Daytime Drama

I don’t watch Dr. Phil anymore.  Not because his tell-it-like-it-is style is too much – have you met my husband?  Except my husband adds: The world would be a better place if you listened to me.  (That’s a royal ‘you’.)

No, I broke it off with Dr. Phil when Miss Q turned one-and-a-half; I also dumped Young and the Restless, around that time too.  Funny how one day TV can be on, while your toddler plays, and the next, she’s mesmerized by a fight scene.

It hasn’t been a smooth break, I still check in on my shows, just to see what they’re up to.  It’s handy that Miss Q’s rest-time coincides with certain programming.

Now that Miss S is on the scene, I haven’t been afforded such luxuries, as I had on my mat-leave with Miss Q.  Miss S doesn’t get to hang on the couch with me all day, watching daytime television.  She isn’t programmed, like her sister, to pick up on the theme music for Y&R or dance with Ellen.

Okay, there is, possibly, the argument that Miss S is hugely benefiting from our daytime, TV-free life.  Music is better for the brain.

But, I miss the long uninterrupted snuggles, Miss Q and I had.  How lovely it was to curl on the couch together while she nursed and fell asleep.  Sure, this got a little tedious after November and May sweeps, when shows either went into re-runs or off the air, but we got over it, found something quirky to watch.

Not to say Miss Q and I spent our entire year off tied to the box.  There were still parks to explore and neighborhoods to walk around.  My husband and I put our money into a quality stroller for that purpose; and let me tell you it was (is) worth the 35-or-so-Elizabeth’s we sunk into it.

Miss S and I get our snuggle time, but it’s always broken: during quiet time, Miss Q, without fail, has to go pee the moment Miss S and I settle on the couch with Oprah; not because she’s stalling, or jealous, she just genuinely has to go.

Honestly, the hardest part of being a newly minted mum of two is dividing my time.  Both girls need me 24/7, in different ways.  As much as I love my baby snuggle time, I make sure Miss Q gets alone time with me.  It’s important time for both of us.  And, of course, while I type that sentence, I feel like I need to also type: Miss S’s and my time is just as important, even though that was a given.  Ahh, the pangs of mother guilt: the need to make life equal.

But the thing is, as much as I’d like my daughter’s life experiences to be the same, they already aren’t.  One spent the first year of her life watching daytime television and probably thought Victor Newman was her father, while the other doesn’t have a clue who he is, but is entertained by her big sister for hours.

Shopping with Q

Today Miss Q and I went grocery shopping while Daddy stayed home watching football with Miss S.

Naturally, we didn’t just go to the grocery store, we hit the pet store to check on the cats.  Miss Q loves cats.  We’d probably have one by now, but her daddy’s allergic.

This factoid doesn’t deter Miss Q.  She has it all planned out; “We can keep it in a box downstairs, Mama.  Daddy would never know.”  Ah, she is her mother’s child.

At the grocery store, I noticed a slight change in her demeanor, so I spoiled her with a free cookie from the bakery.  She wasn’t overly excited to get it; even though this was the first time in her life she’d received a cookie while shopping.

When we got to the cracker aisle, with half our shopping completed, the cookie fell and she started to cry.  This is HIGHLY unusual for Miss Q.  She does not cry easily.  This cry in the grocery store came complete with snot and complaints of a sore stomach.

As I stood in the middle of the aisle with a sad, possibly sick child, and a cart full of groceries, a flash of a story I heard on Dr. Phil came to me.  I don’t know why, it just did.  Anyhow: when Robin, Dr. Phil’s wife, was shopping with her two sons way back when, they started frapping out, so she marched them out of the store, leaving the cart where it stood, full of groceries.

I remember thinking, when I heard that story two things: one, I hope that happens to me; and two, that’s a really strong mum who can just walk away from a full grocery cart – I’d be trying to put my purchases back on the shelves or sitting at home feeling guilty for the melting ice cream and warming meat mid-aisle.

Miss Q wasn’t frapping in a tantrum sort of way, she was sobbing with fat tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.  So I stopped the shopping and beetled to an empty till.  Thankfully, not having to re-enact Robin’s story.

Never have I cursed the slow drivers on the highway, as I had today, cruising at 79 on the dot, with a sobbing child in the back seat trying to wiggle out of her restraints because her stomach hurt.  Just as I was thinking I was going to have to send the white convertible Golf a cleaning bill for Miss Q’s car-seat cover, the driver changed lanes.

