tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2365851353698803552024-03-05T15:34:09.853-07:00Pretty Penny.Adventures in Babydom.Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.comBlogger189125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-84142678785545397852012-01-27T16:28:00.006-07:002012-01-27T19:56:44.229-07:0040 Weeks and 3 Days<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" >Waiting for this baby to arrive has been the ultimate exercise in patience, and I am going out of my mind. I know I should be grateful for having a full-term baby, and that I really have nothing to complain about. But FORTY WEEKS is a damn long time. I am older, crabbier, and far more uncomfortable this time. I am realizing now how spoiled I was with Penny. Everything was a marvel during my pregnancy with her. She also came 4-5 days before my due date, which I now realize was a mercy.</span><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">So naturally, I expected to go early again, forgetting what everyone says, that every pregnancy is different. Mr. Baby's due date has come and gone, although not without some excitement. I have already (mistakenly) thought I was in early labor 3 times. I called into work a week ago because I was having contractions. I started my leave of absence, thinking it could be any minute now...any minute now...maybe now?<br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Each time I go to the doctor, I find out I have progressed very little, so I leave appointments feeling more disappointed. Every ache, every twinge, every cramp has me bolting upright, wondering if this is it. I am making myself crazy. Everyone wants to know, is he here yet? Is he here yet? I have been stuck on "Gold Mother" by James for DAYS.</span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">But I know I won't be pregnant forever. No one is pregnant forever! This may very well be the last time I'll be pregnant again, <i>ever</i>, so maybe I should relish it while I can?<br /><br />Nah. I know I'm in a bad mood, but I can't bring myself to romanticize the fatigue and the heartburn and the constant peeing and the Braxton Hicks contractions. But, I've been trying to think about the time — the time we've had as a 3 person family, before everything changes.</span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6JJBfqbNKrB21p1Rh3hL25ZYKbGKs5nRYcAex9CeJsOIVmCsUWdv68hqiCkWXQb3KGaOwVjnEKkgmM1dPihw-a0NlL8bBMoCFQWehhQ6GYsHj2k_ebYDnoT2UUakhyphenhyphenEZKdsbIhtA33Hr/s1600/photo-36.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6JJBfqbNKrB21p1Rh3hL25ZYKbGKs5nRYcAex9CeJsOIVmCsUWdv68hqiCkWXQb3KGaOwVjnEKkgmM1dPihw-a0NlL8bBMoCFQWehhQ6GYsHj2k_ebYDnoT2UUakhyphenhyphenEZKdsbIhtA33Hr/s320/photo-36.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702472781940866450" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">This pregnancy has been marked by a couple of surprises, one of which is that my doctor, my beloved physician, obstetrician, and Penny's pediatrician has been out of town for the past three weeks. Suddenly I was confronted with the possibility that she might not be delivering this baby, and I had to find another doctor in the interim. But, she'll be back this weekend, so maybe things will work out after all. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >It wasn't that long ago that we were driving to the hospital to have Penny, and soon we will be going again. I have a vision of how I want things to go, and as time passes, the more I worry that it isn't going to go the way I want... </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" > </span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Meanwhile, this might be the last chance I get to write something for a little while, so I wanted to take the time to say, for Penny's sake, how awesome she is. She can do 42 piece puzzles by herself. She likes to act out scenes from her favorite stories (like when Clara's Godfather fixes her broken Nutcracker, or when Lisa buys Corduroy at the department store), and she takes books with her to bed. Her sense of humor is constantly developing and surprising. Having a baby will help me appreciate the myriad things Penny can do by herself, like getting her own yogurt out of the fridge and a spoon out of the drawer. Like climbing up onto her stool for dinner and telling us about her day at preschool. I fully expect some "regression" in behavior once baby brother arrives. How can there not be some jealousy and resentment? </span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTsvCqeMav0vAYtjnAn3vcgvITfhIx84pEX3PG31MHeWiAcJFr5Rd7TogjEB5-uV-8Sz5p343mVspy5ueQno50UyUIpuM92_LgTcDxgx5-mW-16exUAEiSmpYddffh2WwYjg-Oarycn4G/s1600/photo-37.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTsvCqeMav0vAYtjnAn3vcgvITfhIx84pEX3PG31MHeWiAcJFr5Rd7TogjEB5-uV-8Sz5p343mVspy5ueQno50UyUIpuM92_LgTcDxgx5-mW-16exUAEiSmpYddffh2WwYjg-Oarycn4G/s320/photo-37.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5702475407499625714" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">Our world is about to be all topsy-turvy, so I may kick myself in a couple of days for being so impatient. For now, I'm trying to stay upbeat. Mr. Baby will come. He will. We are ready for him and we can hardly wait. </span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-64060093256513535432011-12-27T22:24:00.009-07:002012-01-27T20:13:53.017-07:00The Nutcracker<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQoTlyWNCPO3V-xj7oFXS33ZGjWwJVLjm93BA6b9qNF6C3qv8kBncFId4RH1DEUlkKDma8IffjtV6PBHjVP2y_I85lhGlZDJWw64RJtnqjr1KSxaXwSWAnMBVYu3VUFs19DeWp6idRVA6B/s1600/DSC_0071.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQoTlyWNCPO3V-xj7oFXS33ZGjWwJVLjm93BA6b9qNF6C3qv8kBncFId4RH1DEUlkKDma8IffjtV6PBHjVP2y_I85lhGlZDJWw64RJtnqjr1KSxaXwSWAnMBVYu3VUFs19DeWp6idRVA6B/s320/DSC_0071.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691064212364688962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">When I was growing up, one of our Christmastime traditions was to get out the Tchaikovsky record and dance around the house to <span style="font-style: italic;">The Nutcracker Suite</span>. The needle on our record player would skip any time we jumped on the floor, so you can imagine the scratches this record accumulated after repeated exposure to our synchronized "Russian Dance" jumps. PBS used to broadcast the Baryshnikov version on Christmas Eve, and my sisters and I watched it (while dancing) every year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Then one year, m</span>y dad took me to see a production of The Nutcracker while we were living in Wisconsin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I don’t know if it was a professional company — it may have been a performance at a community college, for all I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But we had to drive a long distance in our VW van to get there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I remember sitting close enough to the stage to see the dancers’ shoes and I remember how vivid the costumes were for the Waltz of the Flowers. I thought it was one of the most amazing things I'd ever seen. Needless to say, I have a strong connection to The Nutcracker.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Years later, I learned that my dad had pawned most of his coin collection in order to take me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I was shocked about this revelation and it still induces many emotional responses: We were really that poor? He was willing to pawn something he spent years collecting? For me? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">So this year, to jump-start that crazy build up to Christmas, I showed it to Penny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I checked out my old favorite from the library — the Baryshnikov version, which is the One True Version, and brought it home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And she was enthralled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That was the ultimate litmus test; I decided that if she could sit through it at home, then maybe she was ready to see the real thing. The story has everything — action, adventure, whimsy. A mysterious godfather, wind-up life-sized toys! A mouse king! The Nutcracker turns into a prince! And Clara saves <i>him</i>! </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Ballet West does an annual production of The Nutcracker and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wanted desperately to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But the website said that the recommended age was 6 years old and I was worried that taking Penny might be a bad idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What if she freaked out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What if she wouldn't stay in her seat?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What if she shouted through the whole thing:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“MAMA!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>IS THAT CLARA? MAMA! IS THAT THE MOUSE KING?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> What if we got kicked out?</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">But we took a gamble and went for it anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I splurged on tickets and bought one for Grandma too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the days leading up to the show, I reviewed the rules of the theater with Penny:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You have to stay in your seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>You can’t talk, you can only whisper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I felt like I was being harsh, but I wanted the rules to be well established. And it worked. Penny was marvelous even though she didn't feel that well the night of the performance.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyD2k5H5JeWmPLHOOLWfxJeUA_cfA4q7-balNEnClXxexQcF4LJo1uzJmUFm7irvUTg9QMG6ABoaXNTUVJbzJkFbLoAqxhNFZUTNsqlHEHqXc31PjiqRcacM_MR4lZXSOPbMrf71RWIz6u/s1600/photo-33.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyD2k5H5JeWmPLHOOLWfxJeUA_cfA4q7-balNEnClXxexQcF4LJo1uzJmUFm7irvUTg9QMG6ABoaXNTUVJbzJkFbLoAqxhNFZUTNsqlHEHqXc31PjiqRcacM_MR4lZXSOPbMrf71RWIz6u/s320/photo-33.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691069970439401874" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Capitol Theatre is gorgeous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The seats are covered in dark red velvet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There's an an enormous chandelier and the ceiling is decorated in gold leaf detail. And Ballet West's production was truly amazing. The costumes were brilliant, the music was phenomenal. I was overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it all and had an unexpected emotional experience. My eyes watered multiple times, especially during the Waltz of the Snowflakes. As I sat holding Penny's hand under the gilded ceiling, I thought about my dad, and of the things we did together as a family to expand our minds. He taught us that stuff is just stuff; that doing things together is what's important.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTyywLmrkWdBJKsw6903VDYF8Js4ZZHU0fTygogyNEtEfKilfX3mCtyjKfBR_oWc1Q6D5qaKJ8WNCekv2DlCYCZhwoJPtJSkgzRzs93Xo6G1Ttoo-v5h6aG0DPC1wxuL6bv-cix8E3Pwl/s1600/DSC_0078.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuTyywLmrkWdBJKsw6903VDYF8Js4ZZHU0fTygogyNEtEfKilfX3mCtyjKfBR_oWc1Q6D5qaKJ8WNCekv2DlCYCZhwoJPtJSkgzRzs93Xo6G1Ttoo-v5h6aG0DPC1wxuL6bv-cix8E3Pwl/s320/DSC_0078.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5691067989945313426" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Naturally, this Christmas was rather Nutcracker-themed. We bought Penny her own copy of Baryshnikov's Nutcracker, so I can stop racking up late fees at the library. I found an excellent collection of paper dolls that you can punch out and put on stage to reenact the story. And one of our friends gave Penny a cupcake set with Nutcracker liners and cupcake toppers. We had so much fun this Christmas. I can't wait for next year, so we can go again and establish another tradition.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--EndFragment--></p>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-68391683328370694282011-11-07T22:57:00.007-07:002011-11-13T19:02:44.983-07:00Three and One Half<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQllV5zeiD1hPRvIyCO7xOMC_k8NxnAE9_DyA6AvifDBCqKS3RKxdAnYZ_C8OsqEpcuXasRcoYHeLxuYLZPOxVs9PxwovMmJmbzyeS_ykKXzI6uYWO00pUsD3wTAqYhFnX2c843YcB-Ey/s1600/IMG_0827.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcQllV5zeiD1hPRvIyCO7xOMC_k8NxnAE9_DyA6AvifDBCqKS3RKxdAnYZ_C8OsqEpcuXasRcoYHeLxuYLZPOxVs9PxwovMmJmbzyeS_ykKXzI6uYWO00pUsD3wTAqYhFnX2c843YcB-Ey/s320/IMG_0827.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672514100508829906" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br />Dear Penny,</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Well, hello there, my little 3.5 year old friend. We've certainly seen some ups and downs these past three months. I want to focus on the ups, but I have to tell you a couple of things. I think you are worried about the future. I want you to know that I worry about the future too. But there are some things you can't control, and as you get older, you realize that you can't control them, and they get easier to deal with. But for now, you aren't too sure about this older sister business coming to a household near you. You have a short fuse and an angry streak lately. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">We've had time outs <span style="font-style: italic;">within</span> time outs! </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">I'm not sure where your rage comes from, although it subsides just as quickly as it comes on. Recently, you threw a colossally mortifying fit and in the icy silence that followed, you said, calmly, "I don't want to be a big sister. I want the baby to be the big sister. I want to be the baby." </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg280V-tdNdIqnwipCduIo9v2ndMOHP5h6LNeoRl770w5IYPKGBdjHNVBJgMyyUgJF-O_qSXm4hK6BEySys7fQQUj_-mgqCpHtIwMaz501Myehu-S_gidF5xnENmEcuDNRgYV3soE52AyhM/s1600/IMG_0861.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg280V-tdNdIqnwipCduIo9v2ndMOHP5h6LNeoRl770w5IYPKGBdjHNVBJgMyyUgJF-O_qSXm4hK6BEySys7fQQUj_-mgqCpHtIwMaz501Myehu-S_gidF5xnENmEcuDNRgYV3soE52AyhM/s320/IMG_0861.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672514085401491954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Oh, honey. Maybe we've been talking up the Big Sister thing too much. Maybe you're worried about what life will be like once there's a new baby in the house. Hell, I'm worried about what life will be like in another two months. But I need you to be my big girl. I know you can do it. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">When I came to pick you up from Grandma and Grandpa's after my ultrasound appointment, you were still asleep. When you woke up, you came downstairs all groggy and crabby. I said, "Penny, you're going to have a little brother!" And you burst into tears. You wailed, "Nooooo! I want a sister!" And then I started to cry. I cried because I was hormonal and tired and the ultrasound was stressful for me this time around. And I cried because I felt like I had let you down. I have always imagined that I would have a couple of little girls who were the very best of friends. I never seriously believed<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>I would have a boy because there are only girls on my side of the family. I have no idea what having a brother is like. For all I know, boys really do have cooties, and they're smelly and messy and gross. (Someday, your brother is going to read this and say, "Thanks a <i>lot</i>, you guys.")<br /><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfkbR5nQ3QIhuO6i6h8B6s5Mxflq5PbZLE4zJ2Y1C9Ud_0iWSXjKxVMgf03YjG0v2__6IFW3GIaxyeCIM4G-UzMHgBZoV9uY9z-x5y-Aev1CqDIhuJ17FmWCChXzxnPYQH87CIDhUeVhs/s1600/IMG_0816.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjfkbR5nQ3QIhuO6i6h8B6s5Mxflq5PbZLE4zJ2Y1C9Ud_0iWSXjKxVMgf03YjG0v2__6IFW3GIaxyeCIM4G-UzMHgBZoV9uY9z-x5y-Aev1CqDIhuJ17FmWCChXzxnPYQH87CIDhUeVhs/s320/IMG_0816.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672514080463280146" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">But then do you know what happened? I showed you the ultrasound pictures of your baby brother, and you were awestruck. You couldn't put them down. You started giggling. And then I cried out of relief. Now, you tell everyone you're going to have a baby brother. Every day you tell me you're going to play with him and read to him and show him Baby Signing Time and help give him bottles. You are so excited. You've also been saying you have a baby in your belly and you tell me when he's kicking.