So This Is What Happened

“Christmas” morning, she woke the same time as usual. “Mama, is it daytime?” I hurried down the hallway, eager for holiday fun. “Yes, it’s daytime.” “Oh. Read me a story.” “Uh, ok.” I read “Toot and Puddle” while she played with her blue teddy bear. Keep in mind that when I was three, by this time of the morning I would have already knocked down my parents’ door several times, leading them to threaten to take away my toys before I even opened them. Actually, now that I think about it, by this time of the day, we were usually done opening presents altogether, and had passed out on the living room floor from Christmas Bloat.

Eventually...”Mama, can we go downstairs? Maybe Santa came.” “Yeah, maybe.” We meandered down. “If he came, I will be speechless when I see my stocking like Laura in ‘Little House,’ I think.” She stopped and looked under the tree. “There are new presents here, wrapped in the paper we sent to Santa,” she said thoughtfully. “My name is on them.” She looked at the presents for a few moments, chewing her lip. “Where do you think your stocking is?” I asked. She clutched my leg and looked around. Together, we shuffled into the next room, where I had artfully laid the stuffed stocking the night before (after downing Santa’s cider--which she hadn’t wanted to leave for him because “it might make him have to pee.”). She was, indeed, speechless.

I think Santa has redeemed himself.

Merry Christmas. Christmas is really on Saturday for us this year, since Grandma and Grampa W (“dubbidu”) are arriving today, aka “Christmas Eve.” So yesterday didn’t really feel like Christmas, and the family members certainly weren’t acting like it was the most exciting holiday of the year. The three-year-old was whining for more “Wee Sing”--she won’t watch Frosty or Rudolph, apparently because they are too frightening. The wee, wee one had no idea; she’s happy any day of the week. And all I wanted for Christmas was my coffee. Fortunately the kind neighbors across the street took pity on us and invited us to their Hannukah party, so there we were, the lonely Christians* on Christmas. But it was fun. From an outsider’s point of view, Hannukah seems to involve excessive chocolate, excellent food, wine, and lovely candles. All good, in my opinion.

When we realized we’d be spending Christmas in Ithaca, the first thing we did was get a tree. I sent the Husband and the Toddler out on the mission, certain they’d be up to performing the task. They returned with a plastic-wrapped evergreen torpedo. “Did you look at it before they wrapped it up?” I asked. “It came that way!” Charles exclaimed. “No mess in the car!” He cut the plastic off, and brown needles showered the floor. “We’ll just turn this side to the wall,” he said, looking at the dun-colored branches. “Let’s put the lights on!” the toddler yelled, jumping around in circles. I was trying to remember the last time I changed the battery in the smoke detector. Fortunately the risk of fire was reduced because there are enough lights to cover just half of the tree. We could only reach some of the Christmas decorations because the pile of boxes in our storage unit has the structural integrity of Swiss cheese, so roughly the top third of the tree is covered with ornaments. This works out well since Astronaut has decided it is her objective to rip down everyornament within her reach. We keep finding slightly damp gingerbread soldiers under the couch, and each night I fall asleep to the sound of glass balls skittering on the floor. My dear sweet child, feeling that she can negate millions of years of feline evolution, shrieks at Astro whenever she finds her with yet another quilted snowflake in her mouth. Astro herself is doing her best to break out of the carnivore bracket, eating the lower branches of the tree bit by bit.

I feel like there’s some sort of wise, thought-provoked statement I should make on the true nature of Christmas, a revelation I’ve had while pondering the twinkling lights, half-baked tree and the real priorities of my toddler. But the two brain cells I have to rub together aren’t up to such a task, so I’ll spare you the melodrama (and I’m certain you’ll thank me).

Merry Christmas.

*Charles would like me to point out that calling him a “Christian” is certainly a stretch of the imagination.

Overheard in the Kitchen: "No, no--erasers do not eat cows."

**************************************************************

Toddlerita Mindworks--A Special Holiday Edition

So it's Christmas Time, and all of the little children are bursting with excitement. They can't wait to meet Santa Claus at the mall and ask him for that special something; they're counting down the days until they pounce upon their stockings and open dozens of gifts under the glittering tree.

Not in our house.