The rest is anti-climatic.  Miss Q calmed down once inside our house.  She told her dad that she was upset because she had to pee.  (We find that a little odd, but okay.)  I read her a chapter of Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, while Miss S slept in my arms.

 

 

Just Keep Swimming…

Usually we only do one outing a day.  It’s been my rule since Miss Q was an infant.  One outing is safe; frap-out chances near zero.  One outing is enough; Miss S HATES her carseat.  And one outing is risky; the chances of me forgetting snacks, extra clothes or my keys are high.  So, when I was suddenly faced with three major things to do- I felt the fear.

Getting ready.  Miss Q and I were up with an hour and a half in front of us; but Miss S decided this was the morning she wasn’t going to sleep till nine.  It’s funny how many things you can think of doing while you’re sitting in a chair breastfeeding.

Fortunately, there’s TV.  Honestly, if we didn’t have something for Miss Q to watch while I brushed her hair, got her dressed, and brushed her teeth, her morning routine would have pushed us back 15 minutes.  With my little zombie in front of me, and Miss S semi-content beside me, it took less than 5 minutes to do the list.  Next time I’ll remember to put on her shirt and dress before I do her hair.

Out the door.  Unlike our Beaver Lake adventure, I only brought the diaper bag and my girls.  Though half way to pick up Granny, I realized I’d forgotten Santa Buddies, so now we’re paying the late charges at Blockbuster.

Coffee was fantastic.  Though I should really call it ‘water’ as I don’t drink coffee.  We stayed too long, but what can you do when conversation’s good and the children are too?

Time was not on our side as I dropped Granny off, and gently sped home.  Miss S needed a complete change of clothes – don’t ask; and they both needed lunch.  All this had to happen in 30 minutes… we made it in 35.  Another mental note: don’t feed your child gobs of peanut-butter before going to a peanut-free zone.  Complete change of clothes for Miss Q.

Playgroup or pre-preschool, was lovely.  Miss Q painted three big goopy pictures, cut up playdough, and coloured mittens.  Miss S fell asleep in the sling, but woke like a hornet as I attempted to put Miss Q’s artwork in the trunk – a fine dance of wind, goopy paint and my body.

I couldn’t stop moving when I got home.  I found myself creating ‘Carrot Surprise’ out of our left-overs, and making my husband iced tea for his workout, while Miss Q watched Santa Buddies – hey, if it’s already late, it’s late.

Doggy Santa.  Our nightcap.  One dog, one jolly elf, two children, two adults, smiling at the camera.  Poor littles, their only official Santa picture will ever be with their furry sister.  What can I say, it’s tradition and for a good cause.

I know for most, this is a drop in the bucket, but for me, it was a busy day.  In the end I found a bowl of oatmeal I hadn’t eaten for breakfast, and that sometimes you push the envelope and win.

I Need A Sherpa

A lovely walk in the mud was the order of today.  Once the gumboots, rain pants, diaper bag and towels were packed; Miss Q, Miss S and the ride-along stuffies buckled; and our dog settled, we were on our way.

After about a week of indoor activities, and localized puddle-jumping due to the rain, it was beyond words to get outside and stretch our legs.

We went to Beaver Lake with friends.  Miss Q loves hanging with the boys, and was excited to share her dog.  She also likes to run.  I quickly learned to keep our pooch closer to the adults in order to keep Miss Q in sight.  How is it that she has no problem racing down a path behind a dog, but she can’t let me walk the stairs to the laundry room without pulling down my pants?

Miss S insisted upon standing in the Ergo, looking at everything until she fell asleep.  She’s really alert and full of smiles for anyone who stops to stare.  I’m fast realizing that we may have bought the wrong carrier for her as she really, really enjoys looking out at the world, and the Ergo keeps her snuggled into my chest.

The only incident happened when Miss Q tripped and slid Superman style along the path.  Her hands were scratched, but other than that she was okay.  Her cry woke Miss S from her catnap and from that moment on, Miss S wanted to be carried facing forward.  Ah well, it was a good arm workout.

Oh to be a toddler/preschooler again as Miss Q and her friends splashed in the puddles – some were deeper than their boots were high.  They also found sticks to poke at the ground and swing around.

Near the end of the walk, some in the group were ready to be teleported back to the cars.  But they all walked the loop without any help, which was the goal.

While Miss Q snacked, half-naked in her car seat, watching me dry off our dog, she declared she wanted to do it all over again.

