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| One unexpected benefit of having kids was that D and I each got our own mascot. Babygirl has always taken after D: chub of cheek, unsurpassed in gas production, stubborn as all get-out. Doodlebug, on the other hand, reflects my shyness around strangers, pointy chin, and worshipful attitude toward older sister figures. What is most marked is her complete disregard for others when she sleeps. Doodlebug and I share a queen-sized bed (D has been relegated to the spare room), and morning always finds her smack dab in the middle of the bed, with me either curled around her like a question mark or teetering off the edge of the bed. Several times a night, I pick her up and move her over a few feet, but it's a futile gesture--within 20 minutes I have a little bundle of blankets snuggling against my arm.
I know she's ready to get up for the day because she'll shimmy over to me and punch me in the boob until I wake up. She just stares at me with these huge liquid brown eyes and paws at me, waiting for me to open my eyes. It's like sleeping next to a baby deer with no manners. But I can't get too mad--when I finally wake up, she breaks out into this huge smile and rejoices by kicking her fat little feet.
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This is where Doodlebug really diverges from her older sister--Babygirl was fond of D and me equally, which is to say: meh. Babygirl liked us well enough, but it wasn't until later that she would keen and arch if she were placed in a stranger's hands, and that phase only lasted about two weeks. Doodlebug, on the other hand, has eyes (and clingy arms and legs) for only one person. Can you guess? Shall I show you my massive forearm, sinewed and striated by holding my Doodlebug all day long? She will tolerate her father for short bursts of time, but the instant she hears or sees me, she starts to wail and looks at me in supplication until I pick her up. I'm touched. I'm tired.
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Doodlebug's little teeth buds finally cut through a few days ago. It looks like someone crushed a pearl and strewed the crumbs on her gum. Unlike last time, I did not discover the teeth buds by hearing them scrape against the spoon as I was feeding. Not that my dental attentiveness has improved, it's that Doodlebug hates solid food. Babygirl gobbled it up from the first, but Doodlebug spits it out automatically, like a vending machine rejecting a wrinkly dollar bill.
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| I posted this on FB first, but then I thought it might be a nice palate-cleanser for those of you who are not on FB and really, really did not want to picture me in 1eather pants. Sorry about that.
You have been warned: Trader Joe’s organic strawberries are TERRIBLE. I don’t like to buy fruit at Trader Joe’s. Usually, their apples are mealy, their grapes are old and weeping brown juice, and their bananas are bound together in these fascist little bundles. (Okay, I admit I am one of those annoying people who break off individual bananas that look good to me instead of buying them in bunches. But I swear I can tell which bananas have little tarantula footprints on them, and I refuse to buy them.) But today, I just couldn’t bear one more trip to the produce market and I didn’t want to wait for the weekend farmer’s market. As any parent knows, each stop one makes on the errand chain exacts a great price. Each in-and-out of the car involves: ensuring all sippy and snack cups are topped up, portage of said cups, hoisting hefty children in car (often getting kicked in any number of tender spots—yes, women have many tender spots, both north and south), singing “Mama Look a Boo Boo” at full volume to entertain children, then hoisting hefty children out of car (tenders once again tenderized by small kicking feet), keeping track of hefty children and their cups at each errand stop, hoisting hefty children back into car…you get the picture. Lather, rinse, repeat. (Your kids may not be hefty but my girls are both 75th percentile for weight and feel as dense as osmium.) Anyway, so today I decided to save myself an extra trip and bought the strawberries at Trader Joe’s. I should have been tipped off by the fact that they were ORANGE. Even the seeds looked weird—all pronounced, as if they were tiny little goiters. I tried one when I got home and it was sour with an undertone of bitter. Sour with an undertone of sweet is like what you taste when nature has not yet ripened your friendly little berry. Sour with an undertone of bitter is like what you taste after a night of tequila shooters and bad judgment. UGH. Trader Joe’s has once again lured me in with enticements like seven varieties of all-natural string cheese! and then turned on me with the little orange horrors he calls “Organic Strawberries”. Friends, do not be fooled. | | |
| I don't know what came over me. One minute I was coloring and singing "Wheels on the Bus" with the girls, and the next minute I was fannying about in 1eather pants in front of a camera.
Perhaps I should explain.
This last pregnancy with Doodlebug was so different from my pregnancy with Babygirl. The first time around, I got a little pudgy. I didn't put on a ton of extra weight, just some uniform padding all over. I looked like a plush toy version of myself. And none of that nursing-as-weight-control business, my body held on to the fat--the better to manufacture this, I suppose. The extra weight didn't start to come off until I weaned Babygirl, although I got pregnant again right away so who can tell where Babygirl ends and Doodlebug begins.
Anyway, this time around, that spontaneous cocktail that is my hormones has decided to pare the weight off even though I am so hungry that I am eating anything that is not nailed down. I don't know how long I have until The Hormones realize what's been going on and start packing on the hibernation fat again, so in the meantime I am busting out what little remains of my pre-pregnancy skinny wardrobe.
