The Stats

We went to the doc today, twice. Due to their mess-up (I scheduled these appointments at 3 and 3:15 in MARCH), the Wee One went at 2:00, then I had to go get the Biggie at school and bring her back at 3:15.

The Wee One enjoyed her appointment immensely. She stripped off all her clothes and was allowed to remain that way, IN PUBLIC, for 45 minutes! Heaven, as far as she was concerned. Plus she got to show off her jumping and mega-climbing skills. We finished on time, I zoomed down the hill and got to the Biggie’s school at 3:00—excellent!

Except that the Husband had her booster seat in his car. Thought for half a risky second about driving without it, then called the husband and got him to drive the booster downtown. Will buy new booster for other car this weekend.

We were only ten minutes late. The Biggie was fine until they went to take her temperature. “DO NOT PUT THAT IN MY EAR! IT WILL HURT!” she screamed at the bewildered, kindly nurse. There was a similar reaction when they wanted to test her hearing. “Don’t worry, the doctor will talk to her,” the nurse assured me as she left us in the airless, rapidly shrinking room. I was sweating bullets—I know my daughter better than she does. The funny, grandfatherly doctor whom we all love entered the room. The Biggie showed him how she could jump and stick out her tongue and list words that begin with the letter “A.” Then he took out the ear-looker. “NO!” her face contorted into a demonic scowl and she covered her ears. He tried telling her there were butterflies in her ears (a bit amateurish, I thought). He let her put it in her ear herself. He let her put it in HIS ear, and look for the butterflies (“They have blue and yellow spots!” he exclaimed. “I do see them,” she replied.) Then he tried to look in her ears again. “NO! NO! NO!” I melted into my seat. “Is this…an extreme reaction?” I asked. “Well, yes, I would definitely say that,” he replied as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “You need to make sure she doesn’t think she can take control of everything in this way.” I sank further into the chair. He left the room for a moment. I used the opportunity to attempt a bribe: performance of hearing check in exchange for apple pie at the Rarely-Visited Golden-Arches-Type Heathen Fast Food Restaurant. An extremely rare tactic, the Outright Bribe; even more rare, the heinous and despicable Junk Food Bribe. I don’t believe I have ever used that one in such a bald manner, to tell the truth.

So of course when he came back, the first thing she did was tell him about it. If I could get lower in the chair, I would actually be under it, licking used gum off the seat.

He tried again to look in her ears, and was visibly frustrated with her anxiety. Man, if a professional is having a hard time, shouldn’t I feel good about how I deal on a daily basis? Or maybe this guy is just easily flustered. I mean, she wasn’t even pulling out all the stops.

I could have forced her to do it, of course—held her down and threatened punishment if she didn’t stop whining, but the doctors have always seemed so unwilling to cause any trauma. I was following their lead. I am never sure what to do in these cases—I mean, do they really NEED to see the blue and yellow butterflies?

When he finally left the room, sweating bullets, I helped her get her sneakers on. I offered her one more try—ears for pies. She said resignedly, “Oh, ok,” and immediately tried to bargain for a new My Little Pony as well. (Request denied.) And then she did it for the nurse with only one or two squeaks. ARGH!

Wee One: At two years, 23.6 pounds and 32 inches. Biggie: At five years, 38 pounds and 42 ¾ inches.

Why Do I Try To Take Them Shopping?

Highlight of trip to Kmart: Wee One pulling down her pants in the cart and yelling “Me Poo Poo!” at the top of her lungs, with bare tushy in the middle of the party supply section. Run to bathroom; false alarm.

Highlight of trip to Wegmans, directly following: Same procedure, this time in canned goods. During whirlwind zoom through the store I keep saying, “Just hold it in, we’re almost there, wait until we get to the bathroom,” to which the Wee One keeps replying with her favorite new word, “Why? Why? Why?”

Upon return to the Quistilton Ranch, Wee One insists upon walking around the house with her pants around her ankles, eating a banana.

Why?

All Hail the Wee One!