It Takes A Village, Or At The Least: A Husband, Granny and Uncle

What a brilliant idea: taking care of my health.  I felt so pro-active writing the times of my appointments on the calendar.  Two activities just for me; okay, so they weren’t exactly the best appointments to have – a physical and a follow-up for an ovarian cyst that stuck around my last pregnancy – but they were just for me, all the same.

As the appointments drew near, I started thinking about logistics.  Ug, logistics, you never escape them when you have children.

Usually, I travel with an entourage – my husband and two girls; either he has both or I have both or he has one and I have the other, depending on the activity.  However, when the activity involves doctor’s offices in cold and flu season, I begin to re-think the entourage option.

The first appointment went smoothly.  Granny stayed with Miss Q and my husband hung with Miss S.   He multi-tasked by taking her to Super Store for diapers, I multitasked by deaking across the road for a haircut, when my appointment ended 1/2 hour early.

The choice to sneak in a haircut wasn’t taken lightly.  Visions of my husband grring from the minivan, with a wailing baby in the back, when he returned and I wasn’t waiting, raced through my head.  But having an un-shaggy, non-mum-cut was worth the pangs of guilt.  And, it saved us a haircut outing later in the week.  In the end, it was a non-issue as he only waited 2-minutes with a sleeping baby.

The second appointment was a little more of a dance.  My husband had a course to go to and this left me without my Number One; in waltzed his pitch-hitter, my brother, Uncle M.

While Granny and Miss Q watched ‘Cars’, Uncle M earned his uncle stripes.  He wore Miss S in the Ergo (baby carrier) and all was well until Miss S started to cry.  When she’s tired, she likes to be walked up and down stairs.  So Uncle M hoofed up and down the stairwell.  (My appointment was on the third floor.)

Of course it was Murphy’s Law that the stairwell trick wouldn’t work, so he took her outside, to minimal success, but lots of opinion on the fact Miss S wasn’t wearing her hood.  Welcome to the world of judgment, Uncle M.

Finally, I rocked her to sleep, had my 15 minute appointment – that was 45 minutes late – and we went home to have lunch with Granny and Miss Q.

Could I have taken Miss Q and Miss S to the appointments without any help?  Of course.  It would have taken lots of prep, hand sanitizer and rocking, but it was doable.  However, sometimes it’s good to include the village.  My children were well taken care of, and I was able to concentrate on me, if only for an hour.

When Animals Are “Sick”

The conversation goes something like this:

Me:  Why are all your animals on the couch?

Miss Q: They’re sick, Mama.

Me: Oh, that’s not good.

Miss Q:  I’ve put them to bed.

We’ve had this conversation before all of her playdates this month.  It’s not that she, Miss Q, is sick, or doesn’t want to play.  She’s all for having friends over.  The fact that all her animals come down with ailments, moments before her friend arrives, can be explained with one word: possessiveness.

For example, last Wednesday, Miss Q lay twenty, or so, of her stuffies on the couch, then proceeded to sit in her doll’s stroller in front of said couch.  Her friend took no notice of her and played.

I’ve tried to ignore her – if she’s going to be silly, then she could be silly.  But, it’s so hard watching her sit, so I often resort to coaxing her into play – with no avail.  Whatever I bait her with, she hurriedly does and returns to her post.

Miss Q has no problems sharing, if asked, though sometimes she’s crafty.  If I ask her to find her friend a toy, she’ll leave her perch, and race to the shelf.  She either come back with a toy, she hasn’t played with for ages, or a random kitchen utensil from her Fisher Price kitchen.  There have been a few occasions when she’s returned with a stuffy – but never the dear ones.  The only person she’s conscientious about sharing her dear toys with is Miss S.  This is lovely and heartwarming, but it would be nice if it extended to her friends.

I can empathize with her possessiveness – she may come by it honestly.  As my friend reminded me today, “You still don’t like sharing your pillow.”  That is true.  I don’t even like my husband breathing on it. (Shiver.)

So today, I told Miss Q that she could pile 10 toys on my bed.  Those 10 toys were off limits during the playdate; Miss Q’s friend would play with the other toys in the house, and when she left, the toys would stay.

Brilliant plan.  Limited success.

Miss Q flew around the house gathering her precious stuffies and some random things she couldn’t live without – like the base of a Koosh Ball.  I ended up giving her 2 bonus toys, for 12 total.  We then piled some toys on the coffee table for her friend to play with – I made sure they were ones Miss Q actually played with, though she snuck in salad tongs.