"Do you want to write a letter to Santa Claus?" I asked last week, remembering fondly the pink-scribbled construction paper missive from last year, in which Santa was very politely asked for a purple reindeer. "No!" she said, as horrified as if I had threatened to burn her Elmo slippers. "Well, uh, wouldn't you like to ask him for some toys?" "NO! I have enough toys! I already got a blue teddy bear this year!" (Thank you, Auntie Hilma!) "Well, what will Santa put in your stocking when he comes to Grandma's house?" "I do not want him to come to Grandma's house!" OK, great, I am thinking to myself. The kid clearly has some issues, but at least she's not materialistic! But then I got to thinking from the toddlerita's point of view. Why the heck would she not want new toys?

We had been seeing Salvation Army bell-ringers when we were out and about, and, seeing an opportunity to instill some good values, I'd been explaining that some folks don't have as much as we do. They need other people's help to get warm clothes and food. I had broached the idea of giving away some of the toys and books that she didn't play with anymore, so we could share with kids who don't have as much as we do. She didn't think much of that idea, so I dropped it, thinking we could just wait until after Christmas when she already had the new toys.

Hm. Salvation Army ringers wear Santa hats, don't they? Hm. "Do you think that Santa is going to take your old toys when he comes on Christmas?" I asked. "NO! No! I do NOT want Santa to come take my toys!" Bingo. "Sweetie, Santa is not going to take your toys away." "I DO NOT WANT SANTA TO COME! NO!" "I know, darling, he's not GOING to take your toys. He's going to bring you new toys. You don't have to give the old ones away unless you don't want to play with them anymore." "NO!" And on and on.

Things are getting better, maybe. She came downstairs yesterday dressed in the Wee One's rainbow-striped sweater, hat and mittens, with little red elf slippers on her feet. "I am Santa Claus," she announced. "That must be what he wears on his day off," I replied, peering over the newspaper. "You are Comet, and my little sister is Rudolph. Papa is an elf." We made wrapping paper at a friend's house, and she suggested that we send it to Santa Claus at the North Pole so he could use it. "To wrap your presents?" I asked. "No," she said, looking at me warily. Ah, well. There's always next year. Perhaps by then she'll forget that her killjoy mother told her that Santa the Evil Elf was coming to take away all her toys.

"Mama, I have a secret for you." What could it be? A explanation for the daily demand for a bowl of yogurt which she never eats? The REAL reason why she won't go near a potty? She comes up to me and pushes aside my hair gently, cupping my ear. "Pss, pss, pssssss," she murmurs. "Psss, pssss!" I sit back and look at her bemusedly. "Is that it?" "Yes, that is my secret!" she exclaims as she does a wiggly happy dance.

A friend of mine has a 20-month-old who has recently developed a certain affection for two stuffed animals, a lion and a polar bear. They both roar, and he is still figuring out his pronunciation. So he croons, "Whore, whore" when he wants them.

Question of the Day: "Mama, what is it that looks like a bat but eats beef?"

It is Girl Scout Cookie time, and ours were delivered yesterday by the local dealer, Julia. "Sorry our house is so messy," I said automatically as I opened the door. "No worse than mine," she replied cheerily. I'm sure her mom, standing back by the street so as to let Julia handle the transaction "on her own," was thrilled. ("Don't go into the strange people's house, dear.") We got a box of Pinatas (strawberry and frosting!) for the toddler, and two boxes of coveted peanut butter patties which I did not intend to share. "What are THOSE cookies?" she asked, as I whisked them out of her sight. I frantically searched my mind (whoo, not much there) for an answer. "Those are...are grownup cookies, and they taste like DIRT." "And coffee," Charles added helpfully. "Plus they are very spicy." "Yes," I said, "They are dirt-spicy-coffee cookies! Yuck!" I exclaimed, as I bit into one sweet circle of joy. "Blech!" cried Charles as he chewed. I don't think she was fooled.

Quote of the Day: "Large for the omelette, that's what I always say. Large for the omelette."

(No, we have no idea where this comes from. When asked, "Large what?" the Toddlerita replied, "For the omelette!")

Quote of the Day, actually from last week: "We are all calabazas (Spanish for "pumpkins") and our intestines are two candles."