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Do you know what else? You are going to teach your brother so many things. You know which foot is your right foot and which is your left. You listen so well to your teacher at school and to your teacher at dance, I could burst with pride. You have an amazing imagination — you have at least five different imaginary friends and you create your own adventures with them. One of them is "The Little Black Ghost," who might be like a soot sprite from <span style="font-style: italic;">My Neighbor Totoro</span>? Anyway, he follows you around and goes "Thump!" and gets on your nerves sometimes.<br /><br />My favorite thing to do in the morning is to hold you on my lap while you're still sleepy and cuddle you and smell your hair. Sometimes I'm nearly late for work because I can't break away. I love you more than anything. There will still be room for you on my lap when your brother comes. There will be room in my heart for both of you. You will always by my girl, my daughter, my firstborn. You will always be my baby.<br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Love, </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;">Mom.</span></div>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-5045469880777722832011-10-30T23:07:00.007-06:002011-10-31T00:55:54.332-06:00Halloween 2011: The Owl<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS6zk_89sYwspJZeZRqSJ9ULJfhsqrKv3Pm5J4X0Ro7uiB_vOdWcUjG1alnkVWpuauamD7rTO3wVOHN21qrioE4qnRO2yMm7rev1WPIGjC9dBBtmlyxH7Ddzlqu4XkxMKnHRSIk5oBJSoa/s1600/DSC_0035.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS6zk_89sYwspJZeZRqSJ9ULJfhsqrKv3Pm5J4X0Ro7uiB_vOdWcUjG1alnkVWpuauamD7rTO3wVOHN21qrioE4qnRO2yMm7rev1WPIGjC9dBBtmlyxH7Ddzlqu4XkxMKnHRSIk5oBJSoa/s320/DSC_0035.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669536001712259698" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />I'm not sure what chemicals we were on when we decided to make Penny's Halloween costume this year. Haven't I complained enough about how busy and out of control my life is? In truth, I'm not sure I would have tackled this project if Britt hadn't been so certain we could pull it off. But he said he could make it, and I said, "You can?" Why do I keep forgetting that I married such a multi-faceted man?<br /><br />Back in the day, my mom made our costumes every year, and we still talk about those costumes with utter reverence. The same goes for the birthday cakes she made. The woman was amazing, but I've never really felt pressure to be like her in that way. I admire people who make their own brilliant and creative costumes, but up until now, that hasn't really been my style. I <span style="font-style: italic;">want</span> to make things, but the lack of time and energy always interferes.<br /><br />At the beginning of September, Penny declared she wanted to be a witch for Halloween, and I thought, "Yes!" because that's an easy costume to find — there are a plethora of witch costumes out there. But a couple of weeks later, she told me she wanted to be an owl. I'm not sure where that idea came from, but I kept asking her if she wanted to be a witch or an owl, and she was resolute in her owl decision. So I started looking online for costumes and ideas (and friends and family sent me links too), which yielded <a href="http://www.simplicity.com/p-3078-child-teen-adult-costumes.aspx">this</a> and <a href="http://www.purejoyeventsblog.com/2010/10/girly-owl-costume-tutorial.html">this</a> and <a href="http://alphamom.com/family-fun/holidays/last-minute-kids-owl-costume/">this</a>. There were no aesthetically pleasing, ready made in-store owl costumes to be found. The Alphamom version was by far the most appealing to me, hence the decision to tackle it ourselves.<br /><br />I wanted a mask with real feathers, and I felt that the costume needed some wings. So, I went to Michael's in search of feathers, a mask, and glue, and I went to JoAnn's for some fabric. I went with inexpensive fabric with patterns that I liked, although the old t-shirt idea from Alphamom is a good idea too. Then I found a black turtleneck and leggings in Penny's size (actually, I bought a size up, in case she wants to be an owl for a while).<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_oqF2K2HsE0SBuHm8Qemzjyyi3A5iSLVIQhUXQFTVIklT0ONSWxT9qXgSA3eDLPXGdI2zg4IpTmEIKfmdWjTQF7mPI_ZzmzbhWFDBL83Z3mfNTTS-3XVFSdVzHrKggE5RAiut_l-wWoH/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_oqF2K2HsE0SBuHm8Qemzjyyi3A5iSLVIQhUXQFTVIklT0ONSWxT9qXgSA3eDLPXGdI2zg4IpTmEIKfmdWjTQF7mPI_ZzmzbhWFDBL83Z3mfNTTS-3XVFSdVzHrKggE5RAiut_l-wWoH/s320/DSC_0035.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669540450117865858" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-style: italic;">I'll glue, you sew.</span><br /><br />I used the template for the fabric feathers from the Alphamom link, enlarged it a wee bit, and printed it out. I spent a weekend cutting out fabric and gluing feathers onto the mask. One of the cats got the first version of the mask while we were out one day, because I stupidly didn't think to hide it. So, another weekend was spent fixing the cat-mangled mask. Meanwhile, Britt borrowed his mom's 1970s Singer sewing machine, and after swearing a bit, got it fired up and ready to go. He sewed the fabric feathers in rows and came up with the wings for the sleeves. He is THE MAN. I can't believe he remembers what he learned in Home Economics all those years ago. I certainly don't! What I remember is that I hate sewing!<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxO_dXNsVRZ-KLhyphenhyphen2EVSjlaZP-8PUgqJxISOZokYfs54JtZEtuzpxHEVffrUdbhFWFiT70jXP5JadIcNIWLla-M1F5l0Y4yU0GPpnHQgJj57OHSGrQsUM1BsHWMo4IwL_asb5rHQMd7TbX/s1600/photo-28.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxO_dXNsVRZ-KLhyphenhyphen2EVSjlaZP-8PUgqJxISOZokYfs54JtZEtuzpxHEVffrUdbhFWFiT70jXP5JadIcNIWLla-M1F5l0Y4yU0GPpnHQgJj57OHSGrQsUM1BsHWMo4IwL_asb5rHQMd7TbX/s320/photo-28.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669536025685500402" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Don't mess with a Teamster who can sew.</span><br /><br />The last thing I had to do was make eyes out of crepe paper and tie the mask with elasticized string so it would fit on Penny's head. She wasn't too keen on wearing the mask at first, but caught the vision at her school's Trunk or Treat event.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbrhcrntEaxDn3MgpGNlKy-U4sdpfW-H40fp6_cI8X1h1_joLFQPUIGMY4I_ZAwnGTW5tpKmerCAcbYPs7ROIR-2yUy9B3RHCB9jY66l4X31DWutY7djKqtl6HapBy29j0PI184hf0WBs/s1600/DSC_0043.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzbrhcrntEaxDn3MgpGNlKy-U4sdpfW-H40fp6_cI8X1h1_joLFQPUIGMY4I_ZAwnGTW5tpKmerCAcbYPs7ROIR-2yUy9B3RHCB9jY66l4X31DWutY7djKqtl6HapBy29j0PI184hf0WBs/s320/DSC_0043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669536024484427506" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">My greatest fear while we labored on it was that no one would be able to tell what she was. In some ways, the costume looks like a raggedy Carmen Miranda ensemble. The mask has feathers and eyes, but otherwise isn't overly owl-like. But then a friend wisely pointed out that none of that was going to matter to Penny, because SHE would know that she's an owl. Thanks, Anabel. You're so right.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWxlxPpRb24gemdU3ZqkTZXKtT3r3sfH9MLKQCwlf3qdQH2qLYBdehK-EFn4zkn48h0sDD68KdpugXocx926AsfLUkMVeGKVn8Bcn_gYcxhD6Ho4XSFfo_Hi5ygkCTvhbC3ElGFh5qf8l/s1600/DSC_0042.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWxlxPpRb24gemdU3ZqkTZXKtT3r3sfH9MLKQCwlf3qdQH2qLYBdehK-EFn4zkn48h0sDD68KdpugXocx926AsfLUkMVeGKVn8Bcn_gYcxhD6Ho4XSFfo_Hi5ygkCTvhbC3ElGFh5qf8l/s320/DSC_0042.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669536008021818818" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Apparently, people decorate their trunks for Trunk or Treat. Oops. We didn't have any creative energy left.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Of COURSE she's an owl! Penny adores her costume, and we've already gotten some mileage out of it. She wore it to dance class Tuesday, then to Trunk or Treat on Friday, and tomorrow her preschool is having a Halloween party, not to mention the Trick or Treating we'll be doing in our neighborhood. And it's a fitting outfit for her dress-up collection, which will accrue items as we take on projects like this from year to year.<br /><br />I'm proud of our handiwork. We totally channeled my mom. And it was another reminder that Britt and I make a good team, that we can be crafty and creative together, and that we can divide and conquer. And the best part is, when people ask Penny if her mom made her costume, she says, "My mom AND dad made it." Huzzah!<br /><br />Happy Halloween!<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-76162261459304456962011-09-28T21:56:00.009-06:002011-09-29T22:21:18.807-06:00Still Here<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PVSgjPtt8yYlb7Dz-VCenkjq6nTJngfl_QjObvwDeSUKXHAwTlckcCRf_Jz32oPz3y3jJaUQZPCBmDc1R8TWNNPbcjvSXJJWKwqqifl9Bj5TSX5e2xJjs1fvtHNJFK-ChBPXcNGARUoF/s1600/photo-19.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657638152698211170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0PVSgjPtt8yYlb7Dz-VCenkjq6nTJngfl_QjObvwDeSUKXHAwTlckcCRf_Jz32oPz3y3jJaUQZPCBmDc1R8TWNNPbcjvSXJJWKwqqifl9Bj5TSX5e2xJjs1fvtHNJFK-ChBPXcNGARUoF/s320/photo-19.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; height: 320px; width: 239px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: 'lucida grande';"><span style="font-size: 85%;"><br />Hi, we're still here. We've had a lot going on. Here's a recap of the last month or so:<br /><br />1. Penny is getting a BROTHER sometime around January 25th.<br />2. I survived neuroanatomy. Next up is 8 weeks of vestibular pathologies. Goodie.<br />3. Penny started preschool this month - more on that below.<br />4. Penny's grandparents have been in Italy for the last 3 weeks and will be gone for another 2 weeks. So there has been some upheaval in Penny's life and in her routine, combined with the general anxiety that comes with starting school and being three.<br /><br />Penny's school is everything I had hoped. There is art hanging on almost every wall of the room. There is lots of time to play, inside and outside. They get to go on oodles of field trips, which are mostly nature walks and the like. Her teacher is awesome, and Penny's adjusted pretty well to classroom life — class rules, circle time, snack time, etc. But we had a rocky start. The first two weeks, Penny would wake up and announce that she didn't want to go to school, and Britt and I had to bust out the pep talks to get her mentally prepared to go. And there were a couple of mornings where she wet her bed (!!), which had not been an issue before.<br /><br />I haven't been able to have much involvement in Penny's life at school. My work schedule is the same days as Penny's class schedule, plus grandma and grandpa have gone abroad. So our dear friends, to whom we will forever be indebted, have been helping with carpooling (their daughter and Penny are in the same class) and then Penny plays at their house after school, until I can come and pick her up. The poor kid has had to adjust to everything at once and I've had to stop myself (a couple of times) from regretting my new job.<br /><br />But things are getting better. The first week, I was getting reports of outbursts about having to share toys, and any other number of slings and arrows related to interacting with other children. You may recall that Penny's "outbursts" take the form of Screaming Banshee Fits, which sound like she's been mortally wounded. So the first thing Penny learned at school was to "use her words." After her first day, she came home and told me, "Mama, tomorrow I will know my words."<br /><br />Her teacher told me that she's fine and has been doing a lot better. I finally had the chance to volunteer in her class today (which is a requirement of the school, and a good thing), and it was fun to see how the class works. Penny was a little more clingy since I was there, but I was amazed to see her let loose on the playground. She climbs on all of the equipment and goes down the big slides, laughing all the way. She can do the fire pole (!!) and loves the tire swing. I was standing there thinking, "Who is this kid?" when a couple of the other moms came up to me and told me how sweet Penny is. And I said, "Really?"<br /><br />Is it bad that I was surprised to hear that she can be sweet? I know she is. She's actually very thoughtful and articulate. But here's the thing: the screaming issue has improved at school, but it has not improved at home. I feel like I bear the brunt of her ire. She's fine until I pick her up, and then suddenly, she's whining and helpless and the littlest things send her into a giant screaming spiral. And our friends have to endure it too, although they assure me that she's fine until I show up. So what is this about?<br /><br />I'm telling myself it relates to the upheaval. She's going to be a big sister. She misses her grandparents. A lot of her time has been spent away from home and away from me. I think it will get better. It has to.<br /><br />Meanwhile, Penny's class is going on a field trip to the mountains tomorrow, to look for leaves changing colors. I wish I could go. But she'll have a good time and it will be another day of adventure, another day of using her words and making new friends. Another reason to be excited about school.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-43646225003006522872011-08-09T22:03:00.005-06:002011-08-09T23:16:33.714-06:0039 Months Old<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHawvOzsoX-ZNDz_PMU6JOA-PNh-p2xg7ruKRLeG45VtSgoHkP-Zmt_f25dWUYOz6vdFb7rXBPYCTEJRVSFVlf3OO3FnDfR3-7JDl3yBr3BrLPl5tZ2ZS7aCi9mRfVSJoksLQ9gCUOXEux/s1600/photo-18.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHawvOzsoX-ZNDz_PMU6JOA-PNh-p2xg7ruKRLeG45VtSgoHkP-Zmt_f25dWUYOz6vdFb7rXBPYCTEJRVSFVlf3OO3FnDfR3-7JDl3yBr3BrLPl5tZ2ZS7aCi9mRfVSJoksLQ9gCUOXEux/s320/photo-18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639087236625108930" border="0" /></a>
<br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br />Dear Penny,</span></span><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">You're 39 months old? Get out! I think you are also a smarty-pants. That's a good thing. Last summer, we told you that the annoying truck that drives around the neighborhood blasting music at unsafe levels was a "music truck," and whenever you'd hear it, you'd say, "There goes the music truck!" Well, yesterday, you saw it drive by while you were standing at the door and you could see the pictures of ice cream on the side. You exclaimed, "Hey! The 'music truck' is an ice cream truck!" There goes that illusion. I'm sorry we deceived you, but I can't support something that plays music (sometimes <span style="font-style: italic;">Christmas</span> music, in the summer!) that loud through the neighborhood. Also, we have ice cream in the freezer. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">You've picked up some of the expressions we say, much to my chagrin. The other day you informed me that you didn't want to wait to have a snack at home because "Our snacks at home are crappy!" When dad was teasing you the other night, you said, "You're killing me!" which is something he says. You say, "All. Right. FINE." And "Don't freak out." You have the attitude of a teenager, but at least you use these expressions in the appropriate context. I can't wait to hear what you pick up at school.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">The bedtime ritual has gotten insanely long and drawn out. July was tough because in Utah, there are two holidays that involve excessive amounts of fireworks. The 4th, which the rest of the country celebrates, and the 24th, which signifies when the pioneers first came to the Salt Lake Valley. Anyway, this year, our state legislators (in their infinite wisdom) decided to pass a law allowing fireworks to be available for the whole month of July. So for many nights, the sounds of fireworks in the neighborhood kept you awake until 11:00 at night. So these days the ritual goes something like this: put on pajamas, brush your teeth, read a story, get a drink of water "from the fridgerator," get hugs from mommy, get hugs from daddy, turn out the lights, get another drink of water, ask to go potty, go potty, get back in bed, tell stories with daddy, and then another drink of water, or whatever other stalling tactic you can think of. I get a little exasperated because this all takes a while. But the stories you and Daddy make up are outrageously funny. Yours always start out like this: "Once about a time..." And Dad's stories make you giggle. I think this part of the bedtime ritual can stay.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">You use the potty! I can't tell you how delighted we are. I'm sorry I complained about it so much, but I didn't think it would ever happen. You are a little gymnast! You are very skilled at balancing on the different balance beams. You try so hard in class and it makes me very proud. We are still working on not yelling and not having meltdowns about the little things. I'm not going to give up, because I think it might just be part of being three.