Her friend came, played and left empty handed.

Miss Q watched, stockpiled, shared when asked, and finally took to wandering around with her friend.  I believe the latter was in order to keep an eye on her possessions.

The treasures were collected from my bed, after Miss Q’s friend left, including a cat I’d forgotten to return after confiscating it earlier this week.  Sharing is hard when you’re two; it’s hard when you’re 32.

 

Everyone Loves a Parade

Tonight the legend of Santa began.  Though I couldn’t see Miss Q’s eyes, I could tell from her body language she was soaking it in; the floats, dancers, singers, bands.  She didn’t particularly like the truck horns, and her mum was blinded by their LED seizure inducing lights, but the horses were a hit as were the gymnasts.

We had one rocky moment, when a bone-head operating a remote-controlled mini-float (picture a rectangular box with a head sticking out of it) drove straight at Miss Q.  She is skittery around remote-controlled cars on a good day, but to have one, with just a head sticking out, come straight at her, wasn’t good.  Fortunately the bagpipes were a good distraction.

Last year, when Miss Q was one, she vibrated on my shoulders, pointing out animals and bubbles as the parade went by, but this year she was older, wiser.

This year, she was waiting for Santa.

Almost three is a magic number.  It’s the age when you’re just figuring out who Santa is and what he can do for you.  He’s not a complete stranger, but then again, he’s not quite the jolly elf dropping down your chimney with gifts.

“I want Santa to bring me a reindeer baby for my reindeer friend,” Miss Q told me when I asked.  She was playing with her stuffed reindeer, Baltic, and Baltic’s girlfriend, her sister’s stuffed reindeer, Baltic, at the time.

It felt very, very, very wrong to push; to declare, Surly you must want something else; or pull out the Toys ‘R Us catalogue.  If she wanted a reindeer baby, she wanted a reindeer baby.  She would find the catalogues in good time.

This is why two-and-three-quarters is a magic number.  Miss Q is still pure.  She believes Santa lives in the North Pole with penguins, because they’re with Frosty in her book.  She doesn’t have an alphabetized wish list.

After Santa cruised past in his reindeer driven sleigh, Miss Q looked happy, but she wasn’t overjoyed.  In fact, she wanted to go into Seeing Is Believing.  Great, I thought.  Here it comes. But she just wanted to look.

When we got home, she walked me to the cupboard.  “I need to write Santa a note,” she said.

To the adult eye, her note was red lines and squiggles, but to Miss Q and Santa, it was pictures of him with his reindeer.

 

Return of The Mall-Rat

Today my husband and I agreed, pageant parents we’re not.  It was an organized race around the house to get clean jeans and hooded sweatshirts on both the girls.  Lord help us if their Sears photo-shoot also required make-up, spray tans and flappers.

We squeaked into the studio at 11:30.  Baby: awake.  Toddler: happy.  ”Um, we’re running behind.  Why don’t you walk around the store and come back in 15 minutes?” the clerk not so helpfully said.

But my babies are awake and happy. (Insert expletive here.)

What can you do?  Throw a tantrum?  Bribe the family ahead of you?  Charge the photographer?

Chalking the 15-minute wait (that in reality was over an hour) to life, my husband and I wandered the aisles, inspecting the toys – much to the glee of Miss Q; and the tools – much to the delight of my husband.  Christmas Dremel anyone?

I’m not sure what time the flashbulbs started going off as the girls posed.  All I know is Miss S had fallen asleep and woke with fire in her belly – thankfully Daddy, the baby whisperer was there.  And for some unknown, why question, two-year-old reason, Miss Q was psyched.  She posed and let the photographer manipulate her body; she even smized (um, smiled with your eyes?)… a little America’s Top Model thrown in there.  ”The best part was the flash,” she told us later.

Funny, because when it first went off, I thought the whole session would be: Miss Q with her eyes closed… and Miss S wailing.  (Fine for us, but maybe not for the people who want to see their cherub mugs.)

The total time spent waiting for the 15-minute session to start, to picking the shots we wanted to keep, to paying for the lot was 2.5 hours.  I still have no idea how my daughters were so mellow (except for the waking up part) for that long.  Maybe it’s because they’re girls and the mall runs strong within them.

All will mostly be forgotten, in a couple of weeks when their photos come back.   When I look at the pictures of my two girlies, I’ll remember how hard their daddy worked to get Miss S to smile; and how Miss Q wanted Mini Mouse to watch her.  For a moment time will stand still, until someone tugs at my arm.

