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The Wisdom of Seuss

An occasional selection for my nightly bedtime reading with L is One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. She sits on my lap, commenting on pictures, asking with every pause, “Turn the page?” We make our way slowly through the book — it’s not one we read often and she can’t recite any passages from rote as I read, like she can with Fox in Socks or Green Eggs and Ham.

I’m always taken aback at the appropriateness of the ending:

Today is done.
Today was fun.
Tomorrow is another one. …

If we could only keep that in mind daily.

Hit or Miss Language

At school, everyone is “Miss.” Miss Karen. Miss Cathy. Miss Deborah. Miss Brenda.

Miss Cathy — L’s favorite — works in Toddler I. L no longer sees her on a daily basis, but her eyes light up when she sees Miss Cathy coming.

Miss Karen, Miss Deborah, and Miss Brenda work in Toddler II, where L spends her days now.

I wondered whether L thinks “Miss” is just part of their name, but it’s become obvious that L has separated the “Miss” from the name. She understands it as a prefix, but she still doesn’t understand its significance. It’s a term she uses with individuals she really likes.

Hence, I am often “Miss Tata” now. K is “Miss Mama.” Our cat, “Miss Bida.”

No!

Power outlets, books, and CDs are the only things we really say “No!” to with the girl. Oh, and plants and hot things and climbing on the stairs and so on. And the cat, when we had a cat. (He ran away some weeks ago. Some say he’s supposed to come back any day now.)

No!

Still, it’s the forbidden that’s attractive.

(I’m sure it didn’t help to send mixed messages by saying “No!” and taking the picture. But I just happened to have the camera and couldn’t resist.)

Fortunately, there are plenty of things in the house to hold her attention.

Curious

Landmines

When the Girl is being put to sleep, she sometimes gets angry. Scratch that — furious. She can howl and scream and whimper endlessly when I’m the one trying to put her to sleep instead of K.

I usually just wait her out. She’ll literally scream and push and wiggle and cry until she literally passes out. While she’s doing this, I simply walk around the apartment, holding her close, and whispering sweetly (or as sweetly as I can manage while every last nerve in my body is being assailed simultaneously). There comes a time when she’s crying, then whimpering, then crying, then tumbling quietly toward sleep — until something disturbs her and reminds her, “Oh, yes, I am indeed irritated.”

That’s when toys can become landmines.

DSC_8934There are two beeping, flashing, musical toys that are particularly deadly. In one of them (a caterpillar that plays about four songs and flashes lights where one wouldn’t think caterpillars would have lights) has expired: the batteries are dead, and gosh darn it, I just can’t seem to remember to replace them. Touch it and it begins a loud, loud, loud symphony.

The porcupine is not much better. Give it a kick (as I did last night) and it begins talking to you. Nothing too intelligent, but you wouldn’t expect physics from a porcupine.

Last night, I kicked it dead center. I’m not sure which woke L: my sudden, frustrated gasp, or the porcupine.

Swimming, Redux

The video is fixed — don’t know why it wasn’t playing, but I just re-“compiled” it and it seems fine.

Update: Some folks tell me the video stops halfway through. I give up on this one…

Swimming II

We’ve been taking L to swimming lessons at the local YWCA. Within a few weeks, we’ve gone from calmly moving her about the pool (“Dig, dig, dig! Kick, kick, kick!”) to dunking her under water after blowing in her face. She doesn’t much like the former, and the latter sets her to screaming more often than not. The instructor suggests that it’s the water running down her face when we pull her back up that upsets her.

Still, we take her regularly and follow the instructor’s advice, on the hopes that it’s the unfamiliarity of it all that is bothering L.

There’s a progress report at YouTube.

Potty Training

Few things in life are more of a milestone for a child than to learn how to use the toilet. There’s tons of advice about when and how to begin. “Most children show signs of readiness to begin using the toilet as toddlers, usually between 18 months and 3 years of age,” writes one site. It continues,

These signs include staying dry for at least 2 hours at a time, having regular bowel movements, being able to follow simple instructions, being uncomfortable with dirty diapers and wanting them to be changed, asking to use the potty chair, or asking to wear regular underwear. You should also be able to tell when your child is about to urinate or have a bowel movement by his facial expressions, posture or by what he says. If your child has begun to tell you about having a dirty diaper you should praise him for telling you and encourage him to tell you in advance next time.