2:59 pm: BOTH OF MY CHILDREN ARE ASLEEP, AND NEITHER ONE OF THEM IS ON OR IN MY BODY!

What am I going to do with this time? Laundry? Dishes? Dusting? NO. I am sipping cocoa. I am writing. I am experiencing life as it was BEFORE. I am waiting to hear the inevitable...ah, there it is. The cooing of the wee, wee one. Back to reality.

Toddlerita Mindworks

When asked why she cannot put on her shoes by herself, which she has done many times before: "I have run out of shoe power. When you put them on, I will have shoe power again."

A snapshot, 5:30 pm today: the big one is naked, the little one is naked. One is wrapped in a blanket on my chest, the other is lying on a sheepskin, pretending to be a lamb. Charles is not expected home for four more hours. ("Mama Ewe, where is the Ram?") I am placing bets with my other personalities (spawned by sleep deprivation) as to which of my offspring will pee first. Fortunately for my neighbors, I am fully clothed, though my shirt sports a healthy coating of spit-up and flour (We have been making bread. If you had two children alone all afternoon and evening, of course you would decide to MAKE BREAD FROM SCRATCH, wouldn't you? Especially when one of the children needs to nurse approximately every 20 to 45 minutes, and the other needs help changing "Bride" costumes every five.). Might I add that I am also making dinner at this time? A lovely meal of steamed broccoli, lentil soup, rolls, tofu-kan and chicken. From this expansive spread, the toddler eats the inside of one roll. ("I do not want lentil soup! The Tofu-Kan is too hot for me! I want orange juice!") I slurp lentils over the babe's head as I jiggle her. Only two hundred and twelve more minutes until Charles gets home!

P.S. I saw the unchivral librarian on the street today, and gave him a very hard glare.

All of a sudden, the Toddlerita can write her name and draw surprisingly proportional pictures of people. She also knows the days of the week, in order. Those school folks sure know what they're doing.

She comes in this morning, dressed in a tutu with matching headband and slippers. "I am a bride. Let's go on our honeymoon." "Where are you going on your honeymoon?" Charles asks. "The hospital." "OK, why don't you go downstairs and go to the hospital, then come back up when you're done there." (This technique is known as "hitting the toddler snooze button.") "OK." Thump, skip, thump down the stairs, and back a few minutes later. She has a doll stuffed in her shirt. "I have to tuck in my belly. It is very big." She pulls the doll out, and states, "This is a little sister for my little sister." I guess that works because she said first she was going to marry me, then Charles.

The Wee One smiled at me today. She currently smells overpoweringly of garlic, because I was holding her as we ate out today and dripped pizza runoff on her head. I'll be eagerly awaiting that Parent of the Year award! She has outgrown the first set of baby clothes and diaper wraps, and is working on holding up her head. She gives a small yodel of glee when she sees the Venetian blinds in my bedroom. I think she is going to be either a Nobel physicist, or an Olympic sprinter. But no pressure, kid.

Sleep deprivation, bah! I stare at you in the face and laugh at you!

Mom of Two, Part One

It starts at 2 am. The wee, wee one wakes. Nurse nurse nurse, burp burp burp. Change diaper. Sneakily, she pees during the split second that I'm taking the old diaper off and putting the new diaper on. In the middle-of-night grogginess, I have forgotten to put a waterproof pad down on the bed. Wet outfit, wet bed. I put the pad down, put the new diaper under her, and when I have the wet outfit halfway off, she starts to poop. She finishes (so I think), and I clean her off, go to put a new diaper on...and she poops on the waterproof pad while I'm getting the new diaper. Need new waterproof pad--trek downstairs holding snorfling baby (spits up on shoulder and new outfit halfway down stairs) and three dirty diapers. Shuffle to diaper pail, shuffle to baby bureau, shuffle back upstairs. New outfit on, baby wants to nurse again, it's now 3 am. She enters "quiet alert" state, which is the sweetest time--big shiny alien eyes open, cooing, tiny hands waving like she's swimming in air. We worship each other for a while, then it's 3:45. Nurse nurse nurse, burp burp burp, diaper change (no casualties this time), nurse, she falls asleep and I start to drift off. It's 4:30. "Mama," I hear from down the hall. "Mama, is it daytime?" Tuck baby into bed. Shuffle down hall and crawl into bed with less wee one. "Mama, read me a story!" "It's not daytime yet." "Why are the birds awake?" I listen--the birds are, indeed, awake. I read one, only ONE, story, and then we settle in for a cuddle and a nap. The door creaks open. The male member of the family is standing there, holding the wee wee one, who is noisily gnawing her fist. I smile blearily at them, as the nursing hormones are working their magic to put a positive spin on all this late-night family action. "I'm so, so tired," he says.