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">You are going to be a big sister! Yep. This has been a major development these past months. You came with me to the doctor and we heard the heartbeat of your little brother or sister. Sometimes you say you want a brother, and sometimes you say you'd like a sister. We won't know either way for a couple of weeks. But I want to tell you what a wonderfully, incredibly important thing it is to be a big sister. It's something your mom and dad decided we want you to experience. Our lives are going to change, again. And this time, you get to help us.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwv4jnZk1sppuGLyf6e6vHj0CVo96yK90zfiA5Ep86GeeqVNWg0Dd2_DooHs_2Fa22R6Wfuuj7TbdqYnHqanzx0z4s3h3HnIfeaOygLvkYslPRT7wR4OLmhCugzp-Gt1A0LkCwHTObLzcv/s1600/photo-17.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwv4jnZk1sppuGLyf6e6vHj0CVo96yK90zfiA5Ep86GeeqVNWg0Dd2_DooHs_2Fa22R6Wfuuj7TbdqYnHqanzx0z4s3h3HnIfeaOygLvkYslPRT7wR4OLmhCugzp-Gt1A0LkCwHTObLzcv/s320/photo-17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639087229963421122" border="0" /></a>
<br />
<br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">You and Daddy have been spending a lot of time together because I've been so busy and so tired. I went back school in June, so I've had homework and other obligations that interfere with some of our quality time together. I'm sorry about that too. You've handled it pretty well so far, and your dad has been helping a lot. I can't wait to be done, even though I just started. You have been a surprisingly good sport about all of this.
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Even though you will be starting school next month, you will always be my baby. Even though you can put on some of your clothes by yourself and use the potty, you will always be my baby. Even though you're going to be a big sister, you will always be my baby. You will always be my baby.
<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >
<br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >Love,</span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >Mom.</span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" > </span></div>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-54696904235960330162011-07-26T16:34:00.012-06:002011-07-26T23:32:30.861-06:00Our Little Gymnast<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">Since Penny doesn't have dance during the summer, I thought it might be fun to try gymnastics as a summer activity. I promise I'm not going all Tiger Mom on her. One of Penny's friends has been taking gymnastics for a while and she loves it, so I thought, why not find a way to stay active during the summer that doesn't involve fighting for space in the gross public pool? </span></span><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">We quickly discovered that the kids in the 3-5 year old class are expected to participate on their own with no parents present. The parents are banished to the foyer and watch the class through the glass windows. This was going to take some getting used to, because Penny takes a while to warm up to new people and new situations, and I would rather have her participate and have fun than refuse to do anything and waste everyone's time (and our money). Another discovery we made is that the teacher is not particularly warm and fuzzy, which is just her personality, although it doesn't make much sense to me, if your profession is teaching small children complicated skills. So let's just say that the first couple of classes were nothing short of disastrous. Penny refused to do anything unless I was in the room with her, helping her. She freaked out the first time the teacher touched her to assist with a maneuver, and had a complete meltdown when the teacher told her not to go in a certain direction and that she had to stay on the mats. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">This is so much fun for everyone! After these classes, I really debated whether or not to keep going. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >Part of me thought, Hey, this is supposed to be a fun, positive experience, not a negative, stressful one.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" > The teacher is kind of strict — It's not like this is Romania — I don't expect Penny to be a gold medalist or anything. I just want her to gain confidence and coordination. So I decided that quitting would send Penny the wrong message — when things are hard, just quit! When you have personality clashes with teachers, just walk away! No. </span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >So, before the fourth class, we had a little chat. I said, it's the teacher's class, and you have to follow her rules. When she tells you what to do, you're not in trouble, you just have to do what she says. Followed by, "One of the rules is that the parents are supposed to watch from outside the class." To which Penny said, "Ok, Mama." And then she rehearsed this dialogue to herself as we drove to class. When we got there, she wouldn't go in the room without me, so I said, "I will go in with you, but you need to do everything yourself." And she did. And then, for the second part of class, I watched from the outside and she sweetly waved to me from the inside. </span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >And do you know what? She CAN DO IT. She tried all the moves and let the teacher help her do somersaults. She rocks the balance beam! I watched her little face light up each time she did a dismount. And then I felt so ambivalent. I want her to do everything independently. But at the same time, it feels like the beginning of my obsolescence. I know that's really melodramatic. Of course she's always going to need me, but not for <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span> anymore. And that makes me proud and sad and happy all at the same time. I'm going to lose it when she starts school.</span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" ><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:85%;" >P.S. We are definitely doing gymnastics again next summer. And the teacher is really growing on me. I totally get why parents are supposed to stay out of the way; the kids do better without us.<br /><br /></span></div>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-1289179947845751412011-07-25T14:07:00.004-06:002011-07-25T14:26:12.282-06:00Penny and the Seal<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">There's a harbor seal at the Oregon Coast Aquarium. She swims back and forth, all day long. I don't know if she's content living in captivity. But she looks like she's smiling</span></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span">.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/26855896?portrait=0" frameborder="0" height="225" width="400"></iframe></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-2779653185810784852011-07-24T23:50:00.015-06:002011-07-25T01:10:33.808-06:00Vacation, Had to Get Away<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2WAmXsvhZ5rdAsoBmX1qI82fmZcwY50QL-pmH0bO-NKz6gK0teDN4O8dXoAwcIDasE42FDZSltUEFBmcU1MqX1u3WmPI50OwLgVqsFK5GjSSqlvHD0gdPt5i68JTFL1Vqoq1Gt7eQEmad/s1600/DSC_0001.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2WAmXsvhZ5rdAsoBmX1qI82fmZcwY50QL-pmH0bO-NKz6gK0teDN4O8dXoAwcIDasE42FDZSltUEFBmcU1MqX1u3WmPI50OwLgVqsFK5GjSSqlvHD0gdPt5i68JTFL1Vqoq1Gt7eQEmad/s320/DSC_0001.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633180818459290306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />I can't believe the month of July almost escaped without a post. I have some pretty good excuses, though. One of them is that we went on vacation for two weeks at the end of June. When we got home, we had the post-vacation insanity of catching up on everything that went to hell while we were gone, like work and school (did I mention I'm back in school?). Oh, and I got horrendously sick during the last leg of the trip and needed a couple of days to recover. But the important thing is, we had an honest-to-god vacation, just the three of us.<br /><br />Part One of our trip started out with Britt's family at a place called Six Lakes in Eastern Utah. We had never been there before, so we weren't sure what to expect. The high desert of Utah has a certain beauty - the cacti were pink and yellow and in full bloom. The sky was clear and blue. Lizards and rabbits were everywhere. Everything smelled like sage and juniper. We had bunk houses right on our own lake, so Penny got to have her first rowboat experience. Going out on the lake was a nice way to cool off, because it was hot out there. Six Lakes also has the distinction of being where Penny overcame her fear of pooping in the potty. I didn't think she would go for using strange toilets in strange locations, but she didn't have a single accident. Subsequently I showered her with candy.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAe1Vk6GHNCmFZEKzGkXOJpbWiWxAalLO-T_V5URsnfSb7RcXAwGL0OJu3AGwvSbXnLDzPsIHsIZg8Y6NTVhpznFdQu2USj0wJlK3svYkXSAcRdDE7jjiX7cZecK0GceXValYN0yI5dnD/s1600/DSC_0080.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYAe1Vk6GHNCmFZEKzGkXOJpbWiWxAalLO-T_V5URsnfSb7RcXAwGL0OJu3AGwvSbXnLDzPsIHsIZg8Y6NTVhpznFdQu2USj0wJlK3svYkXSAcRdDE7jjiX7cZecK0GceXValYN0yI5dnD/s320/DSC_0080.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633180814837641810" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Our bunkhouse.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Part Two of our trip was an adventure to the Oregon Coast. We went from the dry desert to the damp coast and saw a refreshing drop in temperature. It was wonderful. We rented a little beach house at Seal Rock and spent four days poking around tidepools, exploring different beaches, and checking out the <a href="http://aquarium.org/">aquarium</a>. I hadn't been to Oregon in about 30 years. Britt visited the coast many times while he was growing up, so it was fun for both of us to relive some childhood memories and remind ourselves that there is still an ocean out there.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgntrGhg5gW8sQ6fUeV7zaR5pofJasSdmMTjqyurygHoVWW5zPnYRQiOmMlF0Pd2VdsqVG1RHhqax3XiJUl7NIo1rroLkU3vCYq_BMc7o2z4o4Q1mjh5GHQMc6N3Y1Qh_KDC99qnYf9Z1/s1600/DSC_0276.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgntrGhg5gW8sQ6fUeV7zaR5pofJasSdmMTjqyurygHoVWW5zPnYRQiOmMlF0Pd2VdsqVG1RHhqax3XiJUl7NIo1rroLkU3vCYq_BMc7o2z4o4Q1mjh5GHQMc6N3Y1Qh_KDC99qnYf9Z1/s320/DSC_0276.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633178558631933074" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The view from the beach house.<br /><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Other notable successes during the trip:<br />1. Penny took off her shoes on the beach. It took a couple of days for her to warm up to the idea, but she finally got brave enough to try. And then she didn't want to put them back on.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQV9vgvR3n-yIfJSKahjYnLMcreYkLsjvpwpzjVaCRmd1So5W31SQ9uuHUQZ36-N1UWLxHFGu2QdriCW3cyV9yis4tl9C93RFbOPcUvcxuYOxSU6PgLL3noz5n5ppAXszs1SAWmjVvBGt/s1600/DSC_0548.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPQV9vgvR3n-yIfJSKahjYnLMcreYkLsjvpwpzjVaCRmd1So5W31SQ9uuHUQZ36-N1UWLxHFGu2QdriCW3cyV9yis4tl9C93RFbOPcUvcxuYOxSU6PgLL3noz5n5ppAXszs1SAWmjVvBGt/s320/DSC_0548.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633179018813824866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Really getting into it.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">2. Penny touched starfish. Last time we were in<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span> <a href="http://prettylittlepenny.blogspot.com/2010/04/california-dreamin.html">California</a>, she was unwilling to touch the starfish in the exhibit at the Birch Aquarium. But this time, Britt found a little red one that was too cute to resist. After that, she touched as many as she could find.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkusWGE7f0d9vQ-dJZR2VPbbd0P8TYWyeC0oxVXOqm4vE7cY9tn48tOyCWieGC0FfDTvTAGazkOnMO6ClAM1kleCnKnP7u2EZxcta8FVCDtFXglfxOtz8YrWQu_tb5UYe4rT9N82o8Y52L/s1600/DSC_0690.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkusWGE7f0d9vQ-dJZR2VPbbd0P8TYWyeC0oxVXOqm4vE7cY9tn48tOyCWieGC0FfDTvTAGazkOnMO6ClAM1kleCnKnP7u2EZxcta8FVCDtFXglfxOtz8YrWQu_tb5UYe4rT9N82o8Y52L/s320/DSC_0690.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633179412878418386" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />3. We had a 15 hour drive to Oregon (twice - there and back), and Penny didn't have any accidents. And she was a pretty good sport, considering we were all sick of the car by the time vacation was over. Next time though, we're going to fly. That drive was ridiculous.<br /><br />(There are more pictures on <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/12725663@N00/">Flickr</a>).<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-39403113535153836292011-06-13T22:29:00.008-06:002011-06-13T23:33:00.917-06:00Things I have learned about my three year old (so far).<span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqBxX5-p0DoIRz5DE9GzCa_-uHqwlheobH-CKny7-ZEPErMlDQic_CYeURAiVEW4N1qVAQDAGn7UZSNX_q9sU1Wj7jU-KMB4-GXQh46gvXHMzB5y5RE6VEATU9PUyRuMit-KuImW2NuC8/s1600/photo.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLqBxX5-p0DoIRz5DE9GzCa_-uHqwlheobH-CKny7-ZEPErMlDQic_CYeURAiVEW4N1qVAQDAGn7UZSNX_q9sU1Wj7jU-KMB4-GXQh46gvXHMzB5y5RE6VEATU9PUyRuMit-KuImW2NuC8/s320/photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617935051951039090" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:'lucida grande';font-size:85%;" class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span"><span style="font-style: italic;">(She is almost as tall as our irises.)</span><br /><br />1. The two year-old style "fits" have decreased, but the yelling in my face has increased. Now we have a "no yelling in my face" rule, which I never imagined I would have to create.</span></span><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">2. She is still extremely cautious, and embraces self-preservation. After we converted Penny's crib to a toddler bed, it took her a week to figure out that she could get out of it on her own. In the morning, if she wakes up before we do (e.g. weekends), she will call for me, and I will call back (from bed), "Come here." And then I can hear the tiniest creak of the floorboards, followed by the sound of her little feet on the floor, pum, pum, pum, pum, PUM! And then she's at my side of the bed, smiling in my sleepy, disheveled face.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">3. She has a bladder of steel. We are deep in the throes of potty training, for real this time. Pull-ups have been banished and are only for sleeping. Underwear is in full effect. Accidents have been minimal, except that she hides in her closet to poop. In her underwear. Sigh. Anyway, the first couple of days she only peed a couple of times, so either she can hold it for a long time, or her bladder is incredibly strong, or using the potty is just that horrible.