This morning started like many others, with Mimi sitting straight up in bed an spouting something completely random. Today it was, “Boys don’t wear shirts to swim!” I imagine it comes from careful observation during swim class. As soon as she notes that it is unfair that men have this freedom and American women don’t, we’ll talk.
Within a few minutes, though, the house fills with this: “Booty!” “Butt!” “Bottom!” She dances around her room shouting them like some perversely simple code. We blame it on school, of course, this first foray into the forbidden delights of “bad words.” I am sure that there are larger values at play, probably a healthy dose of debutante training tossed in (AGAIN with the debutante reference. I really do not know what that is about.), but the short answer here is that I just don’t like hearing “booty” or “butt” drop out of that pretty pink rosebud of a mouth.
At least not yet. I do not subscribe to the position that bad language is the hallmark of a limited vocabulary or a lack of imagination. Some of the best cussers I know also have the largest, most florid vocabularies. And I don’t think language belongs to one gender or the other, although I do think that masculinity and femininity are informed by the words we use. And I really really really am not the type to say “the ‘f’ word” or what-have-you. If I want to say “fuck” I’ll say “fuck” and if I’m not comfortable saying it in a given social setting then I won’t say it. I really do hope I’m never in a setting in which I feel compelled to say “fuck” to my daughter, although I’ve heard my own mother drop it once or twice and I admit it achieved an effect.
There’s absolutely no way butt/booty/bottom won’t have a role in the language of our house, as we are still wrestling somewhat with potty training — STILL — and she has a rash that likes to flare up if I forget to put cream on her bottom under her bathing suit. Plus she’s at that developmental place where all parts of the body are equal, which is a delight, yet she’s discovering that there’s something about certain parts of the body that just might make people blanch, which isn’t so delightful. I have been glad to learn that, like most 3-year-olds, she soon tires of that which doesn’t get attention so ignoring is still my best weapon, but somehow this butt/booty/bottom routine has become a Thing. Not a Big Thing, a very Small Thing, but a Thing.
My sister Dawn uses the word “buttocks,” and you cannot convince me that that word can be said consistently without it sounding silly. Especially if you say it like she does: butt-ocks. I suppose we should count ourselves lucky that Mimi has not caught onto “ass” yet. That’s a word I don’t like at all, for reasons more related to how it sounds than anything else: like the word “puke” makes me turn green yet its cousin “barf” bounces right off of me. I also don’t like the word “vehicle,” but that’s probably because where I come from it’s always pronounced “ve-hic-le” and accompanied by a wad of chew. Some of my favorite words are “popcorn,” “church,” and ‘muffin,” because they’re just so much fun to say.
Right now my daughter’s favorite word is “booty.” Sigh. She’s made up a song with lyrics like, “Daddies say butt! Mommies say bottom! Boys say booty!” Which leads me to believe she’s already figured out the I-can-say-it-but-not-get-in-trouble-if-it’s-a-quote” defense. Double sigh. An here we go.
Me: Mimi has swimming today at 5:30.
Jon: If you have work to do I’ll take her.
Me: Wow. Thanks. That would be a big help.
Jon: Sure, I’ll finish work by 5 and… wait, is she swimming in the big pool or the little pool now? What about dinner? Can you fix a snack for her to eat before her lesson? Can she eat before swimming? Is her stuff packed? What does she take to swimming? Where do you keep her swimsuit? Do you know if she has anything at school to bring home? Do I have to bring extra clothes for after swimming? What about her hair? Is she still putting it up for swim? Where’s that stuff you put in her ears before she swims? Have you washed the swim towels yet? Where are they?
Me: You know what? I’ll take her.
Jon: I don’t get it.
Me: Trust me.
I don’t think this is what Gandhi meant when he encouraged passive resistance. Okay, she is wearing a turban here, one of those microfiber things that helps your hair dry quickly, they’re just great, and it does make her look unbearably cute. But don’t be fooled.
A few weeks ago we were in the grocery store. She wanted some cookies. I said no, we have cookies at home and it’s almost dinnertime. Suddenly she was no longer at my side.
She was standing completely still, head down, looking at the floor. It was an odd pose. I spoke to her and she shook her head. I told her we had to get going. I explained. I commiserated. I used my firm “I am the boss” voice. She remained stone still.
I put my hand on her arm and she screamed. SCREAMED. One of those high-pitched wails I have rarely heard from her, followed by a shrill, “No! No! No! No!” Heads turned, the cashier’s hand moved almost imperceptibly toward her emergency call button, brows furrowed. Great. Now I am That Mother.
I barely got us out of the grocery store that day without a police escort. What’s worse, having recognized the state it puts me into (I couldn’t cloak my reaction that first time… I was too startled!), she has repeated this many times since. Oh, where is my sweet baby? She’s served time-out, been punished, I’ve told her that that kind of screaming is only for hurt or danger, it’s really scary…. and this seemed to give her more appreciation for her parlor trick. If she doesn’t want to do something, or does want to do something she can’t, which pretty much covers most of the time… she stands completely still refusing to move. And if I touch her she pulls away and screams bloody murder. Of course I can still pick her up now if necessary, but I have to get rid of this trick before she gets too big for me to lift or too loud for me to tolerate her hollering in public.
I can deal if she only does this when we are not in a public place and we have plenty of time to stand around and wait her out. When does that combination ever occur? I can just see her at 14, getting off a plane or something. She’ll stop still in the aisle, keeping dozens of passengers from exiting the plane, screaming if I touch her and willing to stand there until she grows roots. Ever seen passengers held up unnecessarily from deplaning? It’s ugly. And this isn’t as farfetched a scenario as it might appear for us. I am growing desperate.
