We are two! Baby C can't really be called a baby any more, not even by her mama. Much as I'd like to deny it, all the signs are there. Babycenter's weekly developmental email title switched from "Your baby this week" to "Your toddler this week." When I tried to purchase a sweet little outfit for her at H&M, I realized that she'd outgrown the baby clothes and was now grouped in with the girls' sizes. . . where the styles are a little, shall we say, less sweet. All of a sudden, it's my kid who yells "Hey, Mom, watch this!" at the playground. I find some relief when she grasps my finger with her still-soft hand as we walk. And, of course, when I comment on what a big girl she is, she sorrowfully reminds me that she can't yet reach the monkey bars, which is the arbitor of big-girl status in her world.
Given all the evidence, I have no choice but to update her name on this occasional blog... Of course, I'm also 7.5 months pregnant and have no real names in mind for Baby No. 2, so I'm not going to agonize too much over Baby No. 1's new nom de plume. I present to you: Buzzy. She's a busy little bee, always humming with chatter and activity, so that's what we're going with. Stay tuned for more of Buzzy's adventures as I try to update more regularly. (Mommy bloggers much busier than I farming and sewing and such seem to be able to crank out a couple of posts a week--or at least a month--so that will be my goal).
First Day
September means sharpened pencils and new notebooks--or, in our case, three clean diapers in a zip-lock bag and a sippy cup with her name on it. At the ripe old age of 23 months, Baby C is off to "school." Technically, it's a program called Mother's Day Out, and it's only two mornings a week. In light of Baby No. 2 due in Janaury, I thought it would be good for Baby No. 1 to have her own thing going on. I just didn't realize it would be so hard to say goodbye at the door. I confess to peeking around the corner before leaving the building. She was on a stool, curly head bent over the sink as she washed her hands with her teacher's help. And she looked so tiny! Gulp.
I'll get to savoring this alone time in a couple of weeks. I'll get to the basement that needs cleaning and the new, "big girl" room that needs decorating. Right now, though, I'm just going to sit by the phone in case the school calls, and think about my little big girl.
I'll get to savoring this alone time in a couple of weeks. I'll get to the basement that needs cleaning and the new, "big girl" room that needs decorating. Right now, though, I'm just going to sit by the phone in case the school calls, and think about my little big girl.
Little Miss Me-Do
Baby C's decided that she wants to do it All By Herself, all of the time. Do what? Oh, just about everything she sees. Putting on her own shoes, pouring her own milk, driving the car, and lighting the grill. Lofty goals for someone not yet able to drink from a cup.
"Me do!" She says, pushing my hand away from her shoes and bursting into tears. "Me do!"
"Okay, honey, you try it." Her sobs abate as she attempts to navigate her feet into her Stride Rites. She rejects my attempts to help or direct. After a few minutes, she bursts into tears again.
"Honey, can Mommy help?"
"Ess." She says, giving me a radiant smile and handing me a shoe.
"NO!" she sobs when I try to put it on her foot. "ME DO!"
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Eventually, after a good half hour, she is dressed.
At breakfast, Little Miss Me-Do tackles putting the cap on her own sippy cup, which I surreptitiously tighten when she's not looking. All goes well until it's time to get into the car to go to the library. "Me do seat," she says, climbing into the car. Then she sits down on the floor of the car and grins up at me, clearly delighting in her mighty toddler power. I count to three, then lumber my pregnant self into the back and buckle her into her car seat. "No, No, NO!" She screams. "ME DO SEAT!"
"That is enough. We have to go now." I turn the key and she happily sings her ABCs (You know, the version that goes: "A-B-C-6-9-4-Y-Z! Now-know-ABCDS-next-time-sing!"). We get to the library, I unbuckle her, and she refuses to get out of the car. The crying starts again, but Baby C's happily eating old Cheerios off the floor mat. This time, it’s me.
"Me do!" She says, pushing my hand away from her shoes and bursting into tears. "Me do!"
"Okay, honey, you try it." Her sobs abate as she attempts to navigate her feet into her Stride Rites. She rejects my attempts to help or direct. After a few minutes, she bursts into tears again.
"Honey, can Mommy help?"
"Ess." She says, giving me a radiant smile and handing me a shoe.
"NO!" she sobs when I try to put it on her foot. "ME DO!"
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Eventually, after a good half hour, she is dressed.
At breakfast, Little Miss Me-Do tackles putting the cap on her own sippy cup, which I surreptitiously tighten when she's not looking. All goes well until it's time to get into the car to go to the library. "Me do seat," she says, climbing into the car. Then she sits down on the floor of the car and grins up at me, clearly delighting in her mighty toddler power. I count to three, then lumber my pregnant self into the back and buckle her into her car seat. "No, No, NO!" She screams. "ME DO SEAT!"
"That is enough. We have to go now." I turn the key and she happily sings her ABCs (You know, the version that goes: "A-B-C-6-9-4-Y-Z! Now-know-ABCDS-next-time-sing!"). We get to the library, I unbuckle her, and she refuses to get out of the car. The crying starts again, but Baby C's happily eating old Cheerios off the floor mat. This time, it’s me.
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