Chivalry Is, Indeed, Dead

Those of you who know me (and I think I can safely presume that no one else would be interested in this blog) know that I would classify myself as a feminist. If I were a famous feminist, Rush Limbaugh might even call me a Feminazi. So I am all for treating men and women equally, and I do not generally expect men to treat me "special" simply because I'm a woman. But you know, when you're nine months pregnant and carting a 30-pound toddler around, you generally expect people to be a little decent. It's a human issue, not a gender issue. After all, if I encountered a man who was nine months pregnant, I would certainly give him some respect.

So anyway, getting around to the point. Today has been one of those days. Those of you who have been this pregnant (I'm due in four days) will understand what I mean when I say I've hit the wall. I've been cheerful long enough (though Charles might disagree). It is high time for the wee one to exit her cozy nest in my midsection.

To stave off my random urges to shout at the belly, the Toddlerita and I went to the library. I had with me the only two potty books she will read--and which I firmly believe are absolutely the only reason she will even sit on the potty to "practice." These are very, very important books. I had already reached the renewal limit and wanted to check them in, then immediately check them out again. I asked the librarian if I could do this. "No, that would be called "renewing", and you have already REACHED the renewal limit," he said, snottily. "I understand that, but please look at these--they are very important books!" I replied, waving them in front of his face and pouring on the charm as much as someone with a squirming basketball in her shirt can. "Please," I said. "No, it is a library policy," he replied, as if the Word of the Lord had been laid down. "Obviously, you are not a parent," I murmured, and moved on. (And any of you who really DO know me are probably stunned I did not rip his head off. But I really didn't!)

Now, I have spent more than six years of my life working in libraries, and I know all about "library policy." "Library policy" is designed to keep people from abusing the system, and can be flexible with the breeze. For example, when I was working at the graduate library and a poor grad student came in who had lost and then found the periodical with $1.50 per day fine, erasing the $90 penalty and giving a stern warning not to let it happen again was not at all difficult, as my supervisor (who embodied "library policy") showed me. In my opinion, this guy should have renewed the books for me and counted it as his good deed for the day. It's not like "The Potty Book For Girls" is a New York Times bestseller with a waiting list of forty patrons.

But he wouldn't do it, and since I am grumpy but didn't have the wherewithal to take it out on him in person, I officially decree here that I hope his future children, should he have any, are dried apricot enthusiasts who are in diapers until grade school. And if he DOESN'T have children, may he blessed with an unpredictably incontinent dog.

There. I feel better now.

Out-of-the-Blue Question of the Day: "What kind of brains do horses have?"

She's a Quick Draw

This is the question I am greeted with when I go, bright and smiling, into my innocent child's bedroom yesterday morning. No "Good morning, Mama" no parental pre-caffeination in place, just a straight-up kaplowie: "Mama, you have an egg that is part of you like a chicken, right?" "Uhhh, yes." "And Papa has a spurn." "Mmmm, unh huh." "And they come together and make the new baby in your uterus." "Yep." "How?" "Uhhh, what was that?" "How? How do the egg and the spurn come together inside you?" She's not even three. I thought I had a few years before I had to answer this one. "They fly through the air!" cries Charles, helpfully. I of course have immediate visions of my child running through the mall, saying in her crowd-cutting voice: "Are there eggs and spurn in the air here, Mama? Are they going to make a baby?" "Love," I reply, and deftly change the subject.

There is still no name for the new Small Person, who has finally forced my body to assume the bearing of a small but sturdy whaling vessel. (The other day there was a man smiling goofily at me on the street. I smiled back at him, and he blurted out, "You're ready to pop! My dalmation is about to have puppies!") We are tossing about some old-fashioned family names but the toddler, long a proponent of "Jesse or Woody from Toy Story 2", has decided on "Snazzeola." So that's settled, I guess. Ladies and gentlemen, announcing the future President of the United States, Snazzeola Quistilton!