Internet, whatever do I do?????
Okay, so. After spending 57.4% of my life in school, I discover that I love being at home with my daughter. (Which isn’t really ‘at home,’ of course — it’s being a classroom parent, a snack parent, a ballet assistant, a YMCA volunteer…)
The universe has a perverse sense of humor.
All things diaper/pull up/whatever related. And potty training. And NOT potty training.
I am caught in potty training limbo. She was on a good path, she really was, until I got pneumonia. Then she slid all the way back to first base. Make that all the way back to the dugout. Pediatricians and psychologists and preschool teachers and veteran moms were consulted. All relayed the same two bits of information: don’t push her — she’ll get it when she’s ready, and rewards work better than sanctions.
Okay then.
But seriously, luv, come ON.
In August 2007, Jon and I travelled from Moscow to Tempe with our new daughter. My most vivid memory of that time is the careful way Jon bore Mimi in an infant carrier strapped to his chest. His hands were striking to me — so capable and confident, and yet so gentle.
That is also the trip that introduced me to the insanity that is airplane bathrooms without baby changing stations. Yes, they exist, who knew, and I think I have since flown on every plane so built. Apparently they’re common. So imagine the three of us, at least two of whom were crying loudly, crammed in an airplane loo balancing a squirmy baby and trying to avoid the very, very messy diaper flying around the tight space.
Then I was the one crying the second week of our current trip to Florida, when Mimi had another messy, messy diaper in the frozen foods aisle and I had not brought enough supplies so I had to… let’s just say I was unable to leave the ladies’ room in better condition than how I found it. Ever since that day, Mimi will look at me worriedly when I ask about her diaper and say, “Don’t be sad.” That’s usually how I know the state of things these days.
Sometimes I remember everything. Sometimes I don’t. It’s not quite like the days when we were surrounded by other moms and someone in the crowd was guaranteed to have supplies if someone else didn’t. There are days when I tuck and shove her pull-up into her clothing because she doesn’t want it to show. And, unfortunately, sometimes it’s me who doesn’t want it to show. Although the time the 4-year-old in the public bathroom peeked under the stall and exclaimed, “She’s wearing a pull-up!” I did summon enough Mommy Bear to snarl, “Yeah? And what of it?”
So, yesterday on the bus for the day-long tour of Kennedy Space Center, there were about 50 fellow tourists huddling either in anticipation of the ride or grateful to be out of the chilly rain. Mimi and I, after a triumphant visit to the ladies’, boarded last. She announced to all and sundry: ”I just pooped in the potty so I get a marshmallow!”
Silence. Then a voice from the depths of the bus: “Does she get a marshmallow now?”
Of course. They’re in my purse. I’ll be carrying them until she leaves for college.
Filed under: daymaker, Florida, Holidays, Mimi, NaBloPoMo, Parenting is fun
we’re at the beach for the holidays…
snow is iffy, but you can always count on sand
and if there is anything more beautiful than children at play on a beach
I’m pretty sure…
that I have never encountered it
So, my brain has been really clouded by troubles lately, so I am trying a new tactic: chasing away bad thoughts with happy ones. Let’s see how it works.
8:44 AM
Mimi and Thomas (my 6-foot-tall 14-year-old nephew) are playing house.
Mimi: You be the mom.
Thomas: How about I be the dad.
Mimi: You be the mom.
Thomas: I can be the dog.
Mimi: You be the mom.
Thomas: Can’t I be the cat?
…and he didn’t even escape with his grandfather when invited to go out to breakfast! LOVE.
Florida Dirt
Mimi’s goal is to explore each park in every town she visits, and she appreciates every single one. Recovery groups — and maybe others, I don’t know — deem November “gratitude month.” Gratitude is one of the biggest themes in recovery. I will remember that.
I hate beginnings … the uncertainty of them, no sense of size or direction or form. I hate endings more: the true kind, the kind that leave you knowing something is irrevocably over.
That’s why I can live One Day at a Time, but the “live each day as if it were your last’ stuff? No way.
None of which explains well why I look forward to mornings and bedtimes. I suppose because they’re bounded… In the mornings, the day stretches with possibility … but no matter what, it’s only going to last 24 hours. Even if its events have a profound impact on future days, it’s still just today.
And bedtimes, the slow and gentle winding down. They are calming, not the sort of over that is never to be repeated… the private rituals of bedtimes let us shape something to look forward to about each day, some little bit that we can keep fairly the same.
In our house, Mimi takes a bath and then we all lie on the floor in her bedroom against the big, soft floor pillows and read books while we play lullabies. It’s a lot less complicated than it looks when written. The dogs always jump on the pillows first, and when I shoo them off, the big one — the one who looks like wolf — jumps up on her toddler bed. It’s a riot, seeing a wolf in a toddler bed, complete with railing.
[And no, she doesn't drink from a bottle any more. (Just like mom!) The picture is old.]
The last few steps follow a special code language. First she goes to the bathroom one more time to peep, then we 1-2-3 her into bed, she says her God blesses, places her chosen tools and jewelries on the bedstand, and Jon lifts her up to pat the sky — glow in the dark stars affixed to the ceiling.
So she knows and he knows and I know that this day is over, I’ve stayed sober and she is safely in bed for the night… so barring emergencies (always the specter of the unexpected …), we were successful once again, one more Day at a Time.
