If you ask Buzzy how she's doing, she'll enthuse, "I'm FOUR!"
Four years ago, I asked family and friends to go easy on the pink. I rolled my eyes at the Disney Princess Industrial Franchise. I envisioned wooden toys lovingly hand-carved, and one shelf to contain all of them. I planned to feed her whole foods, with sugar limited to an occasional treat.
Three years ago, Buzzy ate her first piece of home-made cake on her birthday. Her toys still fit on a couple of shelves. Pink crept into her closet, but there was nary a Disney character in our home.
Two years ago, Buzzy chowed down on cake and ice cream, and asked for seconds. We bought more storage for the playroom to contain a variety of plastic toys.
One year ago, Buzzy invited friends to celebrate her birthday with her. She devoured cake and ice cream, and licked the frosting off the candles. Her toys spilled out of the playroom, and we started finding My Little Ponies behind the sofa cushions. She only wore pink and purple.
One week ago, Buzzy invited her entire class, playgroup, and assorted family friends to her fourth Princess Birthday Party, which she'd been planning in detail for over six months. She wore a pink Belle costume, polyester and sparkly. There was a bouncy house, a face painter (who came with the bouncy for thirty bucks), a pinata, a six-foot square plastic sign of Belle, Cinderella, Snow White and one of the new princesses whose name I do not know that read, "Happy Birthday, Princess!" There was a conventional grocery store-bought cake with Crisco frosting and light-up princesses on it.
And there was one very, very happy little girl. . .
And a mother who realized that it was worth eating a little crow to see the look of absolute joy on her daughter's face.
Four Months Later, Or
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
1) I grew a toddler, so, yeah, the vacation's over. Rosie started walking (of sorts), so I've got a dainty-gaited kamikaze stepping about, launching herself from the sofa and trying to do pull ups on the countertops.
2) The toddler started chatting. She has no use for the "L" sound. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem for a couple more years at least, except she also developed an affinity for a little stuffed Elmo doll. Or, as she calls him, "Homo." She was very popular when we vacationed in lovely Rehoboth Beach, home to many a rainbow-flag bedecked store. Whenever Rosie dropped Elmo, she cried, "Uh-oh, Homo!" Oh, the distress in her voice, when poor Elmo hit the street. Oh, the number of times he fell. I was both horrified and mortified, as only the mother of a toddler can be.
3) Buzzy turned, as she would tell you, "three and three quarters." Which means, as she would tell you, that she knows a lot of things. Sometimes she thinks she knows more than her mama. So, that's been fun.
4) Buzzy encountered Mean Girls for the first time. Greg dropped her off at a summer program she attended for a few mornings each week, and reported that two little girls had run up to embrace Buzzy upon her arrival. But the tides turned by lunch time. When I stopped by the Brown Room to take her home, she was mopey. I asked her what was wrong, and she quavered, "Chloe said I couldn't play princess with them because I wasn't wearing a dress."
I wasn't expecting to deal with cliques much before fourth grade, but I said something along the lines of, "Oh, honey, she's being silly. You can pretend to be a princess no matter what you're wearing." Buzzy shook her head, crying. "She said I had to be a BOY and wear BROWN PANTS." In my pink-loving, tutu-twirling little girl's world, being a boy who had to wear pants was bad enough, but nothing in her three and three-quarters years had prepared her for brown. She burst into tears. "Chloe and Abby said I couldn't play with them."
I soothed and distracted and finally got her settled, then fired off an email to the camp director, asking if they could remind the three year olds to play nicely with all of their friends. Three year olds! Sheesh. Apparently, Chloe and Abby have a bit of a history. And they are on my list. Forever.
5) Mostly, though we enjoyed a lazier pace with family and friends. Lots of beach time, as the sand in the crevices of my car will attest for the duration of its existence. While traveling with a todder who still doesn't sleep through the night has its challenges, and I am more sleep deprived than I've ever been in my life (which may be why I can't remember more things we did this summer), I'm beginning to see the time when raising my charges may get a little bit easier--at least physically. Chloe and Abby indicate that other arenas are about to get a whole lot more challenging.
1) I grew a toddler, so, yeah, the vacation's over. Rosie started walking (of sorts), so I've got a dainty-gaited kamikaze stepping about, launching herself from the sofa and trying to do pull ups on the countertops.
2) The toddler started chatting. She has no use for the "L" sound. Normally, this wouldn't be a problem for a couple more years at least, except she also developed an affinity for a little stuffed Elmo doll. Or, as she calls him, "Homo." She was very popular when we vacationed in lovely Rehoboth Beach, home to many a rainbow-flag bedecked store. Whenever Rosie dropped Elmo, she cried, "Uh-oh, Homo!" Oh, the distress in her voice, when poor Elmo hit the street. Oh, the number of times he fell. I was both horrified and mortified, as only the mother of a toddler can be.
3) Buzzy turned, as she would tell you, "three and three quarters." Which means, as she would tell you, that she knows a lot of things. Sometimes she thinks she knows more than her mama. So, that's been fun.
4) Buzzy encountered Mean Girls for the first time. Greg dropped her off at a summer program she attended for a few mornings each week, and reported that two little girls had run up to embrace Buzzy upon her arrival. But the tides turned by lunch time. When I stopped by the Brown Room to take her home, she was mopey. I asked her what was wrong, and she quavered, "Chloe said I couldn't play princess with them because I wasn't wearing a dress."
I wasn't expecting to deal with cliques much before fourth grade, but I said something along the lines of, "Oh, honey, she's being silly. You can pretend to be a princess no matter what you're wearing." Buzzy shook her head, crying. "She said I had to be a BOY and wear BROWN PANTS." In my pink-loving, tutu-twirling little girl's world, being a boy who had to wear pants was bad enough, but nothing in her three and three-quarters years had prepared her for brown. She burst into tears. "Chloe and Abby said I couldn't play with them."
