Do? Do?

When I became a parent, my heart exploded and my whole world opened.  I learned about simple things.  How to make a perfect bottle.  How to swaddle a newborn baby.  How to give a squirmy child a bath.  I learned about the big things too.  How to love someone unconditionally.  How to emotionally connect with someone who cannot even speak.  How to let go of my wants for her needs.  But I also learned about something else.  Something that everyone does, but few people talk about.  Something that can make someone's day or keep someone cranky (and crampy).

That's right, people, I'm talking about poop.

Who knew another person's bowel movements could create such angst or give me such satisfaction?  Since the day she left my body, we talk about Princess's poop...a lot.  Just to clarify, though, Princess has had some "digestion" issues since birth, so there was plenty of material to work with.  

By the time my baby turned 3, though, I had hoped we would have shifted our topic focus.  Alas, we have not.  Now we just focus our conversation about where she did the doody - in a pull-up or on the potty?  Every day I have to ask her teacher the same question, "Did she have a bowel movement today?"  Every night as Princess rocks side-to-side while straining to hold the poopy inside her body, I have to explain that everybody goes poop.  She requires I recall the long list of everyone we know who goes poop.  

"Yes, Daddy goes poop.  Mommy goes poop.  Your teacher goes poop.  Amanda goes poop.  Mandie goes poop.  The postman goes poop.  Our dog goes poop.  Even grandma does."  And it goes on and on.  Anyone my daughter has ever met must be included in the list.  

Do you know how unsettling it is to think about everyone you know pooping?  Sit with that for a moment, if you will.

Not pleasant, I know.

But Princess's poops continue to be my husband and mine most-frequently discussed topics (along with people who piss us off and world peace).  And it looks as though it will be that way for many months in the future.  

Crap.

The Show Must Go On...

Yep, a beloved American tradition has finally arrived.  The first snow day of the school year!  While most children romp in pillows of snow, my Princess sobs uncontrollably.  "But Mommy, it's movie star day at school!"  Yes, my daughter is devastated because it is Red Carpet Day at her preschool, and she is stuck hanging out with her mom.  Red Carpet Day is fun.  All the little tots dress up in their fanciest attire, walk the red carpet (plastic tablecloth), wave to their adoring fans (teachers), conduct interviews with nosy reporters (teachers again) and have their pictures taken by the surging paparazzi (school directors).  But the snow has taken all that joy away from my little girl.

So at 9:30 a.m. when most children are stuffing themselves into inflatable snowsuits and moonboots, Princess is donning her black velvet dress, expertly accessorized with pink jewelry, pink sequin pocketbook and her blue Cinderella headband.  Wearing no shoes (because they would only slow her down), she struts her stuff on our makeshift runway proclaiming that she is a movie star and a princess.  The paparazzi did show....

 along with her adoring fans (aka mom and dad).  She laughs in the face of snow day traditions! Who needs sleds and snowballs when you can have photo shoots and ivory bows?

I honestly don't know where she came from.  This sports-loving, long-devoted feminist remains stunned at the girly girl way my daughter walks through her life.  But she is fabulous!  And I am so lucky she is mine.

Happy Snow Day!

The Biter

Princess was attacked.  

The attacker's teeth missed her eye by less than a centimeter.  On her cheekbone, a magenta temporary tattoo-like imprint of each tooth.  The assailant had to be pulled off her face.  Miraculously, the skin was not broken.  No, it was not a pit bull or a doberman that pounced on my little girl.  It was a two and a half year old boy - the biter of her class.  And I have had enough.

Princess's teacher called me on Friday morning to tell me what happened.  She assured me that Princess was fine, and I have the luxury to verify that by the class webcam.  Miss P told me Princess did not provoke the attack at all.  She was simply sitting at her table coloring her picture when the biter gestured as if he was going to hug her.  He leaned in and bit her face.  My heart raced, but again Miss P said Princess was fine, but there would be a bruise.  In my mind I pictured a typical blue bruise, maybe the size of a quarter.  That is why I was completely unprepared for the reality of the redish/purple explosion on her cheekbone.  It left me speechless.  I fought back tears.  Princess, though, was her happy self so I did my best not to let my astonishment show.  I was sad, and then I was pissed.  

The Biter has attacked my daughter (and other children) before, but never like this one.  This one was bad.  Both my husband and I spoke to the director.  We think this child who has pattern of biting should be asked to leave the school.  If he doesn't, we will.  It is difficult enough sending my daughter to daycare, much less worry about the Hannibal Lecter who lingers nearby as she eats her turkey sandwich.      

