Career Girl

When I grow up I want to be:

A firefighter

Or…

A doctor

Or…

An artist

Or…

A veterinarian

Or…

A hoarder

It’s a difficult decision. 

The Terribles

I adore my daughter.  There was a stretch of time a few years back when I had accepted the reality that I would probably never have kids.  Then Eva came along and changed my reality.  Motherhood has been a sweet miracle in my life and I recognize that Eva is one of my greatest blessings.  I cherish our days together.

But now Eva is 3.  Now Eva is opinionated, headstrong, and wants it her way.  All the time.  I don’t know where she learned this behavior but it certainly didn’t come from me.  The only adjectives people have ever used to describe my personality are: docile, submissive, meek, patient, longsuffering…need I go on?

Eva didn’t suffer from the Terrible 2’s but we are definitely struggling with the Terrible 3’s. 

Here are some actual statements my dear daughter has said to me or Michael recently:

• Leave me alone!
• Stop looking at me!
• You can’t talk to me!
• Piercing screeching sound… 
• You can’t say NO, you say YES!
• I don’t want to be happy!
• Don’t say that!
• No!  I’m not a good girl!

I feel exasperated a lot lately.  Just when I’m deep in the supposition that my parenting skills are atrocious, Eva will say something that makes my heart gleam with hope.  Here are some more actual statements my sweet daughter has said to me recently:

• Oh, Mama!  I love you so much!
• I missed you!
• You wanna play with me?
• I’m so happy to see you!
• I’m sorry I do naughty things.
• You’re so beautiful!
• You’re such a good Mama.
• Can I snuggle with you?
• I’m sorry you got mad.
• You wanna sing me a song?
• I’ll be obedient, Mama.

My favorite comment to date came just a few days ago while I was helping her in the bathroom.  She said:

• Poo makes you so happy, Mama!

I’m not sure when I gave the impression that my favorite reward is the gift of poo, but just so you know, I don’t really garner any joy from the stuff.  At least she’s trying to make me feel happy.  Even if it is with poo. 

I’ll count that as progress. 

Swimming Fever

My parents gave Eva money for Christmas and we used it to purchase swimming lessons.  She’s had lessons before but they were parent/child classes where Michael was in the water with her.  She’s now old enough to be in the water on her own.  Michael was worried about this idea.  He agonized over it all morning that she wouldn’t be safe by herself.  He fretted that Eva would go under water and no one would notice.  He fretted that she would fall and smash her head on the deck and bleed out.  He fretted that Jaws would ascend from the bottom of the pool and tear her legs off.  I fretted that they don’t allow food in the pool area.  It’s barbaric to expect a person to go 30 minutes without a snack.

I tried to calm Michael’s craziness by reminding him that there would be both an instructor and a lifeguard at the pool.  He wasn’t comforted.  I then reminded him that we would be sitting on the deck watching the entire lesson and he could jump in if she started to drown.  He still wasn’t appeased.  I told him he was obssessing over the wrong problem and he should really be worrying about the no-food rule. He did not embrace my suggestion. Oh, poor Michael is a worrier.  I love him for it.

Eva ended up having a fantastic time at swim lessons.  At first she completely ignored the instructor and the other kids, acting as though this was her free time to splash around in the pool.  Eva kept looking indignantly at the instructor whenever she asked her to do something.  I was a little embarrassed that our daughter was being the disruptive student.  However, Michael quickly talked to her and told her to listen and she was great after that.  She loved it.  Michael’s blood pressure returned to normal after he realized she was capable of being in the water without him, and we were then able to enjoy watching her in the pool.  I’m looking forward to a tremendous season.

 

Eva didn’t want to leave and cried when Michael took her out of the pool at the end of the lesson.  He wrapped her in a towel and we headed toward the locker room.  Eva wailed, “My heart is broken!”  It was an adorable and dramatic exit.

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa!  What a superb gift.

I’m Firsty

It’s begun.  Eva has started pushing back at bedtime.  She used to be so sweet, so willing to get ready for bed, so willing to sleep.

Not anymore, buddy.

She fights getting her pajamas on.  She fights brushing her teeth.  She fights saying prayers.  We’ll get her all tucked in and she’ll say, “Wait!  I’m firsty.”  “Wait! I’m hungry.”  “Wait! I need to go potty.”  “Wait!  I’m just saying random crap to stall.”  It drives me crazy with a capital K.

It’s now escalated into Eva actually coming out of her room after the lights are out and we expect her to be snoozing.  She says really sweet things to try to woo us out of being upset.  For example, she’ll open the door and say, “I need a big hug and a kiss.”  What am I supposed to say to that?  “No, you little weasel.  I will not show you any affection.  Go to sleep!”  Thankfully, she’s been poking her head out of the mole hill only one or two times a night.  Then she sleeps beautifully.

Not anymore, buddy.