<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">4. Someday she will read this and be totally mortified by item #3. But I really couldn't be prouder. She even used the potty at Grandma's house today, which is a giant step. We are finally getting somewhere.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">5. She adores her family. When I tell her that her Aunt M and Uncle P are coming over for dinner, she claps her hands and shouts, "They're part of my family!" </span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">6. She is on our schedule; therefore we have created a monster. Britt and I stay up pretty late, (although it seems to be getting harder with age), and now so does Penny. We TRY to start the bedtime ritual by 8:30, but she's the queen of stalling. Even if we get her in bed by 9:00, she talks and sings to herself and carries on for an hour afterwards. Then I have to wake her up on the mornings I go to work, and it's not pleasant. </span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgBht67fzpIW8kGuAXlGf5jPh2SmHfhQLwSm0jt3H0-jRW6xtosu6HWlzP1n_VUhs3ZXy4O1C82xKD2exGIQUp6r_SvZq7rOT3g_54NuscJHrpeYDngiZ3eQa5xQSDff-jPfS3LrRckbI-/s1600/photo-1.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgBht67fzpIW8kGuAXlGf5jPh2SmHfhQLwSm0jt3H0-jRW6xtosu6HWlzP1n_VUhs3ZXy4O1C82xKD2exGIQUp6r_SvZq7rOT3g_54NuscJHrpeYDngiZ3eQa5xQSDff-jPfS3LrRckbI-/s320/photo-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617944147191189570" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span">When Penny was two, I heard over and over that three is worse than two. I think we're doing ok. Some things have certainly improved, and others have sort of evolved, or devolved, for better or for worse. I could do without the yelling, but I appreciate the energetic attempt at communication. The bedtime routine could be faster, but at least she doesn't get out of her bed! So I'll just count my blessings, then.<br /></span></span></div><div style="font-family: lucida grande;font-family:lucida grande;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></span></div>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-58489245080723018092011-05-30T12:26:00.005-06:002011-05-30T22:55:23.030-06:00Penny's Third Year, in 5 Minutes<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Here's a little tradition I hope I can continue to do, although it is time consuming. But I'm always glad to do it, because it gives me a chance to go through all of the photos from the year. I'm always surprised by how much we cram into 12 months, and how quickly the time goes.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/24422223?portrait=0" frameborder="0" height="225" width="400"></iframe><br /><br />Song Credits:<br />"This Will Be Our Year" by OK Go<br />"Big Jumps" by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Emiliana</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Torrini</span><br /><br />Then I go back and watch the videos I made before, and there's my girl, in baby form! It was so clear and real back then, and now it seems distant and foggy. So I guess I'd better keep this up, so I won't forget.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-76296866432843220382011-05-06T00:07:00.005-06:002011-05-06T01:00:20.966-06:00Three Years Old<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDFlZivssgOiK8YWZQbyF1g24HIgP43i_LcYWMqv5FYxQmRAynklh5nQcenK_mL_NwcbLz8Ca2RipyH4p7WQpIkibTc58JSJUzSSXmuquKpwyIHpPgrKBRCYGZyL1E-NuPQRa5uQLYRU0/s1600/DSC_0107.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiDFlZivssgOiK8YWZQbyF1g24HIgP43i_LcYWMqv5FYxQmRAynklh5nQcenK_mL_NwcbLz8Ca2RipyH4p7WQpIkibTc58JSJUzSSXmuquKpwyIHpPgrKBRCYGZyL1E-NuPQRa5uQLYRU0/s320/DSC_0107.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603493546274084450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">May 6, 2011<br /><br />Dear Penny,<br /><br />Today you are three years old. THREE. Three years ago, your dad and I were in the hospital, holding our brand new baby girl, overjoyed with love and rapture and disbelief. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">It was, without a doubt, the happiest day of my life. (And that includes my 7<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> birthday, which is the year I got a brand new bicycle for my birthday, the "Desert Rose.") </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">We stared at you for hours; awestruck by your tiny fingers and toes. We grinned when you yawned and stretched, we marveled at every bit of you.<br /><br />You are still a marvel. You are getting taller, and your hair reminds me of a jar of honey sitting in the sunlight. Your laugh is contagious. You are, how can I say this? Dramatic. Everything is an emergency, so you can come off as a little bossy from time to time, truth be told. But you are working on asking for things nicely and not shouting at people, and understanding when things are not as big of a deal as you might think.<br /><br />You are also getting better at using words to explain why you don't like certain things ("I <span style="font-style: italic;">frustrated</span>!") and you can tell me when you are worried about something. You really are sweet and sensitive. Sometimes I forget that someone so young can have such complicated emotions.<br /><br />You love dancing and playing and drawing and painting. You have a knack for art, which fills my heart with pride. You also have quite the imagination. The other day you told me you were going to the jungle and you were taking food for all of the animals. You have long, in-depth conversations with yourself and your toys and you really like it when we join in and play with you.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUl2eXnnVSP7GMl_jolAVEXMNIJlaij1wzm8aVIpNP4cFlFLcxRoRAtD6YA3y0RNRS2utbdqbO30hDn09g_6TXcK59o9Z2KSkBSWQ5LPeknkhlhVc7CBgDPW09r0ct6NLYJU_pdvhreQV/s1600/IMG_0388.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUl2eXnnVSP7GMl_jolAVEXMNIJlaij1wzm8aVIpNP4cFlFLcxRoRAtD6YA3y0RNRS2utbdqbO30hDn09g_6TXcK59o9Z2KSkBSWQ5LPeknkhlhVc7CBgDPW09r0ct6NLYJU_pdvhreQV/s320/IMG_0388.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603493541397639170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Last summer, you were digging in the yard and finding worms in the garden with your dad. So far this spring, you are not a fan of bugs at all, but I hope this is just a phase. Sometimes you freeze in place on the sidewalk and just scream in panic. Ants aren't going to hurt you, silly!<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyHG_NRP3I1Je4BjpsdZndObaZdtcUMhmwKe2xFsWpBTYe-pUrclcIhkCh0AWm0CauvS4Edr7yevvC9XFvAPomXU2k1hk1Owg69JKaFbuai9LtkYaMeuTeOURmHqQQz4HrT6aCBPuzqxf/s1600/IMG_0377.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYyHG_NRP3I1Je4BjpsdZndObaZdtcUMhmwKe2xFsWpBTYe-pUrclcIhkCh0AWm0CauvS4Edr7yevvC9XFvAPomXU2k1hk1Owg69JKaFbuai9LtkYaMeuTeOURmHqQQz4HrT6aCBPuzqxf/s320/IMG_0377.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603493532037258642" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">This coming year will bring a lot of new things. We found a preschool we really like—It's hard to believe you will be going to school soon. I am excited for you to make more friends, to learn new things, and to learn how to interact with adults who aren't your parents or your grandparents.<br /><br />We have been talking about changing your bed to a "big girl bed." I think you are excited about this prospect, but you are also apprehensive. After all, big girls go to school and use the potty. There's a lot to take on, and I'm sure it seems daunting. But we are here with you, and we're all in this together. You are a big girl, Penny, but you will always be my baby. Happy Birthday.<br /><br />Love,<br />Mom<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-8884315744342657682011-04-24T22:59:00.010-06:002011-04-25T00:52:37.502-06:00When Things Happen in Threes<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Forgive me if this post goes into too much detail, but I would be remiss if I didn't try to explain the recent chaos in my life and describe what was one of the worst weeks we've had in a long time.<br /><br />In the midst of changing jobs, I had been wrapping things up with the old job so I could start the new one, which included one last trip out to the boonies. When I returned, I discovered one of my tires had a flat. Fortunately it happened overnight in the parking stall, so at least it didn't blow out while I was driving on the road. I even managed to get the lug nuts off the tire and the car on the jack by the time Britt arrived to help me get the spare on. We shall call the flat tire Rupture Number One.<br /><br />That weekend, Penny developed a fever and said her ear hurt. She was very specific about which ear was bothering her; it was her right ear, not her left. She didn't have a runny nose or a cough, but I'd had a sore throat for a couple of days, so I figured she was coming down with another cold. I alternated Tylenol and Ibuprofen for her fever and pain, and hoped she'd be better in a couple of days. Note: Ear infections usually resolve on their own, it was the weekend and my doctor wasn't in, and she seemed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span> otherwise.<br /><br />That Tuesday morning, I woke up because of a stabbing pain in my uterus. It was blinding, constant pain—not cramps, which come on and dissipate; this was like nothing I'd experienced before. I couldn't stand up. I started sweating profusely and I felt like throwing up. As I was lying on the nice, cool floor, I calculated where I was in my cycle and concluded there was no way I was pregnant. Penny brought me a blanket and covered me up while I sent Britt a desperate text. He came home as soon as he could and took us both to our doctor. Penny's fever had spiked and she was still complaining of ear pain, so we thought, let's take this party to the waiting room!<br /><br />The theory is that I had an ovarian cyst rupture; which would be Rupture Number Two. Apparently this happens to women, although this was a new experience for me. It hurts like hell when it happens, and then you're <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ok</span>. And I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ok</span>, after a couple of hours. Ladies, has this happened to you? How come no one talks about it? Meanwhile, Penny definitely had an ear infection in her right ear and we started her on antibiotics. We also stopped at McDonald's on the way home and Penny and I both got Happy Meals, even though they don't contain any real food. It just sounded good.<br /><br />Wednesday night, Penny had been asleep for a couple of hours, then woke up crying. I comforted her for a bit, and noticed her hair seemed damp, as if she'd been sweating. She said her throat hurt. I gave her some water and held her for a while, and then she went back to sleep. The next morning, Britt said, "Um, her ear is draining. A lot."<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UQX0XxpAb2v86L9aWm-qaZ-OAqiEtcAbDnETtf4tVVppQerYJYW4eekYvRkZVAZ6mS6QpgKbfrbSt7FQfHt9H0qeeIfSmgUarQiJNZ8pRPqGUp_SjK1VhoI_8NMYXRT4BP7CsRWkkNeA/s1600/pajamas.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8UQX0XxpAb2v86L9aWm-qaZ-OAqiEtcAbDnETtf4tVVppQerYJYW4eekYvRkZVAZ6mS6QpgKbfrbSt7FQfHt9H0qeeIfSmgUarQiJNZ8pRPqGUp_SjK1VhoI_8NMYXRT4BP7CsRWkkNeA/s200/pajamas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599403516124409218" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Which brings us to Rupture Number Three.<br /><br />*We interrupt this post to explain how the middle ear system works:*<br />Our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">eustachian</span> tubes help equalize the pressure in our ears. Children have smaller heads, so their <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">eustachian</span> tubes are shorter and more horizontal, so when kids get sick with colds and congestion, the tissues surrounding the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">eustachian</span> tube swell up, and basically pinch it off. This creates a nice little vacuum in the middle ear space behind the eardrum. The resulting pressure draws fluid out of the membranes in the middle ear, which accumulates behind the eardrum. This fluid is a nice breeding ground for bacteria, so the fluid can become infected when bacteria gets in there and multiplies. In severe cases, the eardrum can rupture because of the build up of infected fluid behind it.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJofKeg-x0P4Gbxg7DscEQQS8CBF3e2m3hXXI5TDZ1hdMkrV7rQlSZuNLzI9N0Cbj7ozrLz31-7-lrnAvqNHf9B0c38e3tUH4R_2l3CRZ4xFYeO862aNzfQRRPIW_pSodVNV5NvA72gs8/s1600/ears.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 169px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJofKeg-x0P4Gbxg7DscEQQS8CBF3e2m3hXXI5TDZ1hdMkrV7rQlSZuNLzI9N0Cbj7ozrLz31-7-lrnAvqNHf9B0c38e3tUH4R_2l3CRZ4xFYeO862aNzfQRRPIW_pSodVNV5NvA72gs8/s200/ears.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599403537535791506" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Penny's rendition of a bear with "yucky" ears. :(</span><br /><br />So, that dampness I thought was sweat was actually infected middle ear fluid from Penny's ruptured ear drum. She wasn't in pain anymore, as the pressure was alleviated when her eardrum burst. Also, the eardrum is a remarkable thing—it can heal itself. But I felt like a negligent monster. I see kids with draining ears all the time at work, but having it happen to your own child really puts things into perspective. Penny's ear oozed goo for a couple of days; they don't tell you in school that it will get all over clothes and bedsheets and and matted in hair. Yuck.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtD4jS0fJ9t4AT5Q53bKRsmlkQF-4ZHP40-XYcNRN1Y6qSkhAD-EC38PY3K0fEO0xnK3Pj3wdEylZgz4TMCw4EV-5pUqa83XTAQXXnVi1SRL8uFKXbFkaZz9RvVvJYe35rSF4Tvsgk7xPP/s1600/blocks.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtD4jS0fJ9t4AT5Q53bKRsmlkQF-4ZHP40-XYcNRN1Y6qSkhAD-EC38PY3K0fEO0xnK3Pj3wdEylZgz4TMCw4EV-5pUqa83XTAQXXnVi1SRL8uFKXbFkaZz9RvVvJYe35rSF4Tvsgk7xPP/s200/blocks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599403551390431474" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">No fever and no pain; time to mess with the cat.</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYDgIwa89bmYjo3mUjtdcLfvresc7U1TVsMwnNbE6si3ST6w5hPTgXNgJqUMl85ZlmX6DhWrYHkVLzRFT7hmZgQZVc_RfaXp9CkQGHcxZIDTHgvoGR_NdgPPOSwbzET_kMpdQSu-Q-6_w/s1600/smiling.