My little child has started preschool. I can tell that I have already been deemed "neurotic parent" by the lovely and accomodating teachers there. I stay the longest in the morning, and am the first to arrive in the afternoon. I spend the roughly four hours that she is there alone sweating bullets, trying not to call and ask if she has peed yet or if someone remembered to open the little plastic containers in her lunch.

I was a chaperone for the class field trip to a funky public art gallery downtown. "I need to pee," said a little girl who had wet her pants approximately twenty minutes beforehand. The bathroom request set off the herd instinct in the rest of the class, and we hustled to the back of the gallery with five or six others in tow. A teacher manned one bathroom while I stood in the other, trying to keep the kids from touching the mungy walls or picking up cigarette butts. A skinny Hip Young Thing came out of an adjoining room, smiling disdainfully with curled upper lip. "Do you mind? We're trying to have interviews in here." (Brief note: When you are in the ninth month of pregnancy and all of your clothes look like either tents or sausage casings, Hipness sends you into a panic. You want to shout, defensively, "I used to wear black! And spend time artfully placing product in my hair! I have unorthodox ear piercings! I am not just a breeder!") Do I MIND? What did she expect me to do, wrap their yabbering mouths and flailing limbs with duct tape? Let me add that we were INVITED to come to the gallery that day. What do you expect from a bunch of 3 to 6 year olds? I smiled and nodded, and she disappeared back into her lair, only to appear again while I had a forty-pound munchkin precariously balanced on my upraised leg so she could wash her hands at the sink. "We're having interviews in here," she stated in an exaggerated way, as if I did not speak English or was developmentally disabled. "We'll be done in a minute," I gasped with a smile, fighting the urge to smack her. (Not a good example for the kids! Must control rage!)

People like her remind me of the woman who recently wrote to the paper about a debate over whether to allow dogs on the Commons, a pedestrian shopping mall here in town. She pointed out that people were allowed to bring their children to the Commons, so it clearly followed that dogs should be welcome too. Because, you know, children also normally defecate and urinate on the ground, and run the risk of randomly attacking others. That is why you will see my new product, the "Kid Muzzle" for sale at a Babies R Us near you soon. Please note, I love dogs! This is not an attack on dogs, simply an acknowledgement that some people do not control their dogs, which, after all, are NOT PEOPLE! And children are, in fact, PEOPLE! *sigh.*

From the "Is this MY kid?" Department:

When asked if she wants some Cheez-Its for a snack, she replies, "No, I want something good for me instead."

Some of you who read the blog know that our lives have lately been consumed by the wonderful world of potty training. I refuse to detail the process here, out of respect for the future adolescent Toddlerita, but here are some tidbits:

Current urination avoidance record: fifteen hours. As a person in her third trimester who is known to indulge in caffeinated beverages, I am astounded.

In response to the desperate last-ditch promise of fabulous prizes for successful performance: "But I don't need a prize. You gave me a big treat yesterday." (Fyi, she now offers me and Charles prizes out of her box when we "perform.")

When asked what she plans to do since she refuses to wear diapers, and refuses to try the potty: "I will not poop or pee ever!"

As per doctor's orders (the second doctor we consulted--the first one helped us get into this mess), we have ceased and desisted all training operations. For all of you out there who have kids but haven't gone through this wonderful "learning process" yet, please do yourself a favor and read at least one good book dedicated to the subject BEFORE your child can (a) remove her own diaper (pinned on with "toddler-proof" diaper pins) and/or (b) has sufficient knowledge of human anatomy and physiological function to state, "I do not have a feeling right now. My bladder has no pee pee in it."

What We Did Today (Actually Sunday--this is a couple of days late!)

Today we went to the extremely cool National Women's History Museum, which is in nearby Seneca Falls (aka "Seneca Waterfalls"). The toddler wanted to dress up, so she picked out a neon green shirt covered with realistic pictures of bugs, which she topped with a green "dancing dress" decorated with a pink, purple and yellow batik pattern. On her feet she wore orange, yellow and white striped knee-highs and mid-calf black leather boots. Needless to say, she was the coolest-looking kid at the museum. This weekend is the anniversary of the first women's rights convention, and we got to see the former surgeon general, Antonia Novello, speak.