I don't have much left--after Babygirl was born and I was sure the fat was here to stay, I gave most of my pre-pregnancy skinny clothes to the supercute and svelte Cindy. But today while the girls and I were playing in the nursery, I noticed that there was a forgotten stash of clothes in Babygirl's closet. Babygirl paused, crayon in the air, as I pulled my old 1eather pants out of the closet. "Shiny pants!," she enthused. Hmm, I wondered to myself. Could I still fit these? Does it even behoove me to try them on? After all, I am getting pretty old. Just trying these on could put me in Cougar territory. But am I really the same size I was during my swinging single days? I must know. There was only one thing to do: pants on, dignity off.
They fit! Provided I didn't need respiratory function. I was a sight to behold, and I mean that in the worst way possible. With the two little girls sitting at my feet and eyeing me with chagrin, I looked like a single mother on the prowl. Which is doubly bad because I am neither a single mother nor on the prowl. All I needed was a pack of smokes and a head full of double entendres.
As I was trying to squeeze my thumb under the waistband to unbutton the pants, I realized that I was standing directly in the path of Babygirl's video monitor camera. As some of you know, these video monitors have come under fire because neighbors can sometimes pick up the camera images; theoretically, a stranger could watch your child sleeping. Well, I think I solved that problem. No one is going to tune in again after watching an old lady try to shove her flab into 1eather pants. Either that or they are going to post the footage on youtube, with a raspy voiceover: "Smoke 'em if you got 'em!"
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| Ah, those delicious first five minutes after the kids have gone to bed. I stretch and loll like a cat in a sunsplash, finally able to do all the things I've been waiting to do all day: eat my dinner using both hands, watch TV, pee without two little inquiring faces peering in the door.
But sometimes those five minutes are cut short when I realize that the floor is coated in a thin layer of toys and books and other kiddie detritus. Then I have to clear up the mess before I can relax. Today, however, I decided to take a look around and see all the disorder as evidence of my happy, messy life.
-Babygirl's little green Crocs were halfway up the hallway. Babygirl had kicked them off in eager haste because she and D had brought me home an ice cream cone and she wanted to be sure I shared some ice cream with her.
-D's pile of clean laundry had been tampered with. Today I was folding laundry and Babygirl sauntered over to ask her usual, "What you doing?" I offered to teach her how to help me fold laundry and you would have thought I had offered to teach her alchemy to turn everything into cotton candy. She pounced on the jumble of D's t-shirts and boxers and started to mash them up with her hands. "No no, sweetie, like this," I showed her how to fold D's boxers in half. She picked up a pair and held them up--not that D wears giant bloomers or anything, but she was completely obscured by red-on-white hearts. It made me realize how little she still is, if she could disappear into one leg of her Daddy's drawers. Like most toddlers, who are so pleased to help that they overhelp, she later found the neat stack of folded laundry and tried to refold D's underwear.
-There was a clean patch on the floor, a circle with about a 12-inch radius. Doodlebug had been uncommonly weepy today, and she wouldn't let me out of her sight for very long. So every time I went to the bathroom, I sat her on the carpet, moved her into a fat little tripod, and did my business. It's always the same: she balances pretty well and smiles at me until she starts to list to one side. When the listing reaches the point of no return, the smile suddenly vanishes and plop! the kid is supine. I have figured out that the distance from her rump to the scalp is about 12 inches, so I try to make sure there is a 12-inch buffer around her when I set her down. Aaaaaaand of course in this picture I have forgotten to do so. Anyway.
-A smattering of letters and a pile of books sat next to the Bumbo. I set Doodlebug down in the Bumbo and ran off to answer the phone. I came back a few minutes later and Babygirl had set up shop, all ready to entertain the baby until kingdom come. Babygirl had lined up some magnetic letters (they spelled "CURALPH", by the way) in front of Doodlebug and had opened up a book. "Read to baby!," she beamed at me. And then, in her usual fashion, she immediately forgot about the baby and scampered off, scattering the letters with her chubby foot.
(I made her sit back down so I could take a picture.)
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| Babygirl came to my knee the other day while I was sitting on the couch and said, "Talk to Jesus." "Oh!," I said, surprised. "Would you like to talk to Jesus? To pray?" "Yeah," she replied. So we started praying. What does a two-year-old ask for, with a heart full of faith? "Lollipop," Babygirl prayed earnestly, "Lollipop." I regret to say she did not get a lollipop that day, but later a piece of candy rolled out of my pocket as I was bending down and Babygirl picked it up and put it in her mouth. I was going to protest, but then I decided to let it go. The Lord answers prayer in mysterious ways.
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As some of you know, the magnificent plum tree in our backyard was felled by a freak storm. The landlord finally came and dismembered it and carted off its remains. The tree had been in full bloom when it fell, so after the landlord left, the ground was still strewn with twigs and bunches of blossoms. Babygirl ran to the window to see the newly desolate backyard. "Where'd tree go? Where'd tree go?," she asked. And then she said, in the most doleful voice imaginable, "Little flowers crying."
I think she has a very promising career in haiku composition.
A friend of mine heard this story and she remarked that Babygirl seems to have a gift for empathy/sympathy. That's possible--a few months ago, Babygirl and I were watching squirrels frolic in the backyard. "They're looking for nuts," I explained. Babygirl gasped. "Watch out, nuts!," she cried.
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