I soothed and distracted and finally got her settled, then fired off an email to the camp director, asking if they could remind the three year olds to play nicely with all of their friends. Three year olds! Sheesh. Apparently, Chloe and Abby have a bit of a history. And they are on my list. Forever.
5) Mostly, though we enjoyed a lazier pace with family and friends. Lots of beach time, as the sand in the crevices of my car will attest for the duration of its existence. While traveling with a todder who still doesn't sleep through the night has its challenges, and I am more sleep deprived than I've ever been in my life (which may be why I can't remember more things we did this summer), I'm beginning to see the time when raising my charges may get a little bit easier--at least physically. Chloe and Abby indicate that other arenas are about to get a whole lot more challenging.
Almost Famous
I am exactly one lost set of keys away from losing it. This morning, I sailed through the feeding, dressing, "Yes, I'd prefer it if you wore matching socks to school, but it is your choice"-ing, lunch packing, and general maintenance of my charges. We were even set for an on-time preschool arrival, which rarely happens (if Trinity Preschool handed out tardy slips, she'd have racked up some serious detentions already). I had the audacity to congratulate myself as I handed Buzzy her lunch bag. Then I reached for my keys. . . .
There are no atheists in foxholes or among mothers trying to get their kids out the door, but the problem with being a lapsed-Catholic-turned-almost-lapsed-Episcopalian is that you forget the go-to saint in these situations. (Apparently, St. Joseph is not the guy. I'm sure he has other talents, but timely key location is not one of them.) I tore the house apart. I implored Buzzy to help Mommy find the keys. I interrogated my 16-month-old to determine if she was responsible. She denied everything. I went through the laundry. I de-cushioned the sofa. My keys had vaporized along with my cushion of time.
We were seriously late. Not only was Buzzy missing school, but Rosie was missing her music class--the highlight of her week and my favorite parenting activity. I searched unsuccessfully and wondered what kind of mother causes her kid to miss school because she can't find her keys. 'The dog ate my homework' carries more weight.
A frantic hour passed. My search revealed additional evidence of my parenting and housekeeping flaws: unsorted laundry, stinky kitty litter, stacks of papers to be organized, the teetering tower of books on my bedside table. I tried hard to stop crying on the stairs. Why is this so hard? I only have two kids, for Pete's sake. What is wrong with me?
The kids picked up on my tension despite my super-phony assurances that everything was fine. Buzzy pretended that she lost her plastic necklace, and she got angry. "That's not famous," she yelled, causing Rosie to cry.
"What? Buzzy, that doesn't even make sense." I snapped at my three year old.
"Famous means nice." She explained. Whatever. I didn't have the energy to set her straight. "Famous means nice" it is.
I gave up on the keys. "Change of plans!" I announced cheerfully in my super-phony voice. We took a walk. We bought a fancy coffee for mama and muffin for the littles, and we all watched the water fountain, and we felt better. My normal voice returned. "Mommy, you're famous," Buzzy said. I didn't correct her this time. Instead, I reflected how thankful I am that we live so close to things like fancy coffee and water fountains, and that it wasn't raining today. We ate the lunch I packed for Buzzy as a picnic and returned home. I stuck Rosie in her high chair to eat a little more before her nap. As I picked up her bib from the kitchen table, my keys clattered to the floor.
Buzzy laughed. Rosie laughed because her sister was happy. I did not laugh. But I'm working on it.
There are no atheists in foxholes or among mothers trying to get their kids out the door, but the problem with being a lapsed-Catholic-turned-almost-lapsed-Episcopalian is that you forget the go-to saint in these situations. (Apparently, St. Joseph is not the guy. I'm sure he has other talents, but timely key location is not one of them.) I tore the house apart. I implored Buzzy to help Mommy find the keys. I interrogated my 16-month-old to determine if she was responsible. She denied everything. I went through the laundry. I de-cushioned the sofa. My keys had vaporized along with my cushion of time.
We were seriously late. Not only was Buzzy missing school, but Rosie was missing her music class--the highlight of her week and my favorite parenting activity. I searched unsuccessfully and wondered what kind of mother causes her kid to miss school because she can't find her keys. 'The dog ate my homework' carries more weight.
A frantic hour passed. My search revealed additional evidence of my parenting and housekeeping flaws: unsorted laundry, stinky kitty litter, stacks of papers to be organized, the teetering tower of books on my bedside table. I tried hard to stop crying on the stairs. Why is this so hard? I only have two kids, for Pete's sake. What is wrong with me?
The kids picked up on my tension despite my super-phony assurances that everything was fine. Buzzy pretended that she lost her plastic necklace, and she got angry. "That's not famous," she yelled, causing Rosie to cry.
"What? Buzzy, that doesn't even make sense." I snapped at my three year old.
"Famous means nice." She explained. Whatever. I didn't have the energy to set her straight. "Famous means nice" it is.
I gave up on the keys. "Change of plans!" I announced cheerfully in my super-phony voice. We took a walk. We bought a fancy coffee for mama and muffin for the littles, and we all watched the water fountain, and we felt better. My normal voice returned. "Mommy, you're famous," Buzzy said. I didn't correct her this time. Instead, I reflected how thankful I am that we live so close to things like fancy coffee and water fountains, and that it wasn't raining today. We ate the lunch I packed for Buzzy as a picnic and returned home. I stuck Rosie in her high chair to eat a little more before her nap. As I picked up her bib from the kitchen table, my keys clattered to the floor.
Buzzy laughed. Rosie laughed because her sister was happy. I did not laugh. But I'm working on it.
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