Charles got a child seat for his bike yesterday, and the kid absolutely adores it. While riding in it, she continuously sings "Bicycle Built for Two." (That is her favorite song after "Big River" by Johnny Cash.) Today they went to the P&C to pick up ice cream to go with the peach-raspberry crisp that was dessert. She has never had crisp before, and while she ate it, she stared at me with a dazed, glazed look on her face. Finally she slurped her spoon and proclaimed with a deep, satisfied sigh, "This is good." She spent the next fifteen minutes mixing up the vanilla ice cream with the leftover crisp. When I asked her what it was, she said "Magic." "No, what do you call it?" "Awesomes-Opums Pie." I had to ask her three times what she had said, and each time she pronounced clearly, "Awesomes-Opums Pie." Then when I asked her if she was done eating, she said, "Oh, I suppose not!" She only went to bed when her Papa promised he would eat the Awesomes-Opums Pie after she went to sleep.

Doesn't play well with others...but she can play them, all right.

So we're in the checkout line at the library yesterday, and the kiddo wanders over to two wire-and-bead toys which are thoughtfully placed right where bored kids need them most. She starts moving the beads around, organizing them in some esoteric way, when another toddler type zooms over and starts horning in on her board. She squeals and looks to me for assistance, but I only say, "Sorry, it's just like the park, we share all of the toys with other kids, here." She shoots me a withering, "Thanks a lot, Mom!" look, and turns back to the kid. I don't hear any more squeals, so I assume they've worked it out and I start reading my book jackets again. I can't help but be attuned to the murmurs of the Kid Channel, however, so when I hear another exchange I sneak a look back at the short people.

My dear sweet child is standing by the other toy, the one she didn't want to play with. She is fingering the beads eagerly, and talking to the kid. "Look Boy, it is very good! It is a very cool toy!" I watch, fascinated and slightly embarrassed at my daughter's grifting skills, as the boy is caught hook, line and sinker, and moves over to the "cool" toy. Satisfied, the bandit moves back to her original toy, and gets to work.

Yikes, time is flying by as we weave through the last trimester! The other non-womb-bound members of the family are currently out fixing the EGR valve on the car. I hate to seem so ignorant about car stuff (I'm normally not bad--ask me about my psychic transmission malfunction detection sense), but as far as I can tell, the express purpose of the EGR valve is to fail and therefore cause the check engine light to come on. We went with the "if we ignore it, it will go away," cure for a while, and were considering the Car Talk "electrical tape" cure, but finally decided to do the grown-up thing and actually fix our still-relatively-new car.

We all enjoyed visits from Auntie Jenn and Grandma and Grampa W. ("Dubbidu") last week. Unfortunately we did NOT capture photographic evidence of the grandparents lounging in the "red blood drop" ball pit at the Sciencenter, nor of Auntie Jenn's multiple athletic renditions of "Do, a Deer."

It is normal for older siblings to go through a period of adjustment to the new baby, and the toddler is already working on this. She has been pretending to be the new baby for a while, has a doll which she calls the new baby, etc. The newest trick, however, is to try on the new baby's clothes. Though she is over three feet tall and weighs 28 pounds, she can actually fit into some of them. The effect is that of a toddler-age Britney Spears, belly and all. She is still pushing for "Woody or Jesse" for a name, though Calliope (another one of the muses) may be deemed acceptable by Her Majesty. She is also "studying" for school, and learning to count: "eleven, twelve, sixteen, fourteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty!" Thirty is known as "twenty-ten."

The new small person is already a vivid presence in our lives. She spilled a cup of water which was resting on the belly. When her big sister talks to her, the baby stops moving, "listening" to her. Then she bursts into a flurry of Morse Code kicks once the talking stops. I am envisioning a future where they happily entertain one another for hours while I sip lattes and surf the internet. HA!

In line at Wegman's today, she started talking to the boy behind us. "Hey Boy, what's your name?" She told him when her birthday was, that she was going to be 3, we were buying medicine because she was sniffly, and her papa's name. "His name is Charles. It's spelled P-A-P-A."