Well, L can’t communicate yet, and in fact she’s just learned how to sit up on her own. That doesn’t mean she can’t use a potty chair already. How do we know? Because she’s successfully used the chair several times.

Is this real “potty training”? I do indeed think so — we’re giving her an alternative to dirty diapers from an early age, and we’re showing her how “grownups” do it.

The key is knowing when she usually relieves herself. BMs are the easiest, because she announces it clearly and well in advance. But at least two times, we’ve sat her on the potty chair after eating when she wasn’t showing any signs, and within a few moments, she made use of the chair.

Our hope is that this will make “real” potty training more manageable. We’ll see in a few months…

Limits and Liquids

We went to visit family yesterday. This meant a lot of time in the car, which meant, for L, a lot of time in the car seat.

We discovered, much to our surprise, that L doesn’t really like the car seat as much as tolerate it. Imagine — she doesn’t like being strapped into a virtually immovable position for hours on end.

We think liquids might help, because she seemed to cry much less violently during that last hour when she was working on a bottle of tea.

In Poland, in summer, potatoes — those ever-present tenants of the Polish table — are always served with fresh dill. All told, I had to scrape of pounds of it during my years there, and no one could understand that I just don’t like the stuff.

“Tea!? You give your 5-month-old tea?” I can just hear the voices now. Well, to call it “tea” is really a stretch. It’s a special granulated herbal concoction J brought from Poland with her. It’s made specially for infants, and it’s made from dill and aniseed. To my nose, it stinks like the dickens, because I don’t like either one. But the girl likes it, and it eases her stomach, and it will undoubtedly ease time in the car.

After all, K and I buy green teas for the road. Why shouldn’t she have something to drink to?

Maybe it’s just one of those paradigms you slip into when your baby is breastfed. Additional drink is like additional food — unnecessary. What we’re learning is that that is only true — duh — for the first four or five months.

Subtle

When I was in Poland, I eventually reached a point in my linguistic development at which I understood everything going on around me. It wasn’t fluency, because in any given sentence there might be one or even two words I didn’t know, or couldn’t immediately place, but I learned that understanding 100% of the language doesn’t mean understanding 100% of the words spoken.

Once I reached that linguistic milestone, it felt I’d always been at that point. It felt like I’d always been able to understand everything, even though I knew it wasn’t the case. Like swimming and reading, understanding Polish was something I couldn’t remember what it was like not to be able to do. (What an awful example as a teacher I’m setting with that sentence! And this one…)

Today, we went to see my cousin and her recently-adopted baby. The little girl — S — is six weeks. She’s about a pound heavier than L when she was born. And I looked at that little girl, her eyes still mostly closed, and I couldn’t imagine L being that size. I know she was. We have the pictures to prove it. But, as with the language, I just feel she’s always been this size; that she’s always been able to hold her head up; that she’s always been able to look around, to smile, to cry from boredom, to giggle, to coo.

And then, a little voice: “That is how you’ll wake up one morning and realize she’s going off to college and for a brief moment, feel complete unprepared for it, and feel she’s completely unprepared for it.”

It’s not quite synonymous with “taking for granted,” but it’s awfully close.

And I think that’s one reason why I’m trying so hard to write in this silly blog so often. To mark the lines of development; to make a record for later — to make an online baby book.

Besides, what else am I going to write about in my newly realigned universe?

Cut!

L’s had a lot of hair since she was born. Recently, we decided that it had grown too long — at least the little lock that was swooping down into her eyes.

First step: wet the hair and get it standing up — as Elmo looks on…

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Next: cut it. Given L’s propensity to jerk suddenly when a flash fires, I didn’t actually get a shot of that.

Finally, comb it.

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And in the end, she looks like one of those wet-hair-look Euro-trash boys (and I say that with tongue firmly in cheek).

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All she needs now is a tracksuit and she’d fit in perfectly at any Polish soccer match…