 

 

So Much For That Idea

Miss Q and I had a constant “I need you to listen to me.” “Okay, I’ll listen to you mama, from now on.” battle royal today.  It was as if she decided she was bored with being a monkey and moved on to being an ape.

How can two-year-olds be so trying, yet so confidently cute at the same time?

Each time she looked into my eyes with her wide hazels, I bought into her honesty.  Surely she won’t continue down the path of sneakiness, I thought after catching her with her hand in the sugar jar.  She just needs a change of scenery, I chanted when she removed her socks as we tried to leave for her play group.

After I found her not at the front door, but bouncing on her bed, socks off, declaring, “I just need to do this to burn off my energy.”  I knew I was going to have to do what Dr. Phil says, and raise the stakes.  (Incidentally, I’m okay with the bouncing on the bed, it’s the other parts I’m not okay with.)

But, time-tested time out was greeted with, “You need to get the timer, Mama.  Here, I’ll help you.”  No tears, no tantrum, just one two-year-old eagerly trying to set two minutes on the clock.

So, was taking all her stuffies away the next time she didn’t listen too harsh a punishment for a two-year-old?

Probably not, considering the two-year-old in question helped her daddy remove all the toys from her room.  A game for her – gleeful her animals were marching out of her room in droves.  An empty room – new and exciting.  ”You forgot this,” she told me, handing me the doll’s pillow.

Some would say she was crying out for attention by misbehaving.  Others would say she’s two- deal with it.  I’m sure it’s a bit of both.  What good is it to be two if you can’t test the boundaries and your parents once and a while?

As Miss Q sleeps, I type beside her pile of stuffed animals, random throw pillows and bedroom carpet.  They’ll be returned tomorrow, not that she’s concerned about starting fresh.  Maybe Dr. Phil’s advice is better suited for phone loving thirteen-year-olds.

 

 

96 Days and Counting

“You don’t want a sister,” everyone told me when I was growing up.  ”You’d have to share everything.”

Probably true, as most all of my friends who had sisters fought with them, usually to the death (or at least to a good door slam or hair pull) over clothes, makeup and in some rare, but juicy, occasions, boys.

When you have brothers, all you fight about is what to watch on TV, who sits in the front seat, and who got the bigger piece of cake.  Brothers don’t like you getting into their business and they stay as far away as they can from yours.  Except for the time one of my little brothers went to his friend’s house for a sleep-over and took my diary.  That friend’s older brother read the diary.  That older brother corrected my spelling in all the entries pining over him.

Mortifying?  Yes.  Grounds for a royal rumble?  Naturally.  Did anything happen?  Nope.  Just tears from my side and a half-lecture for brother on my parent’s side.  Point for him.

It’s still early days in the sibling world for Miss Q and Miss S – 96 days and counting.  If there’s going to be down and out brawls we won’t see them for twelve to fourteen years.

My husband and I have decided not to push Miss Q into the big sister role.  We want things to unfold naturally.  In doing this, we consciously don’t make Miss Q “mother’s little helper.”  If she helps pick out diapers for Miss S to wear (each have a different Sesame Street character on them), fantastic; if she choses to play, perfect.

As it is, Miss Q is beyond patient for her years. When Miss S cries, Miss Q says her sister needs to be breastfed or have her diaper changed; or, she’ll ask, “Why’s Miss S crying, Mama?”  Then command me to fix it.  In the car, she sits with her hands over her ears, while her little sister wails.

Miss S’s face lights up whenever her big sister comes near.  The big gummy grin beams at Miss Q as Miss S squawks, wiggles and kicks to get her attention.

Miss Q sometimes ignores Miss S’s advances, playing just out of reach.  But other times she buys into the shrieks of her sister, coming over to interact, “Mama, she’s trying to grab me.”

Has there been a concrete moment when I could say, with 100% certainty that Miss Q had taken to her sister?  No; but lately, Miss Q has become concerned when people, who are holding Miss S, walk towards the front door; or if we are getting ready to leave, she reminds us to bring Miss S.

And, two days ago, as I packed our swimming bag, Miss Q got nose-to-nose with a fussy Miss S.  In a soft voice said, “Don’t worry, Miss S, you’ll hang out with daddy.  He’s a good guy.  He’ll take good care of you.”  Then she gave Miss S a stuffie to hold in the car.