I have mother-guilt because I don’t publish the sorts of obsessively detailed, isn’t-my-child-amazing posts about the Wee One as I did about the Biggie. But then I realize that it is her own fault, since her relentless quest for self-destruction is what keeps me from my keyboard. She is amazing in her own way, and for the sake of efficiency, let’s adopt a list format. Keep in mind that she will be two on Sunday, and is the size of many twelve-month-olds:

She can climb up (and down) the ladder of the bunk bed. (“Me kime buck bed!”)
Since she was 20 months old she has been, for all intents and purposes, potty trained.
She has a sixth sense regarding the location of any knives, scissors, open containers of liquid, and anything which could cause a stain. This is uncanny and applies to households other than our own.
She hangs and swings from perilous heights off the side of play structures, dropping herself to the ground below. The first time I saw this trick, I thought she was falling.

And so on.

I remember when we moved to Ithaca and first hit the local playground scene. I met a boy who was the same exact age as the Biggie (then dba Toddlerita). The Toddlerita and I watched him, she clutching my hand, as he clambered over the monkey bars, swooped down the slide, and generally kept himself elevated six feet in the air, in constant motion. I threw dirty looks in the direction of his neglectful mother, who was chatting calmly as her child hurtled about. Why wasn’t she spotting him? He could fall and break his neck! I gently supported the Toddlerita’s rear as she clutched the railing and took the steps one at a time up to the slide, which she would not go down. Ahh, remember those days?

Now I know why that woman was so unconcerned. I know that she was so far beyond being able to control his movement that she had come to terms with the sheer impossibility of the task, and had let go, attaining a zen-like state of mothering. She was not standing under him, holding her breath, because she knew that he probably wouldn’t fall—he was that good, that astoundingly coordinated. And I have a feeling that he was also a grocery cart stander, and a couch-to-coffee-table leaper. And that she, like me, probably smiled graciously at gaping passersby as her child squealed and flailed like an angry, acrobatic demon-pig whenever she DID try to restrain him.

Happy almost-birthday, my dear Wee One. I am posting this now because you are asleep, and lord knows when you will allow me to write again.

So it has happened: The Biggie has started kindergarten. I have such seesawing, ambivalent feelings on this subject. On the one hand, YEEHA! Less work! Less guilt about not responding to her every intellectual query! Etc, etc. On the other hand, YIKES! My baby is with relative strangers for thirty hours a week! My baby is riding, UNSEATBELTED, in a bus with twenty other screaming (and bigger) kids! What about her fear of imaginary violent play? What if she can’t get her overalls unstrapped when she has to go to the bathroom?

For the first two days, I put her on the bus, rode to the school to meet the bus and bring her to her classroom, and did the reverse at the end of the day. On the first day, the bus actually beat me home. Can you imagine that—me huffing and puffing with the Wee One behind me in the little bike seat, dying of humiliation when I was NOT THERE TO MEET MY CHILD OFF THE BUS ON HER VERY FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL. Many caring friends and relatives having convinced me that this is a sappy, ridiculous gesture, I put her on the bus this morning, stayed home, and am now waiting for her to arrive. She is ok with this, I think. I’m not sure if I am.

She has some concerns. She is worried that they are not learning anything—I think she thought she would already know how to read books by now. On Friday, when we were walking home (because she decided NOT to ride the bus that day), she started sniffling. Ah, here it is, I thought—the expected mental breakdown, the stress and trauma of it being just too much time away. “I missed you all day,” she said through tears. “I know, honey, is that why you’re crying?” I patted her on the back. “No—I’m crying because I can’t go back to school for two whole days!” She likes being so big, and buying chocolate milk at lunch (though I don’t think she drinks it). And she likes sitting at the peanut-free table with her allergic friend.

On the whole, I think it is a good thing, though we are all going through adjustments. The Wee One is having the worst time of all of us, I think—she’s just not used to being alone with boring old me. All day long, it’s “Me go, see Biggie at Biggie’s park!” (That’s what she calls the playground at school.) She calls for her as she falls asleep for her nap, and the first thing she says when she wakes up is “Biggie COME HOME!”

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So she comes home, and what’s the first thing she says? “Kindergarten is AWESOME! I want to ride the bus EVERY DAY!”

An era is over.

Kindergartner Question of the Day: "Which is more brave, bees or rain?"