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZYDgIwa89bmYjo3mUjtdcLfvresc7U1TVsMwnNbE6si3ST6w5hPTgXNgJqUMl85ZlmX6DhWrYHkVLzRFT7hmZgQZVc_RfaXp9CkQGHcxZIDTHgvoGR_NdgPPOSwbzET_kMpdQSu-Q-6_w/s200/smiling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599403526303480562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Anyway, we survived. I was able to pack up my office that weekend, thanks again to Britt, who helped with everything behind the scenes, and I started my new job last Monday. Whew. Looks like I'll be bringing Penny in to see some friends of mine to make sure her ear heals.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-33264712970505951082011-03-29T21:22:00.008-06:002011-03-29T23:31:24.433-06:00Love Bites<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwKw13vAZrPPhDMV6XVeXZg3wePlmADMbXWP8hLVNxFfZiuORTti98BWQHdeU4GVX-sW8KcnB8ztpdU7wgcvjRZzxBw5NWf15u2Lig7CVL9pJbT5_StOyagcPeXnL-CZf6RCrHPZshAZR/s1600/IMG_0068.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwKw13vAZrPPhDMV6XVeXZg3wePlmADMbXWP8hLVNxFfZiuORTti98BWQHdeU4GVX-sW8KcnB8ztpdU7wgcvjRZzxBw5NWf15u2Lig7CVL9pJbT5_StOyagcPeXnL-CZf6RCrHPZshAZR/s200/IMG_0068.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589734372133500866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">So....the potty. Let's just say that progress has been slow, which isn't really anyone's fault (other than mine), because we are always going somewhere, every day, and we haven't been able to do anything consistently. Add to that recent trips to Lava Hot Springs and Las Vegas, and you can see why it's been easier for us to just let Penny wallow in pull-ups most days. We keep saying we're going to go cold turkey and buy the underwear and clean up messes for a few days. But I'm still trying not to make this too traumatic.<br /><br />In my limited experience, children going through potty training fall into two (or three) camps: those who don't mind running around naked, those who also seem to be intrinsically rewarded by going potty on their own, and those who are motivated by tangible reinforcement of one kind or another (M&Ms, etc). My child does not fall into any of these categories. I have not been able to find a good motivator, not to mention the issues I have with food-based token reward reinforcement systems, but what's a parent to do? Some kids really love M&Ms. My kid loves fruit snacks, but not enough to sit on the toilet for one.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHtwefU0qLfTDFieVSQihzC2HOc4dR5rxnBZXPfYG-Qy2z8Drya_CVzXHUkwOOv31PCbKFWrhx07_qWjw2g5kmriB88NhuTaYGG0dLljUN627pPngTpxcyJ0aAPmP_WtGHSUiqzMVyRjI/s1600/IMG_0069.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvHtwefU0qLfTDFieVSQihzC2HOc4dR5rxnBZXPfYG-Qy2z8Drya_CVzXHUkwOOv31PCbKFWrhx07_qWjw2g5kmriB88NhuTaYGG0dLljUN627pPngTpxcyJ0aAPmP_WtGHSUiqzMVyRjI/s200/IMG_0069.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589734376922711714" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">"I'm a Viking!"</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">We've (sort of) been using a sticker chart, and there are loads of stickers on the "I sat on the potty!" and "I washed my hands!" rows, but the lines about actually producing/flushing are completely bare. At first, Penny was really into collecting stickers on the lines, because it meant that when it was full, she could get a new dolly. But somewhere along the way, it lost its appeal.<br /><br />We've been talking it up a lot, about how big girls use the potty, and we list all the big girls we know, and I'm sure Penny is sick of hearing about it. I'm sick of hearing myself; for all I know, I'm making her feel bad. I hear about kids who magically decide one day they want to use the bathroom and I want to believe that will happen, but it's hard to imagine, really. Do I keep pushing the issue, to let her know I'm serious about this? Do I leave it alone for a while? Why do I feel like I've tried everything AND nothing? ("We've tried nothing, and we're all out of ideas!")<br /><br />Tonight, on a whim, I asked if she wanted to sit on the potty before she put her pajamas on, and she said she did. I gave her a stack of books, because she does her best reading on the toilet. When she finished the books she had, she asked me for more, and while I was in her room, she exclaimed, "I peed in the potty!" And she was right.<br /><br />And there was much rejoicing.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWnK5VMcCkRuDS-YAOlsfXNWg95ghHvKfy69hOWpxeSYO3JToIWsyHW9dQEDl8beLfwWnLeX4_m9TWhESxJO9Ts8aM2kpznMs-t1rxNWUr7S109MP5l7SDm76b_X-2VJKA1wChy68-Zie/s1600/IMG_0168.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFWnK5VMcCkRuDS-YAOlsfXNWg95ghHvKfy69hOWpxeSYO3JToIWsyHW9dQEDl8beLfwWnLeX4_m9TWhESxJO9Ts8aM2kpznMs-t1rxNWUr7S109MP5l7SDm76b_X-2VJKA1wChy68-Zie/s200/IMG_0168.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589734384564571074" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">After she was ready for bed, I was holding her on the couch, telling her how proud I was. Then, when I gave her an encouraging squeeze, SHE BIT ME. It was the slightest nip on my arm, but still. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Before I even said anything, she knew she had made a mistake. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">But the crazy thing was, instead of making a scene, I went into this Zen mode (which surprised me) and said, calmly, "Biting is not nice. We don't bite anybody." In classic Penny <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh-Crap-I'm-In-Trouble-And-I'm-Embarrassed</span> form, she shut down and started crying, although it didn't last long. She rushed through an (admittedly forced) apology, and then we headed for bed.<br /><br />And then I remembered something that happened to me when I was little. My sister and I were brushing our teeth one night, and I must have done something incredibly snotty. In any case, my sister bit me right on my back, and I knew, even then, that I deserved it. So I told Penny that story and she was very intrigued. I explained that we were little and I made my sister mad and she didn't know how to tell me, so she bit me. Biting me wasn't right, but it also wasn't right for me to make her mad.<br /><br />Anyway, after the lights were out and Penny was in her bed, she called me into her room a few minutes later.<br /><br />Penny: "Mama, I need someping."<br />Me: "What do you need?"<br />Penny: "I need a drink of water."<br />Me: "Ok, but this is the last one."<br />Penny: "Ok."<br />(I give her the water, and a hug.)<br />Me: "I'm proud of you for going on the potty."<br />Penny: "I sorry I bit you, Mama."<br />Me: "Oh Honey, it's ok."<br /><br />And she really meant it. Inside, I was turning cartwheels of joy because she had thought about it, and wanted to tell me.<br /><br />So the moral is, potty training may result in frustration and biting. Great! I can't wait for tomorrow.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-39950057641043572602011-03-09T22:53:00.008-07:002011-03-10T00:28:03.950-07:00The Ups and the Downs and the Screams in Between<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxgZSCFfHPPhgQTCdZANO5bz8Y6HcTzvDbP187VZUQaUpn9kPAer4dt0DvSQPUVLcYrB0K3NQ94J7i3bMNnEA_970hKG9LhjTOR08qg9tGi7KVpiAApeqhxPSHiUauEQr_ILKEL487XnG/s1600/IMG_0026.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKxgZSCFfHPPhgQTCdZANO5bz8Y6HcTzvDbP187VZUQaUpn9kPAer4dt0DvSQPUVLcYrB0K3NQ94J7i3bMNnEA_970hKG9LhjTOR08qg9tGi7KVpiAApeqhxPSHiUauEQr_ILKEL487XnG/s200/IMG_0026.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582346442190408946" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Part of my slacking off with regular posting is because we've settled into a rather nice routine, a comfortable, regular routine, and there hasn't been much to report, really. My days off with Penny are sublime, and I look forward to spending time with her. We get up, eat breakfast, go to dance or to story time, we eat lunch and watch Sesame Street, we take a nap (and sometimes I actually exercise instead), we get up again, we make dinner. Nice, right? On the days I go to work, Penny gets to play with her Grandma and they pretty much do whatever they feel like, and then I pick Penny up and she tells me about her day. The good days are very, very good. I can't believe my good fortune.<br /><br />But there are bad days too. I'm amazed at how quickly my mood changes, depending on Penny's mood. If she's cranky, I am instantly cranky. I have to consciously remind myself that I'm the adult. She angrily SHOUTS demands like a tiny dictator. Where does she get it? Not from me, I swear! I'm polite! I tell her a million times a day to say "please" after each command she issues. Surely there will be a point where she will remember to include it on her own. She does often say, "Thank you, Mama." And that makes me so happy, I can't even tell you.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWCzTrzGqZNjT5vCWfET-ypIF1Jbuvr7uYWkhGvX-Fr8pBOZrTV4fGOKJPBk7V0Up3D44DHrR91bJC8vEXr-GWAQrg81v0gh_aGGtW_8XjgWCcweusHwgBnwRLa7woq3q5uHail2kQWXg/s1600/IMG_0029.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFWCzTrzGqZNjT5vCWfET-ypIF1Jbuvr7uYWkhGvX-Fr8pBOZrTV4fGOKJPBk7V0Up3D44DHrR91bJC8vEXr-GWAQrg81v0gh_aGGtW_8XjgWCcweusHwgBnwRLa7woq3q5uHail2kQWXg/s200/IMG_0029.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582346449449318338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Meanwhile, she's rude to other people! Especially to her Grandpas. I don't know what that's about. Random people in the store compliment her, and she recoils, shouting, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Nooo</span>!" I'm glad she has stranger danger because that's a good survival skill, but at some point this behavior won't be acceptable. So I'm trying to combat it by modeling polite responses to people, by asking her to say hello, by encouraging her to at least give her Grandpa a high-five if she doesn't feel like hugging him or saying goodbye. Please tell me other children are this stubborn and dramatic.<br /><br />The drama doesn't end when Penny goes to sleep. Most nights she sleeps fine, but there are some nights were she wakes up screaming. It makes me bolt upright in bed from a dead sleep. So I rush to her bed, to see what's wrong. And she'll ask for water in a perfectly normal voice. What? I thought you were dying! I don't know if she has nightmares, and jolts awake, and if that's so unsettling she screams? She has a little night light, so it's not completely dark in her room. Maybe I should finally convert her crib into a bed so she won't feel trapped? Maybe the crib helps her feel contained and safe? I don't know!<br /><br />It's plain to me that with each new phase of development, I feel like a brand new parent. I've never had a two (almost three) year old. Just when I think I've got this parenting thing down, my toddler throws me a curve ball and I feel totally incompetent. But tomorrow is always another day, a fresh start. A chance to be the rational, even-tempered mother (and adult) I know I am.<br /><br />Remind me to rant about the potty next time (another source of frustration and the ultimate power struggle). I've complained enough about my sweet babe for one evening.<br /><br />Also: Penny announced the other night that Miss Piggy is her favorite Muppet, so that might explain a few things.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-83970345771396572422011-02-14T23:22:00.006-07:002011-02-15T00:42:02.024-07:0033 Months Old<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGTDJZvVoTGwGJAak4Zbka-gVMFhZ7LcEzljJx06137Qxnvlp-RnNIeiscM7mEUKc1H52Qm8BEPNz5VIWMXlLM25_rOejh-wOHja8G2f-zux0Lc3wdx-7pUmVuCt7jUgd_qh7sgCd78yS/s1600/smile.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGTDJZvVoTGwGJAak4Zbka-gVMFhZ7LcEzljJx06137Qxnvlp-RnNIeiscM7mEUKc1H52Qm8BEPNz5VIWMXlLM25_rOejh-wOHja8G2f-zux0Lc3wdx-7pUmVuCt7jUgd_qh7sgCd78yS/s200/smile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573814550590197794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Dear Penny,<br /><br />It's hard to believe that in a mere three months, you will be 3 years old. Sometimes it seems like you're already 3, but I think it's ok for you to be 2 just a little while longer. As I'm writing this, you are sick with a nasty cough, which marks the 3rd illness you've had in 3 months. I think it's going to be a long night. I can't wait for warmer weather so we can air out the house and kick winter to the curb.<br /><br />You love to play pretend - sometimes you're a mommy taking her baby for a walk, or putting her baby to bed. Sometimes you're a cowgirl, galloping all over the house on her make-believe horse (which for some reason, bucks you off a lot, and then you <span style="font-style: italic;">pretend</span> to cry). </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">You also enjoy painting on your easel and you've learned that mixing blue and red together makes your favorite color. You prefer to do things by yourself, and you scold me when I forget, which makes me laugh. ("No, <span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> do it!") </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />You are very opinionated about the songs you want to hear in the car. The other day, you made your dad play "Joe Hill" at least 5 times, and although it is an important and meaningful song, it's a little macabre. Now you go around singing, "I never died, said he!" We haven't had to explain death to you yet, though. If it comes up, I'm going to let Daddy field that topic, since he played that song for you in the first place.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBaeENSWn7j5U-Kvue3q9yylzZamwNjgb9emVirYLHNcJIn7dpeGOinv1YdljLR45DYX2_SboXJJdi22BRqn_iRWinsh3EMZVjBMXqum7gDjruX7huakiHFQZ95YmTqZAij-vONnWzjwZ/s1600/DSCN1232.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwBaeENSWn7j5U-Kvue3q9yylzZamwNjgb9emVirYLHNcJIn7dpeGOinv1YdljLR45DYX2_SboXJJdi22BRqn_iRWinsh3EMZVjBMXqum7gDjruX7huakiHFQZ95YmTqZAij-vONnWzjwZ/s200/DSCN1232.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573815748337916306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Playing "My Side!" with Daddy at the table.</span></span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubDiIBteqTun_gac7U6CfGeNhKZTZfohpNQPtJ1v8lOIRy3aVzCebgAp1_oiMbVIwchqfTZulJRjJ-zsCOi8_OSBU4b7tq2OEle-f0_Uq8v3R_lApdmOg0NaTfp8Vc4PBJfjKN3ad4XaU/s1600/DSCN1233.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiubDiIBteqTun_gac7U6CfGeNhKZTZfohpNQPtJ1v8lOIRy3aVzCebgAp1_oiMbVIwchqfTZulJRjJ-zsCOi8_OSBU4b7tq2OEle-f0_Uq8v3R_lApdmOg0NaTfp8Vc4PBJfjKN3ad4XaU/s200/DSCN1233.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573814542593311874" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I never thought I'd see the day when I'd be waking you up in the morning instead of the other way around, but we've had a few mornings where you've slept in to the point where I had to get you up so we could make it to dance on time. And speaking of dance, I'm really proud of you, Penny. I don't dance with you in class anymore because you can do everything by yourself. I sit off to the side with the other parents. You listen to your teacher (for the most part), and you remember what she's taught you, which means that you've also learned some French in the process.