It could only be so long after getting the TV set up before we exposed the toddler to that classic of great musical film--The Sound of Music. I vividly remember lying underneath the record player in the living room when I was about six years old, singing along with Julie Andrews at the top of my lungs. (The only other record I recall my parents owning is the soundtrack to "Goldfinger.") My sisters and I used to perform the songs for my parents in the kitchen, along with moving renditions of "Copacabana."

The obsession with cheesy musicals must be genetic, because the kid is clearly hooked. "Sing the picnic song!" she demanded in the car today, and then started in. "Do, a dee-ya, a female dee-ya--what's a dee-ya? Re, a drop of golden sun! Mi, one name I call myself! Fa, long long long way to run! Sol, a needle pulling thread, HA! Zuh (the) note to follow so...what does 'follow so' mean? Ti, a drink of jammon bread! What's next? What's next, Mama? SING IT! TOGETHER!" and so on. Her favorite song to watch was the goatherder puppet show for a while, but then she got scared of the part where the little girl blows fake beer foam in Julie Andrews's face, and now the entire scene is taboo.

Toddlerita Mindworks: (Toddlerita) "No no, don't kiss me!" (Mama) "Why not?" (T) "There is no love in it! There is no love in kisses--only in cuddling and hugs. Cuddle me!"

So, we hold off this long on setting up the TV (and yes, winter was FIVE MONTHS LONG). And what do we do today? Go to the library and check out eight movies. Most of them are "educational" though--including one about the skeleton, for the bone-obsessed in the family (that's the skeleton in our closet--OH!). We then actually ate dinner in front of "Toy Story." So our slide down the slippery slope of spoonfed entertainment is complete, in only 24 hours! Soon I'll be spending all my days in front of the tube with the shades drawn, sipping milkshakes while the toddler eats Cheez-puffs and our metabolisms slow to three-toed sloth speed. (I was once attacked by a three-toed sloth named Roscoe--maybe he was two-toed, I can't remember.)

OK, it's off to watch a National Geographic Coyote special! Ooh, the suspense!

The only problem with organic produce is that, very occasionally, you will look down at the yummy orange pepper you are eating and see a teeny, tiny slug crawling on it.

The blog site ate my last post (apparently, when it asks if you want to save, the saved item is hidden in some secret place, like that long hallway in the new Matrix movie where the door of light is), and so I have been fearing posting again. Yes, both Charles and Scott advised me to copy to a textfile. In a fit of technological hubris, I didn't. It was a funny post, but all my funny is lost right now, as the Toddlerita has entered a nap-free existence. She crawls around on my bed exclaiming "I am letting you rest, Mama! I am the good kid in the world!" (she doesn't quite understand "best" yet) while I try to sleep in the afternoons. Or she shoves her pointy little elbows into my chest and says "Keep me warm!" Since the wee person inside me is also at this time developing pointy little elbows while simultaneously causing me to gain approximately 9,000 pounds per month, my general mood at this time can be charitably described as grumpy.

The other kid news is that there is a great deal of potty talk going on. I don't mean she is developing the mouth of Lenny Bruce; she is just learning all about the wonderful world of elimination. And that is probably all I should say so as not to risk embarrassing her when she is 16. She is also teaching herself to read, which means I soon will not be able to ask her dad to go to W-E-G-M-A-N-S for I-C-E C-R-E-A-M. Speaking of which, I hear the call of the freezer now.

It is hard to argue with a kid who searches through the fridge in post-nap hunger and then says "We could have some canteloupe and then some toe food (Tofu-Kan) for a pretty good snack don't you think?" Especially since the kid's pregnant mama is sneaking a Coke and Nutella-frosted graham crackers for breakfast. (No one else is awake yet! They won't know!)