Michael has been working long hours lately and I’ve been enduring the bedtime ritual alone.  I haven’t figured out my best approach for this behavior.  I’ve tried being stern; she doesn’t care.  I’ve tried being nice; she doesn’t care.  I’ve tried saying, “I don’t speaka the English”; she doesn’t care.  With Michael gone she’s pushing with extra force.  She came out of her room at least 10 times tonight with various excuses for why she couldn’t get to sleep.  She needed another kiss, she wanted to snuggle, she needed a book, her water tasted old, she needed to wash her hands, blah, blah, blah.  I tucked her in multiple times to the same layering routine: frog blanket that Grandma made, comforter from Ikea, regular blanket that she’s used since she was a baby.  That girl would be warm in Greenland.  I tickled her and sang to her and pleaded for her to go to bed.

My favorite request of the night was when she carefully opened the door a crack, peered out and requested pepperoni – 5 pepperoni to be exact.

I gave her the darn pepperoni.   

3 times.  If you’re terrible at mathematics, that’s 15 pepperoni slices at nearly 10:00. 

You want lousy advice on parenting techniques?  I just gave it to you. 

That’ll be 5 pepperoni slices please.

Health Check

Eva had her 3-year-old Well Child visit with the doctor last week.  I told her a few days in advance that she would be visiting the doctor and what she could expect during her check-up.  This was futile since Eva apparently already knows what to expect during a check-up.  I started with, “She’ll check your eyes…” and Eva quickly continued the string by saying, “And my throat, and she’ll listen to my heart, and look in my ears.  Then I’ll get a sticker.”  I don’t know who I should thank for teaching my daughter the facts of life, but I’ll be calling you when puberty hits.

Eva was ecstatic about going to the doctor and quizzed me every day to see if today was the day for her check-up.  When I told her it wasn’t, she would recite the list of things the doctor would do when it was actually time for her check-up. 

I learned my lesson about inciting such fervor so far in advance.

The upside was that when the day finally arrived, Eva couldn’t contain herself and surrendered to the doctor’s every request.  Not one fuss.  Not one bit of hesitation.  Not even a squeal when the nurse squirted the flu mist vaccine up her nose.  It was a pleasant visit to the doctor.

Here’s how Eva measured up this visit:

Height: 40.25 inches – 95th percentile

Weight: 35.4 pounds – 82nd percentile

The doctor was asking all the routine questions about what Eva knows and what she can do.  She quizzed Eva on her colors and when Eva answered each question correctly, the doctor tried to stump her with purple.  It didn’t work.  The doctor then said, “Wow.  You know more colors than I expected you to.”

I thought to myself, “Colors?  Colors?  Colors are baby stuff.  She knows every letter of the alphabet and their sounds.  She can spell her name and a few other words.  She can count to 20 in English and Spanish. (Dora gets credit for that one.) Color recitation is for wimps.”

I didn’t say it out loud, however, because the doctor didn’t ask and I didn’t think it was critical that I point out my daughter’s penchant for intelligence.  So I remained silent.

I was recounting the experience to Michael later that evening.  When I came to the colors exam, he said, “Well, did you tell the doctor that Eva knows her alphabet, can spell rudimentary words, and can count to 20 in English and Spanish?”

I first pointed out to him that Dora gets credit for the Spanish counting, and then I pointed out to him that I am not tacky and boastful.

He chided me for not being tacky and boastful.  He thinks we should brag about our daughter on any occasion.  He lamented my missed opportunity to tell the doctor how incredibly above-average his little girl is.  He fretted that the doctor thinks Eva is merely ordinary.  He was visibly disturbed by my recklessness.

Michael does have a point.  Just look at this beauty; she’s definitely not ordinary.

Shame on me.

It looks like our library trip this week will include finding a book on how to brag with confidence. 

PJ Love

Eva wears pajamas a lot.  In fact, when I tell her it’s time to get dressed and ask what she’d like to wear for the day, her answer is almost always, “Jamas.”  I used to feel guilty about letting her stay in sleeping clothes during waking hours, but I’ve reconciled those feelings.  I don’t feel guilty about it anymore.  I don’t feel gulity about any of the questionable behaviors in my life anymore.  Not even for passing gas in public.  (I don’t really do that.)  Or for eating the last treat before Myke gets home from work and destroying the evidence.  (I don’t really do that either.)  Or for throwing out a random number to the lady at the DMV about my weight.  (I do indeed weigh 78 pounds.)

So Eva likes to wear pajamas.  Let’s not make a big deal about it.  I have taken to enjoying lounge clothes myself lately given that my jeans are a bit snug in the belly.  It’s weird since I only weigh 78 pounds.  I’m so unaffected by the pajama-wearing that I even take my daughter running errands in her PJ’s.  I comb her hair and away we go.  She looks pretty cute in jammies and rain boots. 

Here are some other things Eva likes to do in pajamas:

Ballet

Vehicle maintenance

Baking

Stunt work

She’s a real go-getter.  Some of us prefer just to sit around in our pajamas and pass gas.

(I don’t really do that.)