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITJfPLOsSQmswZpM2dyavsVJsLv6IqY3ZhprExNkDBj30oRwEwiRFAU_hLfl8zZWY3MtTA86G23BGY6ZS1c3gvQWH78DedHmcID9N-affnclLOBwYj0DAHpiP2qyT6MjGqH2I8eBelSNu/s1600/dance.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiITJfPLOsSQmswZpM2dyavsVJsLv6IqY3ZhprExNkDBj30oRwEwiRFAU_hLfl8zZWY3MtTA86G23BGY6ZS1c3gvQWH78DedHmcID9N-affnclLOBwYj0DAHpiP2qyT6MjGqH2I8eBelSNu/s200/dance.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573814547829990018" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />The other day, I caught you looking in a little mirror; pretending to "get ready" by rubbing your face with a piece of Styrofoam, as if you were applying makeup, and my heart almost stopped. I have to remember that you are always paying attention, and sometimes I forget that. I am your role model. I set the examples for you to follow, in my actions and my behavior. Oh Honey, I'm really not ready for you to be interested in makeup yet, even though I wear it. Someday I will explain the definition of "hypocrite."<br /><br />Otherwise, life is pretty good, unless you're sick, like tonight. And sometimes, even though you're almost 3 and you like to do so many things yourself, you still need me, and I still need to be needed. My heart still melts when you tell me you love me. I will never get tired of hearing that. You will always be my baby.<br /><br />Love,<br />Mom.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-82031137989684605232011-01-16T23:28:00.010-07:002011-01-17T00:52:34.652-07:00Snow Days<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5bSj5E0L2dBI9X5VrEogZelSiaOppfq1e3xZA_NtdzU3ZCec5yqd_JQUawYtjalfBkp93gbz37SajN00CzZq8t9KriO5uSKn__5m9a6EeIerXc-tr24fdsSsYiUW6zAhJxxwrs4gZkR7/s1600/DSCN1209.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR5bSj5E0L2dBI9X5VrEogZelSiaOppfq1e3xZA_NtdzU3ZCec5yqd_JQUawYtjalfBkp93gbz37SajN00CzZq8t9KriO5uSKn__5m9a6EeIerXc-tr24fdsSsYiUW6zAhJxxwrs4gZkR7/s200/DSCN1209.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563051650036395634" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">2010 ended with freezing temperatures, so instead of living it up on New Year's Eve, we went into hibernation instead. It was less than 5 degrees and snowing, and the roads were icy, so we were happy to hunker down. But the next day brought the New Year and some sunshine, so we decided to try out Penny's new winter gear.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2kCAv6kZgdaZXxIA6vgOBeLFn8Iv5Bq4Wahw4hq1BwZ85uQofEfaiBJolr58jGPhfMEWkqHzwn8CBEhe0jkty6xE4Dm7jsiIK7PyeMSlbfUZG6saVGscw8J_-J6m-Ie3puoUdNtD_dBM/s1600/DSCN1187.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU2kCAv6kZgdaZXxIA6vgOBeLFn8Iv5Bq4Wahw4hq1BwZ85uQofEfaiBJolr58jGPhfMEWkqHzwn8CBEhe0jkty6xE4Dm7jsiIK7PyeMSlbfUZG6saVGscw8J_-J6m-Ie3puoUdNtD_dBM/s200/DSCN1187.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563051630017248866" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">You just can't beat purple snow pants.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I have some good childhood memories of making snowmen and playing in our back yard, but I don't remember lasting too long in the cold. I remember my mittens getting encrusted with snow and my fingers turning pink. I only recently learned how to ski, before Penny was born, and I was surprised to discover that being outside in the cold can be fun, as long as you stay warm and dry. And there's gear for that! Wow, winter just became exponentially more fun.<br /><br />Penny and I <span style="font-style: italic;">both</span> received new snow boots for Xmas, so we put them on and outside. Ooh, there was lots of pristine snow to mess up:<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVj5svMjlP8_AFAk8hhFrZ3UHS_8N3DlHMiOofUbGEMsAp6ulI_j58eH0RWiIXYy6BYm3ZO5ljCpXoXb8PR_6xzaJDgLsVZQ4HCh-5CoL8r-4ACZbRixgy4uIMRUDHnsmpZa6PWdfOaqm/s1600/DSCN1205.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVj5svMjlP8_AFAk8hhFrZ3UHS_8N3DlHMiOofUbGEMsAp6ulI_j58eH0RWiIXYy6BYm3ZO5ljCpXoXb8PR_6xzaJDgLsVZQ4HCh-5CoL8r-4ACZbRixgy4uIMRUDHnsmpZa6PWdfOaqm/s200/DSCN1205.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563051642287163042" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOQu6DKaOXxsar0mW5MLpkglDWvmpUy9xaFXZFawSotfOBNfJsPJY0jnSyKM5TbRbhBG2vLwaZ4Wgv7LEIEOfZdV2ACNCW3anQZBZW7PcrhV61uWr4tJViGgpxhPCqifg6YKIaBikKk_i/s1600/DSCN1208.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaOQu6DKaOXxsar0mW5MLpkglDWvmpUy9xaFXZFawSotfOBNfJsPJY0jnSyKM5TbRbhBG2vLwaZ4Wgv7LEIEOfZdV2ACNCW3anQZBZW7PcrhV61uWr4tJViGgpxhPCqifg6YKIaBikKk_i/s200/DSCN1208.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563051644818814018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpWaks_nUukMUiY33zLiGL6ON7g-y-M2tDxYwIp6c9p-ng6VRKoJVP-swvKty7HZIi5x2FbAKHjjL51hB7FbukHXJXMZa7rv0n3keMaFMW7em121q6IsuWX7HYrUH3lIdr9cyQl1ViSHiT/s1600/DSCN1213.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpWaks_nUukMUiY33zLiGL6ON7g-y-M2tDxYwIp6c9p-ng6VRKoJVP-swvKty7HZIi5x2FbAKHjjL51hB7FbukHXJXMZa7rv0n3keMaFMW7em121q6IsuWX7HYrUH3lIdr9cyQl1ViSHiT/s200/DSCN1213.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563052772826184114" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Snow castles are almost as fun as sand castles.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I'd forgotten how satisfying it is to make snow angels. Penny hadn't really seen one before (with the exception of the ones Peter makes in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Snowy Day</span>), so I showed her how to do it. It turns out it's impossible not to laugh while you're lying down in the snow.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVKWGjPOlonXuz27Ijw-zMADgH3BgXVr5VPPga7nFTu6fbLnsbDkOTtSk7oMiSbfGDN5LjIreVyl_m_yR6iBoI7ekOspUOU0UwcXM50Wm34BVjzeK4XLuvgrakV-o1a44As0HgE9XM6zYb/s1600/DSCN1223.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVKWGjPOlonXuz27Ijw-zMADgH3BgXVr5VPPga7nFTu6fbLnsbDkOTtSk7oMiSbfGDN5LjIreVyl_m_yR6iBoI7ekOspUOU0UwcXM50Wm34BVjzeK4XLuvgrakV-o1a44As0HgE9XM6zYb/s200/DSCN1223.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563052776525964962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Before long, (as predicted) Penny's mittens became encrusted with snow, and her little nose was bright red. So we trudged back inside to warm up.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09XkJYw1HXGywuN_NPgZ08GFnAZ8QjA2EOn6D5X0TngU_oNh8_5HJDROS8RjdM17wC9HzzBXazGhKuHkG3HSnopa5ey7QusW6b5vZl-XeBf2QqVh7L1aYpfLPPpxkM8rymmugsBmgbIsF/s1600/DSCN1192.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09XkJYw1HXGywuN_NPgZ08GFnAZ8QjA2EOn6D5X0TngU_oNh8_5HJDROS8RjdM17wC9HzzBXazGhKuHkG3HSnopa5ey7QusW6b5vZl-XeBf2QqVh7L1aYpfLPPpxkM8rymmugsBmgbIsF/s200/DSCN1192.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563051636583918706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Last weekend, we attempted sledding at Penny's cousins' house. Since Penny had never been, she didn't think to protest when I put her on the sled with me. We weren't on a <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> steep hill, but we picked up a bit of speed, enough to make me shriek and giggle; enough to convince Penny she certainly wasn't doing <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>again. But she happily cheered us on, and laughed when Britt and I careened off track and tipped the sled over.<br /><br />Today, it's raining, and the snow is almost gone. I'm not holding my breath for spring just yet, but it might be nice to make some more angels before the snow melts away completely.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-78001933573977612682011-01-03T13:39:00.003-07:002011-01-03T13:48:04.682-07:00Artist at Work<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The creative energy is flowing around here. I hope some of it rubs off on me.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/18313244?portrait=0" frameborder="0" height="300" width="400"></iframe><br /><br />"And sometimes I get hot and need some water and cool off."<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-48546349101019979082010-12-29T23:00:00.009-07:002010-12-30T00:29:33.902-07:00And a Happy New Year<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TNpC49FWHS_QUkFu8hKk3Dm7x2alWejstZW-g0SWQpUoPZLMZ7y8HBwxUasE8cLojafrymZXJKEzN6gqFzyKmt2M8p2v-mn2z7ZvcyZgMowRcBqodrw41X5FQar_Na81W2HLsBWIcmY_/s1600/DSCN1150.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7TNpC49FWHS_QUkFu8hKk3Dm7x2alWejstZW-g0SWQpUoPZLMZ7y8HBwxUasE8cLojafrymZXJKEzN6gqFzyKmt2M8p2v-mn2z7ZvcyZgMowRcBqodrw41X5FQar_Na81W2HLsBWIcmY_/s200/DSCN1150.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556364716945351442" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />How is everyone? Did you survive the weekend? For a minute there, I wasn't sure we were going to make it. I don't know if it was stress from the regular holiday insanity, but Penny and I didn't get along well last week. Every day was Opposite Day, the Word of the Week was "NO," time outs were threatened and enforced. I nicknamed her the Bipolar Baby because her mood swings were so extreme, I wondered if there was an adolescent trapped in her two year old body. She was crying one minute and laughing maniacally the next. I had an emergency play date with my sister-in-law and her kids, and it helped immensely (although it did involve the extrication of a traumatized Penny from the upper tier of a local play-land).<br /><br />On Friday I had to go to 5 different places with all of the other last-minute shoppers and I dragged Penny along with me, and in hindsight, she put up with a lot. Also, I think there were some underlying fears about Santa, which I finally picked up on after Penny said, for the tenth time, "I don't like Santa."<br /><br />Part of our problem was we went into party mode, as any self-respecting member of my family does this time of year. Penny stayed up too late, slept in too late (I never thought I would ever say that), and was surly as hell. Then Christmas morning came, and there were presents from Santa, and presents with Britt's family, and presents with my family, and Penny was totally overstimulated.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQ0zYaWgmDJcz1SDRZekCw8er_xM4AWVGeefB70r00N98WZ9Js6qU4M-G95us2yeRztnksESAqJciIMBCdH6Cevmc-1Hx2Rr9QpJe0J-squtUXW4G1gAeLYYSSs6nK6iJxBjYcQvFdJtN/s1600/rockinghorse.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQ0zYaWgmDJcz1SDRZekCw8er_xM4AWVGeefB70r00N98WZ9Js6qU4M-G95us2yeRztnksESAqJciIMBCdH6Cevmc-1Hx2Rr9QpJe0J-squtUXW4G1gAeLYYSSs6nK6iJxBjYcQvFdJtN/s200/rockinghorse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556368217267584834" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Seriously awesome rocking horse from our cousins in CO. Olivia is along for the ride.</span><br /><br />Fortunately, Opa came to visit, and for the first time, Penny said, "Opa, you come play with me?" And how could he resist?<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfkGOPePhDB6aRZhGXjczI_h5HGacsyPEPM6omiEtpHN0UlHvCOmjl-26mrWniVlzpPto4RMMWtgeyOysVPHGCHDzwZNmy-tQQeKW82bwUdFSAz6dKakrs4aHAICgSAxgm8eWeARQ6aep/s1600/HPIM2411.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbfkGOPePhDB6aRZhGXjczI_h5HGacsyPEPM6omiEtpHN0UlHvCOmjl-26mrWniVlzpPto4RMMWtgeyOysVPHGCHDzwZNmy-tQQeKW82bwUdFSAz6dKakrs4aHAICgSAxgm8eWeARQ6aep/s200/HPIM2411.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556364699331559250" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Drawing with Opa.</span></span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TlUhMpYwTuV4L84kKOZiI6xwicnAepA0tCHrcD2hhl9UeKFrQ80VXLze8X2xO_xHUcenf8AEhDeQXRdukG1VHg0JBC-E5Jk98NuUJdV47iR06hLg-R6U-uVKM7Sh709w3_FtGRBAChS1/s1600/HPIM2412.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8TlUhMpYwTuV4L84kKOZiI6xwicnAepA0tCHrcD2hhl9UeKFrQ80VXLze8X2xO_xHUcenf8AEhDeQXRdukG1VHg0JBC-E5Jk98NuUJdV47iR06hLg-R6U-uVKM7Sh709w3_FtGRBAChS1/s200/HPIM2412.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556364705759210850" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Using up the purple.</span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">And now, she's back to her normal, (relatively) reasonable, adorable self, and we're friends again. She has many new things with which to play, and now that the chaos has waned, she's been telling jokes, like this:<br /><br />Penny: "Mama, say Knock, Knock."<br />Me: "Ok, Knock, Knock!"<br />Penny: "Who there?"<br />Me: "Interrupting Cow."<br />Penny: "Come in!"</span></span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3PyGFKVTWRayPh6Hn0JGlVJ8vugWR_cA697m8UdpYjEdoBPzDBBxAwgCz0_QZfWweCMyOyT9P_T8R_3t2zEMraX1GV5MpaPEp2UXDpD3i9AkQhW9167Sze_6y3F8Wzzuk7eI4fH_noSD/s1600/sc0152cee6.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC3PyGFKVTWRayPh6Hn0JGlVJ8vugWR_cA697m8UdpYjEdoBPzDBBxAwgCz0_QZfWweCMyOyT9P_T8R_3t2zEMraX1GV5MpaPEp2UXDpD3i9AkQhW9167Sze_6y3F8Wzzuk7eI4fH_noSD/s200/sc0152cee6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5556373950461779170" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Also, she's been expressing her own opinions about songs on the iPod or the radio, and admonishes me if I change songs. "Mama, I like this song, don't change it." LIKE I would switch away from <span style="font-style: italic;">New Sensation!</span><br /><br />Speaking of expression, the easel was pure genius, if I do say so myself. Penny received oodles of art supplies from her family (who got the memo from Santa) and she creates something new every day. She's already used up the purple pastel and the red and green ones need replacing as well. And this makes me very happy. I want 2011 to be full of art, of reading more together, of doing at least one thing with Penny every day that makes me feel like I'm doing a good job fostering her imagination, her creativity, or her emotional well being. Even if a whole day is crap, if I can point to one thing every day and say, "That was great when we did ____ together," then I think that will make for a pretty good year. And I think we can do it.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-80152627148409913852010-12-18T00:21:00.013-07:002010-12-19T02:15:43.244-07:00Flying Solo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbR1EGK5YIneVPyKXTbNJk3m22ELIr6wpS5luw6PsK8KxS6oIbrV6jwXr-PGkMFneqlxEYnq95kU0spO_Ta5t_-2FeqLEt6xve7kbMoEJiQ5vWm3dbWF5kXg3rMLs1w7UD8bccznaJbib1/s1600/flight.