I have discovered the true purpose of blogging: Procrastination. I am a former heavyweight procrastinator, and only recently retired from the game. In high school, I started each and every history paper the night before it was due (apologies to Jim Bogue, but you probably already knew this). I did not gain wisdom with age, and my last week of college was spent frantically researching and spilling out three ten-page papers. I have one vivid memory from this time: a photocopy for my ancient comic theater paper (please, don't ask) of Harpo Marx performing the fishface move he called "Throwing a Gookie." (My apologies to my husband's Japanese ancestors.) I relented when it came time to write my M.Ed. paper last fall, and started to write in earnest TWO WEEKS before it was due. TWO WEEKS! The problem with this sensible approach was that I changed my topic three times and wrote approximately 20 extra pages of useless material. That's the thing about procrastination; when you wait until the last minute to write, everything comes out pure (or pure drivel, as the aforementioned Mr. Bogue could tell you).

The thing is, when you are a stay-at-home mom, there are no true deadlines to put off, because nothing ever gets done. You can't write "raise child" on a list and then start toying with it, thinking to yourself, "Well, I could put that off until after I sort my junk e-mail into three distinct categories." Plus, children aren't good candidates for procrastinatory activities, because they get exponentially more demanding, in a brainsplitting way, as time goes on. If you do not believe me, try preparing pasta (HOW SLOWLY CAN WATER BOIL?!?) for a shrieking toddler. Next time, you'll have string cheese and cold cuts on tap in the fridge, believe you me! And if you think an item like "laundry" or "neaten living room" is a finite task, let me drop off the Toddlerita and her companion, Astronaut the feline whirling dervish, for a few days.

But I miss the game. I miss the thrill of waiting until absolutely the last moment, then feeling that rush of energy as I rush about, slapping together a solution. So I create tension. I compose long lists of basic household tasks just for the purpose of crossing them off, and inevitably, I can't get them done. To be honest, I often *think* I will be able to finish them in a single day, and then the reality of life with the Toddlerita hits. For example, yesterday the list was "grocery shopping, drop off books at library, drop off Tupperware at Lucy's." I wrote this list at 8 am. Breakfast time passed, morphing quickly into snacktime after I got cocky and thought I'd scan the newspaper. Then there's diaper change, naked time (not for me, thank you!), pondering and ultimately refusing bath time, dancing to "Woody's Roundup" seven times, and we're finally out the door at 11:30. As any good primary caregiver knows, this leaves at MOST an hour and a half to accomplish all tasks, return home, and eat lunch before Inevitable Meltdown occurs. (This may appear to be a procrastination-worthy deadline, but the punishment of public toddler freakout is far greater than any late-paper penalty could ever be.)

We made it through Wegman's. (Stop by bakery, get free kid cookie, teach manners by having the toddler thank bakery staff, explain that upstate grocery chains don't carry meringue glacees like Eloise eats at the Plaza, look at lobsters and dead fish, teach number skills using produce scale, deflect and distract from requests for blue yogurt, gummi worm cupcakes, SpongeBob crackers, give in to request for "natural" brand of peanut butter cereal in which sugar is listed as third ingredient rather than store brand, where it is the second.) An hour and twenty-five minutes. Lucy is moving and didn't want her Tupperware right now anyway. I returned the books on my walk this morning.

But today I have a GENUINE goal: clean house before friend Melissa arrives! Of course, Melissa has a 70-pound salivating dog, and used to live with me, so her expectations are not high. My New England ancestry, however, dictates that a certain effort be made. An effort which can be put off. Which leads me to the Blog.

Hello hello! We have joined the 21st century and started blogging. This is the initial run!

My kid is lately fascinated with all the parts of the body, like bones, lungs, red blood cells, the digestive system, etc. She also likes to pretend to be different things, such as dogs or horses, and draws whoever is around into the role-playing. These two pastimes often combine with disturbing results, such that she will come up to me and say, "Mama Skull, what are you doing?" (I'm expected to call her "Baby Skull" when I reply.)

She continues to be excited about the arrival of her new sister, I think particularly because she knows it will be happening near her birthday. She thinks the baby is going to sing "Happy Birthday" to her "when it comes out of the belly." She no longer wants to name the baby after herself, and instead has settled on "Jesse" (the yodeling cowgirl from "Toy Story 2").

The newest arrival in the household is Ithaca Fishica, a beta which we are fish-sitting for a friend over the summer, and trying not to kill (the fish, not the friend). Kitty Astronaut, at six months old, is now the size of Sylvie and seems bent on keeping George's memory alive in the Monster Purring, Upholstery-Destroying and general Pain-In-the-Butt departments.