
Not anymore. You cry and throw real-live fits if your friends take what's yours- even when you're supposed to be sharing. Daddy and I have given you free reign on two items that can be off-limits for anyone but you, and that's your NaNa and your stuffed Beagle. Those are your lovies, and it doesn't make sense for you to have to share. You have clearance.
But you DO have to share everything else. Every last thing. This battle we fight with you is just so hard, plain and simple. It makes you so mad- and sad. Perhaps you don't understand. In the midst of the biggest, most vocal battles, you look at me with fury in your eyes, and total sadness. You ask me why? and it makes me swallow a big lump every time. I try explaining to you it's because that's the way humans are. We share with each other. We give what we can, and we delight in this. It's hard. You're two. I'm torn. But, we're navigating this season of your life together.
At the State Fair two weeks ago, you were gifted a yellow, stuffed monkey from some teenaged boy who handed it to you near the midway. It was a simple, sweet gesture and you were delighted.
Well, someone else we know was delighted too.
The monkey is a chintzy, cheap one, and one of 25 stuffed pals you own. You didn't need it in your life, but it was yours nonetheless. You cried and threw a fit when we asked if the Beagle could have the monkey forever. He already sleeps with two blankets AND a stuffed moose, so we knew how much he already loved this one.
You ran to your bed and grabbed Curious George for offering instead. You understood the concept, but that wasn't fair. You would have missed George by bedtime. We kept gently pushing the topic, and finally, you relented.
That's not Lil' Dude's new monkey. That's Beagle's. For his bed.
That's right! We encouraged. You're such a big girl to share.
It appears we're making baby steps in this endeavor ... puppy steps, but still.
I'm proud of you!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Letter from Mama, v33
Fall makes me so nostalgic. It truly reminds me of high school, and it makes me ache for the simplicity of that season of my life. I love to listen to country music and remember bonfires, football games, dressing up for school activities, and being home. I know the same goes for your aunties, too, the girls I grew up with. We love to swap remembers with each other, and quiz each other on our 15-year-old selves. I perceive September as the real New Year's with its promise of everything new as summer leads itself to fall. There's such promise and wide open space for beginning again. You and I went to Target on Sunday morning, and quiet and spacious, I took you through the aisles of school supplies- showing you the things I would buy today. I love it. In three months, you'll be three years old. That went so fast. In three years from today, you'll be my big kindergartner, with brand new Nikes on and a backpack full of Mama's Target love. I'll lose sleep in August because I know how much you'll love it and how proud you'll make me. I'll have to face you experiencing things and handling life all on your own. How weird to think I won't be there to see you raise your hand, or help a classmate. My nostalgia will be in hyper-drive.
Speaking of country music, there are two particular songs on the radio currently that make me think of you. Anything Like Me by Brad Paisley is one. He sings about having a son, and wondering and reveling in how he'll be like him as he grows into a person. If you're anything like me, you'll have a crazy-scary memory and longing for your Grandma's. You'll love your handwriting and won't eat the crust of any pie, sandwich, or pizza. You'll have more casts, stitches, and surgeries than most boys. You'll like your water with lemon, and your beer out of a bottle. You'll love the music in your car way too loud, and carrying 11 lipglosses in your bag. You'll love Christmas your whole life, and wear hoodies until the cuffs fray away. If you're anything like me, you'll love buying old junk, and you'll make friends pretty quick. You'll read over 50 books a year, and write lists out like mad. You'll love your Mama's cooking and your Daddy's stories. You'll wear your heart on your sleeve, and cry when other people do. You'll grow into the very best woman who will always, always make her Mama proud. If you're anything like me.
The other song is by Taylor Swift, called Mine. The premise of the song is about finding the courage to rewrite history and give into love. It resonates with me because of one line, and one line only; You are the best thing that’s ever been mine. It's true. I've put my name on a lot of things in this world, but none compare to being your mother. I constantly thank my lucky stars for this opportunity trusted upon me.
Mama loves.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Maybe Later
Your current catch-phrase is, maybe later, next time?
Obviously, instead of telling you 'no', I soften the blow with a 'maybe later', or 'next time'. This is usually a response to, can I watch Tinkerbell again? Can I have another juice box? Can the Beagle sleep in my bed? I thought I was making a good choice as a parent.
Last night before bed, you and Daddy wrestled over a large booger in your nose- you abhor his efforts to keep your nasal passages clean. The battle ended with you going to sleep with everything intact in your nose.
This morning, when you were woken up, you gingerly felt around your nose, and mentioned the incident.
Daddy asked if you were ready to get that boogie out, and you sleepily replied, maybe later.
Obviously, instead of telling you 'no', I soften the blow with a 'maybe later', or 'next time'. This is usually a response to, can I watch Tinkerbell again? Can I have another juice box? Can the Beagle sleep in my bed? I thought I was making a good choice as a parent.
Last night before bed, you and Daddy wrestled over a large booger in your nose- you abhor his efforts to keep your nasal passages clean. The battle ended with you going to sleep with everything intact in your nose.
This morning, when you were woken up, you gingerly felt around your nose, and mentioned the incident.
Daddy asked if you were ready to get that boogie out, and you sleepily replied, maybe later.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
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