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbR1EGK5YIneVPyKXTbNJk3m22ELIr6wpS5luw6PsK8KxS6oIbrV6jwXr-PGkMFneqlxEYnq95kU0spO_Ta5t_-2FeqLEt6xve7kbMoEJiQ5vWm3dbWF5kXg3rMLs1w7UD8bccznaJbib1/s200/flight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552306047540664322" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I have never taken a major trip without having a 2:1 adult-to-child ratio, so I was nervous about flying to Denver without my Wing Man. The last time Penny flew on an airplane, she was <a href="http://prettylittlepenny.blogspot.com/2009/05/goin-back-to-cali.html">too little</a> to remember. This time, she was well aware of the hubbub in the terminal; all the bustling people, the tension emanating from everyone in the security line, the tension emanating from ME, and the roar of the planes coming and going. Grandpa helped us check our suitcase and the carseat, and we took only the diaper bag and (per the excellent advice of our friends), the umbrella stroller through security so I could prevail over any toddler-dawdling once we were inside the terminal.<br /><br />Everything went well until it was time to board. I explained to Penny that we couldn't take the stroller on the plane, but we would get it back when we landed. She was distraught when I checked it at the gate, as though I had given away a prized possession. Then as we were boarding, she declared she was not getting on the plane, and went completely stiff in my arms. So I hurried to our seats, with my petrified, hollering child, avoiding eye contact with everyone we passed. I noticed people inserting their earplugs and iPod earphones, to combat the hysterical screaming coming from our side of the plane. Penny would NOT sit. "Noooo!" She screamed. "It too noisy!" "I...(sniff)..don't (sniff)...want..my..(sniff) SEAT BELT!" She was only marginally upset while sitting on my lap, but was furious when I buckled her into her own seat. She screamed for 15 minutes. And that's when I knew I was the mom with <span style="font-style: italic;">that kid</span>. You know, the one who totally ruins your otherwise enjoyable flight.<br /><br />Flight attendants kept asking (over the din) if I needed anything, and I smiled weakly at them, refraining from requesting tranquilizers. My fight or flight response was so intense, I momentarily considered getting off the plane. But then I realized that was irrational. I paid for these tickets, we're GOING TO DENVER, <span style="font-size:78%;">goddammit</span>. Distraught toddler or no.<br /><br />And then, from all that effort, she collapsed in my arms. We hadn't even left the runway. She curled into a ball with her head in my lap, still strapped in, and was out like a light. Poor thing. By the time she woke up, we were in the air and well on our way. That's when she realized that flying is fun. Hey Penny, check out this tray table! Guess what? We get snacks! Here's an awesome <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mommys-Briefcase-Alice-Low/dp/0439374634/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1292743415&sr=8-1">book</a> I've been saving for just such an occasion! Want to color? I've got new markers!<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVMU5bYCvYXt9OcrjFlEviNhShQ5cp5BqGym6ybFNN6FXi7XipI8k6CCWVtjI_U1fedlqiLBOcQwskPxb4GKf5S-TqF9Wi2xzc1oq-KmnYULxv1JvEpzvdqFR31VPZue5Ub1S8R9OqXa6B/s1600/drawing.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVMU5bYCvYXt9OcrjFlEviNhShQ5cp5BqGym6ybFNN6FXi7XipI8k6CCWVtjI_U1fedlqiLBOcQwskPxb4GKf5S-TqF9Wi2xzc1oq-KmnYULxv1JvEpzvdqFR31VPZue5Ub1S8R9OqXa6B/s200/drawing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552306040058875842" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Tiger by Mommy, cave by Penny.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">When we landed, she exclaimed, "I did it!" And someone nearby applauded.<br /><br />Meanwhile, we had a fabulous time in Denver. I went to a workshop while Penny played with our cousins and took a trip to the Butterfly Pavilion. We also visited the <a href="http://www.botanicgardens.org/">Denver Botanic Gardens</a>, which is festooned with Christmas lights, and they also have <a href="http://www.botanicgardens.org/content/henry-moore-exhibition">Henry Moore sculptures</a> on display. It was a visual feast, and we warmed up with hot cider and sugared almonds. There was much visiting and quality family time, in addition to a long-awaited play date with our friends <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/pluxner_family/">Eli and Gray</a>, who are even cuter and more cherubic in person. We had an absolute blast.<br /><br />Flying home was cake for Penny, now that she knew what to expect. We had a frank conversation about seat belts before boarding, and she was the perfect little traveling companion. The couple next to us even said so!<br /><br />And then, we couldn't land. Literally. The fog (that turns people inside-out) was so terrible in Salt Lake, we had to stay in a holding pattern for 20 minutes above the airport before the pilot finally gave up and took us back to Grand Junction. My brain could not compute this. I had spent my last joule of energy entertaining Penny, first at the gate, and then on the plane. We had already maxed out every possible activity (including barf bag puppets) and now we couldn't get home.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52y76scytBRG-qJ_-m2mahQ4N-gTEYw0FWT1IPNJ665X50nMQudGBMM0s50pWa7ttvO7_fZ8CJawTGUuA6rSwFBIua9JzcKZj1AsTLi4rJAzVypOVN9gE9_l2-IHlnDfZiMzMs1cQAK6t/s1600/grand+junction.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52y76scytBRG-qJ_-m2mahQ4N-gTEYw0FWT1IPNJ665X50nMQudGBMM0s50pWa7ttvO7_fZ8CJawTGUuA6rSwFBIua9JzcKZj1AsTLi4rJAzVypOVN9gE9_l2-IHlnDfZiMzMs1cQAK6t/s200/grand+junction.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5552306048971543586" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Welcome to Grand Junction, CO. </span><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">The Grand Junction airport is small. Their dining establishments consist of a Subway, which had a 40 minute line; filled with hungry people from several other diverted flights. At this point, Penny was impatient and generally opposed to the idea of standing next to me in line. And I was tired. The Subway ran out of bread loaves and had to fill orders with flatbread. We rallied, had a picnic on the floor of the terminal, and waited anxiously for any word of boarding again. Fortunately, a colleague of mine was on the same flight, so I had someone to talk to, to help me wrangle Penny, and to keep me sane. THANK GOD.<br /><br />Five hours later, we made it home. Britt, who hadn't seen his baby girl for four days, returned to the airport for the second time to rescue us (the first time, he braved the fog and was waiting at baggage claim when our little detour was announced). I was beyond happy to see him.<br /><br />And now, I feel rather invincible, like I could do anything or go anywhere. I took my child on an adventure and we rocked it. Thanks to everyone who drove us around and hosted and entertained us and fed us. Let's do it again (someday).<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-43573220107227837422010-12-12T23:04:00.005-07:002010-12-13T00:01:00.386-07:00Fighting the Humbugs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Kyi2fLyag1a20sgQ-hYJLoIOAvzICyJ3tz3H8nCHLRJjYIx9ZglSKnbBiZprDlJVA-ixLZ2pVWNhqaOXlFlS2hrkSDSRVv-s65Xf4YM1GewNlGKcHTktuUVPZEaE_fdjvlHc65luKaCQ/s1600/cookies.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Kyi2fLyag1a20sgQ-hYJLoIOAvzICyJ3tz3H8nCHLRJjYIx9ZglSKnbBiZprDlJVA-ixLZ2pVWNhqaOXlFlS2hrkSDSRVv-s65Xf4YM1GewNlGKcHTktuUVPZEaE_fdjvlHc65luKaCQ/s200/cookies.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550047003169905554" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />In 3 more weeks, it will be a new year. This boggles my mind. And in the 3 weeks since I last posted, we had Thanksgiving in Wyoming (which was great), Penny and I flew to Denver (more on that later), I went on another overnight work trip, and we promptly came down with The Crud (the doctor's official diagnosis).<br /><br />But this weekend, we managed to get into the Xmas spirit a little, by decorating the tree and making cookies. I wasn't sure we were going to be able to jam both activities into the same evening, but Penny was really into it. And I briefly felt like Martha Stewart.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3tRF2PWp7ONM2QdfqguRvmr5MK16btD6NfVXjrkzEH0Fm77gJkVo6PebgkdFKugSs08vBzBGWSxpC1VXmOb7Dlx4mdFs3g0N67EJ3WSczvpisfo8LDZUkJUYv4tJRhOOz-rdyTJWq0OL/s1600/decorating.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG3tRF2PWp7ONM2QdfqguRvmr5MK16btD6NfVXjrkzEH0Fm77gJkVo6PebgkdFKugSs08vBzBGWSxpC1VXmOb7Dlx4mdFs3g0N67EJ3WSczvpisfo8LDZUkJUYv4tJRhOOz-rdyTJWq0OL/s200/decorating.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550047014427726370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPqDBkugfVkf8MGpc6eijhr17ffKVvDymItqrp-pmHC8Vl4lQNCgIiCEmDL-mv0itTRkAe7f0eyPc_Mp8bOqLldm9EgFvc3Ozfu95BPJIy0msHPsODjwMW-9zq2hbew65baeq3AmoPCsg/s1600/IMG01089-20101210-2211.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPqDBkugfVkf8MGpc6eijhr17ffKVvDymItqrp-pmHC8Vl4lQNCgIiCEmDL-mv0itTRkAe7f0eyPc_Mp8bOqLldm9EgFvc3Ozfu95BPJIy0msHPsODjwMW-9zq2hbew65baeq3AmoPCsg/s200/IMG01089-20101210-2211.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550047003733578818" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Otherwise, I'm not remotely ready for Christmas. I've barely done any shopping, and instead of venturing out this weekend, I went back to bed in an attempt to sleep in between coughing fits. Bah, Humbug!<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-63158851599018930892010-11-23T22:49:00.009-07:002010-11-24T00:34:03.454-07:00To React, or Not?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg408tGt515lwln8yIlWIPUnVnnJFeucUk9mrCagQnkytFqExmAS4IkIWjn3LwMalOEjZL9GShXA1UoLm0hNIxF5MBJXgZn8DYldYzaxtO8P0hQnHP4Aklv2Dx6AT1p9maYkOUS5NNeVd0e/s1600/DSCN1134.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg408tGt515lwln8yIlWIPUnVnnJFeucUk9mrCagQnkytFqExmAS4IkIWjn3LwMalOEjZL9GShXA1UoLm0hNIxF5MBJXgZn8DYldYzaxtO8P0hQnHP4Aklv2Dx6AT1p9maYkOUS5NNeVd0e/s200/DSCN1134.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543002865905410146" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />We are in the thick of toddler life, which means that we are mostly having a lot of fun. Penny cheerfully converses (with me and her dolls) all the live-long day, and she's gotten really good at entertaining herself while I'm cooking and cleaning and doing all of those other things that have to be done. But more than ever, I'm faced with myriad on-the-spot decisions about how to react in any given moment, and it hurts my head. I'm constantly asking myself, "How big of a deal is this, really? What should my reaction be?"<br /><br />Example 1: Penny is etching the kitchen cabinet with a ball point pen.<br /><br />Example 2: Penny is constantly sniffing air in and out of her nose to a certain rhythm, even though it isn't running and she doesn't seem to need a kleenex.<br /><br />Example 3: Penny is dawdling all the way to the car, and once she's in the car, she refuses to get in her car seat, saying, "This how my sit?" as she sits on the cupholders across from her seat. "This how my sit, Mama?"<br /><br />Example 4: Penny declaring she WANTS to go to time out.<br /><br />See what I mean? #1 was kind of a big deal, but we'd never actually had a conversation about not scribbling on walls or cabinets before, and since that wasn't some innate kernel of knowledge already stored in her brain, how was she supposed to know? I reminded her that we only draw on paper, not on walls or on cabinets, and she hasn't done it since, nor did she fall apart when she thought she was in trouble, which is an improvement from past experience(s).<br /><br />#2 drove me absolutely crazy, and she knew it too, which is why she kept doing it. I got her to stop by threatening to use the "booger sucker," which she despises.<br /><br />#3. This tests my patience to the absolute limit. The dawdling, the messing around, the not getting in her seat. The problem is, I'm usually in a hurry to get somewhere, and then I feel like crap for rushing around all the time and not letting her take her time. Why are we always in such a hurry? Why is it so important to sit right down in her seat? And when she says, "This how my sit?" it is really funny. So I usually <span style="text-decoration: line-through;">try not to laugh</span> go along with it, as long as it isn't raining or snowing on me while I'm trying to get her in her seat.<br /><br />#4. At the point where I've threatened a time out, and she agrees that it should happen, time out ensues. Call my bluff, will you? Plus I've started adding a minute. Then she's usually ok, as though she really did need a couple of minutes to think about things.<br /><br />Then there are other thorny issues, like constantly agonizing over whether or not to make her try new things, so she can "be brave," or letting her just be herself. If I intentionally put her in situations she doesn't like, am I forcing her to be someone she's not? How will she know if she likes something if she doesn't try it? Where can I find that balance without adding pressure? This came up at Lagoon, obviously, but there are little things every day, like not wanting to pick a song during toddler group, or not doing something in dance class that everyone else is doing. And I usually just say, "That's fine, you don't have to." Because I don't think I need to be a complete jerk. Because at the end of the day, it's not that big of a deal when you're two. I have to remember that she's only two!<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bTcTaE18rtBgB447UDgNMbqG3ABlS7HRrtoyso9Xt3461Yq8PHF0RHLIVcmAWe8nw7dK0Py2DZx25UANd3tGgHYkHHg2EkQHNSItetGtWTTiyzPoRFTMquKowkl74p4yCRwQnE8kyBa3/s1600/DSCN1135.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5bTcTaE18rtBgB447UDgNMbqG3ABlS7HRrtoyso9Xt3461Yq8PHF0RHLIVcmAWe8nw7dK0Py2DZx25UANd3tGgHYkHHg2EkQHNSItetGtWTTiyzPoRFTMquKowkl74p4yCRwQnE8kyBa3/s200/DSCN1135.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543002871659944258" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />And then there's potty training. We are using cloth diapers 50% of the time at this juncture, which is mostly because I work part time. I'm so tempted to go cold turkey and buy real underwear and have potty boot camp, but the other part of me wants to wait until she warms up to the idea more. But when will that be? If I don't have her try it every day, will she ever want to do it on her own? I have no idea. Will the kinder-gentler approach eventually yield a result, or should I be trying harder to make "potty time" consistent? Do I need to resort to tangible reinforcement with little rewards? I'm not sure I want to go there. Do I even want to push the issue over the break when we'll be traveling a lot in the near future, or should I seize the next 5 days?<br /><br />Parenting is hard. Note to self: <span style="font-style: italic;">She's only two</span>.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-38977846337479236672010-11-12T00:39:00.005-07:002010-11-12T01:51:55.884-07:0030 Months Old<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EY9rLtFAA3L6TtXMFZGWno0NDnr4axuXPJMxiXne_VuaKhtWeGmpmhltQo79l4iirkSWVvr1MGQRzeV5mzZ1ICqXiEjUuZXNAVkdXm66joy48_aW_4wgDc5bvwoTfG_QjE8kLDz8_Jgd/s1600/IMG00902-20101004-1043.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EY9rLtFAA3L6TtXMFZGWno0NDnr4axuXPJMxiXne_VuaKhtWeGmpmhltQo79l4iirkSWVvr1MGQRzeV5mzZ1ICqXiEjUuZXNAVkdXm66joy48_aW_4wgDc5bvwoTfG_QjE8kLDz8_Jgd/s200/IMG00902-20101004-1043.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538578050906629346" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />Dear Penny,<br /><br />Wow, we have a crazy schedule right now. I'm doing some different things at work and I feel like I spend most of my time in the car, just driving around the valley. You started a Toddler Group in September, and it's been a lot of fun to go to "school" with you. Sometimes you don't want to sit in your seat, and sometimes you'd rather lie on your belly on the floor. Sometimes we have to go in the hall to have a "conversation" until you're ready to participate in circle time (but don't feel bad, you're not the only kid who doesn't want to sit). But mostly, you have a blast. You like singing all the songs and making art projects, and you REALLY love snack time. I think the other moms must wonder if I feed you breakfast, because you usually want seconds or thirds. You are learning to share toys with the other kids, and to take turns, and maybe by the end of the year, you'll be able to walk in the door without saying "Noooooo!" when the teacher says Hi to you or asks you a direct question.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsgmmpMLS21MYiEm9FlWvkSu208Ow7u5FRFBJJfa32kbj6gGkd6LZVqlOsbIj82bmAfjlnbE8IWtka_NZG4PpbvR2gM2cMShjk54QzbVohJ9hx2xP6IAFT8gK7ZEK-HNaySa0g0Ague0Y/s1600/IMG00903-20101004-1043.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsgmmpMLS21MYiEm9FlWvkSu208Ow7u5FRFBJJfa32kbj6gGkd6LZVqlOsbIj82bmAfjlnbE8IWtka_NZG4PpbvR2gM2cMShjk54QzbVohJ9hx2xP6IAFT8gK7ZEK-HNaySa0g0Ague0Y/s200/IMG00903-20101004-1043.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538578041345634306" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">You also like to come home and play school. You get out your little stool and sing the "hello song" to your dollies, one at at time. Maybe you will be a teacher when you're all grown up. It sort of runs in the family, you know. When you're not at dance or at school, you are usually at Grandma's house. When I picked you up today, you told me you didn't want to go home and that you wanted to stay with Grandma. You have no idea how much it thrills her to hear you say that. You keep Grandma plenty busy and she likes that.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/16758727?portrait=0" frameborder="0" height="300" width="400"></iframe><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br /><br />I stopped counting the words in your sentences once you reached 8+ word phrases. I can have whole conversations with you, and tonight at dinner you asked your Aunt Emily what <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> did today. I love to hear you talk and pronounce new words and it always surprises (and worries) me how much you understand.<br /><br />I bought plane tickets for us to go to Denver next month, just you and me. I debated whether or not to take you, and I could have nabbed the opportunity to have a trip by myself. But you're my best pal and I can't bear to be away from you for 3 whole nights. So we're going to have a girls' trip, just you and I. It's either going to be loads of fun, and/or I'm completely insane to take you by myself without Daddy's help. But I'm looking forward to our little adventure.<br /><br />Penny, I'm sorry if it seems like I'm tired and stressed and busy. I am all of those things. It makes me simultaneously laugh and grimace when you pretend to take a shower and say to me, "You play by yourself, ok? I taking a shower." Or, "Goodbye, I going to work! I miss you!" But I relish my days off with you and my favorite thing to do is cuddle you and kiss your warm, sleepy face when we get up in the morning. Daddy has already started working longer hours now that the holidays are approaching and I know he'd rather be home playing with you.<br /><br />You are two and a half! I'm a little shocked by this. But you will always be my baby, ok?<br /><br />Love,<br />Mom.<br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-35520344456641778752010-11-03T00:33:00.009-06:002010-11-08T01:37:20.923-07:00Trick or Treat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuW1-qsRexkzW027B098tSt7MVyIMeIwJ-knbu2oYaihhrTksV4VV9614H-2M4ByIdkmGAl7CapbxhsrFRmJf3kOfoFhKcBD4FkxJODVo2i5ljWz0csb4Ctli7VDxJWMYWE9EWgodVo2ts/s1600/DSCN1123.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuW1-qsRexkzW027B098tSt7MVyIMeIwJ-knbu2oYaihhrTksV4VV9614H-2M4ByIdkmGAl7CapbxhsrFRmJf3kOfoFhKcBD4FkxJODVo2i5ljWz0csb4Ctli7VDxJWMYWE9EWgodVo2ts/s200/DSCN1123.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535224323919009730" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Halloween in Utah is weird, especially when it falls on a Sunday. And maybe it's weird in other states as well, but I don't recall it being an issue to trick-or-treat in Wyoming on a Sunday, but then again, my memory is a little fuzzy and I was probably more preoccupied with candy at the time. Anyway, every 6 years or so, there is a question about whether to go out on Saturday, or on Sunday, or both. You don't want to look too greedy (oh, who am I kidding?) but you also don't want to look like an idiot, if you are out there, and NO ONE is handing out candy. I know some rather mean-spirited people who refused to give out candy on Saturday, simply out of principle. I also know some people who didn't cater to those who waited until Sunday. All I can say is, thank goodness Halloween will be on Monday next year, so we won't have to worry about it.<br /><br />But I digress. We were greedy buggers this year, so Penny went trick-or-treating on Saturday with her cousins, and then I took her around our neighborhood on Sunday. Saturday was pretty much a repeat of <a href="http://prettylittlepenny.blogspot.com/2009/11/ween-09.html">last year</a>, with Penny sleeping over with her Aunt, Uncle and cousins (plural, now), while Britt and I went to a grown-up party. The two of us. And then we went home. Together. Yep.<br /><br />Saturday it rained buckets, but Isabelle and Penny were undeterred:<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoxOMn4dlE_hnuzs-9ESQn_2BjjYyIaZnRBe8QcjHhE4Qh067rxJ_cJERS8OhhnTrAyIrvYseys49cr4E-PbyIk3vlyTks7KjccjiM-PSaG7ByhdtRtz9ey9f42-imJ8dNqSCREsBDeILo/s1600/trick+or+treat.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoxOMn4dlE_hnuzs-9ESQn_2BjjYyIaZnRBe8QcjHhE4Qh067rxJ_cJERS8OhhnTrAyIrvYseys49cr4E-PbyIk3vlyTks7KjccjiM-PSaG7ByhdtRtz9ey9f42-imJ8dNqSCREsBDeILo/s200/trick+or+treat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535224321780864338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Then Sunday, I told Penny we could go out again after dinner. While I was doing dishes and cooking (I know that doesn't <span style="font-style: italic;">seem</span> like correct order of action, but that's how things are done around here), I told her to keep an eye out for any trick-or-treaters, so she could give them candy. She waited expectantly by the door, so patiently, occasionally calling out that no one was coming. After the third or fourth time she made this observation, Britt went downstairs, raided the costume box (yes, we have one of those), and came up wearing a pirate hat. He went out the side door, so Penny wouldn't see him, came up the path and knocked on the door. Penny was startled, but recognized him immediately as her Daddy, the Pirate. She laughed and gave him candy, and said, "Happy Halloween!"<br /><br />Then he came back in and went downstairs, and repeated this five more times wearing different costumes. Penny was thrilled. And my heart sang. I like it when it does that.<br /><br />After dinner, Penny donned her costume, declared it was "her turn," and we went out to see what was going on in our neighborhood. And it was pretty quiet out there. Every couple of houses had a porch light on or the universal beacon of lit pumpkins, so we made a few stops. Most neighbors were dazzled by Penny, the magical fairy princess, and insisted she take extra candy. And then we made the ill-fated stop at the house with the scary clown.<br /><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzoFOLJy7AP1jv5zv40mDr2FzxNS44axEfg-bOdeSkheZyVXcJXZYmYAOIwsiftq3MXbkaZfOlOTmdnZNREQkiqjU5avKu1YCk7P7jPcoTzBZ-27beGlX89YUcfC4TQ00LVF41QV8Dss2/s1600/DSCN1126.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzoFOLJy7AP1jv5zv40mDr2FzxNS44axEfg-bOdeSkheZyVXcJXZYmYAOIwsiftq3MXbkaZfOlOTmdnZNREQkiqjU5avKu1YCk7P7jPcoTzBZ-27beGlX89YUcfC4TQ00LVF41QV8Dss2/s200/DSCN1126.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535224331412706466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">Oh, if only I had known a teenager wearing a demented clown costume was going to answer that door. Penny was positively freaked. And the low, muffled cackling emanating from the rubber clown mask didn't help. I pried my quaking toddler from my leg, thanked the clown and hurried down the block, explaining to a very worried Penny that the clown was just a guy! Wearing a costume! For Halloween! Isn't Halloween fun?<br /><br />At the next house, a little boy in pajamas (he had gone out on Saturday) answered the door and informed us we were only his 6th visitors. Penny immediately told him about the clown, as he seemed a worthy confidant. Then he warned us against going to the house across the street, where we might get "buzzed." Not wanting to find out what that meant, we decided to pack it in.<br /><br />And now, the candy negotiations have begun. No, you can't have candy before dinner. No, you can't have more M&Ms, it's time to brush your teeth. And so on. Also, there's candy in my house, which is not a good idea. We need to come up with a better idea for the "treat" part.<br /><br />I always get a little depressed after Halloween, because it marks the start of the long winter of my discontent. It gets darker and colder, Britt will be working ungodly hours, and I'm not ready to think about Christmas, even though there was already Christmas candy in the Halloween candy aisle at the store.<br /><br />But I shan't dwell on that right now. For now I will think about how much Penny likes to dress up and dance around the house and how she tells me she loves me every day, "I wub you, Mama." And love like that can get me through any long, cold winter.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-236585135369880355.post-61465742567131251652010-10-17T22:30:00.007-06:002010-10-18T00:09:48.106-06:00Adventures in Cloth Diapering, Week One (And probably TMI about the potty).<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">It might be a little late in the game to try something new, and I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> not an expert in this domain, but I finally decided to get over my hangups and give cloth diapers a try. I chose the <a href="http://www.gdiapers.com/">gDiapers</a> because I'm a sucker for their colors, and I had tried them <a href="http://prettylittlepenny.blogspot.com/2008/08/g-is-for-good-idea-in-theory.html">before</a>. </span></span><span style=";font-family:lucida grande;font-size:85%;" ><span>I have two other friends here in town who use different brands, but love their cloth diapers so much, they inspired me to give it a shot. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">So far, it hasn't been too bad. I don't really have a "system" yet, but it's not as hard as I thought it would be. My friend <a href="http://actionjackson-d.blogspot.com/2010/09/more-on-cloth-diapers.html">Sheree</a> makes it look really easy.<br /><br />I still have issues with handling poo. Penny consistently has one über gross diaper a day (I should probably be glad there's only one). The lazier, less responsible version of me secretly prefers to just roll up the yucky diapers and throw them away, out of sight, out of mind. And what about wipes? I still use those, and they can't be good for the landfill either.<br /><br />So, to tackle the poo, we ordered and installed a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/bumGenius-890077002003-Diaper-Sprayer/dp/B000ZKHVMU">sprayer</a> that attaches to the toilet, to make rinsing the yucky diapers easier, and it helps. Another friend who uses cloth told me that before their diapers go in the pail, they spray them with a solution of Bac-Out and water, and that keeps them from getting grossified before they go in the washer. Bac-Out is seriously awesome. We use it for pet-related stains all the time.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;">We spent a good part of today at Penny's cousins' house, and it wasn't hard to pack extra inserts and an extra pant in the diaper bag. We save the plastic bags our newspapers are delivered in, so when the über gross diaper occurred, I emptied it out in the toilet and put the yucky insert in the newspaper bag I had brought along.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:lucida grande;"><br />I still feel like I need two diaper pails - one for wipes and disposables (which Penny still uses at night), and one for the cloth diapers that need to be washed. And I may find that I need more pants, liners, and inserts to get through the week, unless I am willing to do laundry every day. After all, we're only on day 2 of this grand experiment.<br /><br />Ultimately, I am wondering if using cloth will speed up toilet training around here. The cloth diapers, while soft and comfy, are not as (eerily) absorbent as the disposables. And my hope is that the difference will motivate Penny to give up diapers entirely. Meanwhile, on the potty training front, Penny goes in the bathroom and closes the door, saying, "I going potty!" when she needs privacy, but <span style="font-style: italic;">will not</span> sit on her little potty chair and would rather just go in her diaper, and doesn't want to discuss it, thank you very much. Frankly, she closes the door in my face.<br /><br />But then Penny decided she wanted a soft seat that goes over the toilet, like her cousin has (thank Jeebus for older, wiser cousins!). So I let her pick one out in the store. I held up an Elmo seat and a Tinkerbell seat, and she chose Tinkerbell without a second glance at Elmo. To be fair, the Tinkerbell one is purple, so Elmo didn't really stand a chance.<br /><br />Now she will sit on her fancy seat, for long periods of time, and nothing happens. And that's ok. I'm just happy she's trying it out. She gets a lot of reading done in there, at least. And she is really proud of her "fancy pants," especially the purple ones.<br /><br /></span></span>Be Like the Squirrel, Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15238904553169980636noreply@blogger.com2