And now my educator voice whispers in my ear....what kind of house must the Biter live in so that he feels the only way he can express his emotions and/or get attention is to chomp his teeth into some other kid's arm, back or face?  I do feel for the Biter.

But my mom voice yells even louder, "But he needs to stay away from my little girl."  

Project Runway

Every morning my husband or I prepare to wage war with our two year old daughter. The issue? Getting dressed. I have come to dread it. I feel as if I am a corporate lawyer actively negiotating a complex business deal. I don't want to come on too strong because then the opposing side recoils. I don't want to appear desperate because then my competitor feels empowered. I don't want to appear wishy washy because then the talks will drag on forever...and I just don't want the act of putting on a t-shirt to swallow 22 minutes of my day (as it did this morning).

I take almost full responsibility for this situation. As Princess began wanting to make some of her own choices, the well-intended toddler rearing books offered the following suggestion: "Your child has few choices in his/her life, thus tantrums tend to be a product of this lack of control. So allow them to make decisions when you can. Pick two outfits, for example, and let him/her choose which to wear." I took it to heart and informed my husband to do the same.

Everything went well. She was delighted to pick her clothes in the morning and even her pjs at night. We made a fatal mistake, though, when we started letting her sort through her drawers to pick a skirt or socks. All of a sudden, Heidi Klum appeared.

"No, not that t-shirt! I don't like that. I wear this t-shirt!"

"No pants! I want a skirt."

And then yesterday's meltdown...she wore one of her favorite dresses to church in the morning. We ran several errands and carried our peaceful sleeping beauty (still donning her Sunday best) up to her crib for a nap. Later, some family came over for a barbecue. Her 2 year old cousin patiently waited as my husband and I literally had to pull this adorable dress off our screaming daughter so that we could put her into her play clothes (of her choosing by the way).

Someday, perhaps, my daughter will be a famous fashion designer. Perhaps she'll be a tough- as-nails Vogue editor. Perhaps she'll host her own reality TV show on Bravo.

Until then, I just hope I can get her to wear socks that match.

Munchkin Monster

We have created a monster - a munchkin monster that is. This spring my husband and I took our princess to swimming class every Saturday morning. After class we'd have a fun family outing to Dunkin Donuts - mom and dad sipping our soothing coffee while our little one nibbled on a glazed cake munchkin. We were happy...then.

Today, my daughter and I attended a music class together. We sang songs, played instruments and stomped our feet. Fun, fun! As we strolled back to the mom mobile, I suggested we stop on the way home to have lunch followed by a munchkin treat. Eagerly, she agreed. What I did not realize was all she heard was "munchkin." I mean, lunch - who cares right?

Well, we pull into the parking lot. Conveniently, a DD resides right next to a pizza place. I get a great parking spot, shut off the car, and turn around to my smiling babe in her car seat.

"OK, we'll have some pizza first, and then we'll go and get our munchkin."

Her brow quickly furrowed, "No Mommy. I want my munchkin."

Assuredly I replied, "We'll go get our munchkin after we eat our lunch. We have to have some lunch first before we have a sweet treat."

You would have thought I said I was abandoning her in the parking lot. Her face turned various shades of magenta, and she screamed, "NO MOMMY. I WANT MUNCHKINS RIGHT NOW!"

So I pulled my discipline tactics from my Supernanny toolkit and said calmly, "Princess, you do not scream at Mommy. You do that again and we will not get munchkins. We will leave and go home. This is your warning."

BA BOOM - the gauntlet was thrown down. With hardly any hesitation, my fuchsia-faced daughter morphed into a munchkin monster and demanded, "MUNCHKIN, RIGHT NOW!"

Car in reverse and we are on our way home. My daughter convulses in the back seat while screaming for a damn doughnut hole, and I am taking deep cleansing breaths. It was a long three minutes to our driveway - followed by a longer fifteen minutes as I attempt to calm her down and prepare her lunch.

The good news - she actually did not turn into the Weed Whacker (see previous post) so maybe yesterday's Supernanny tactic of taking away her most treasured dolls when she hits actually made an impact. It was nice not to get smacked in the nose. Always look on the bright side, you know?

Why Can't We All Just Get Along??

My daughter is 2...ah 2. When my princess first turned 2, I actually remember thinking, "Wow, this isn't that bad. What do people mean by 'terrible 2s?'" Those were the days. Now we are subjected to a bouquet of baffling behaviors. There is the Fresh Mouth - "No, Mommy, go away!"; Ms. Independent - "No, Mommy, I tie my shoe."; the Flip Flopper - "I want to play with the doll...NO!! I don't want her!"; and my personal favorite - the Weed Whacker. Her arms swirl in rapid, circular motions as she charges toward me yelling, "NO Mommy!" While her interesting anthology of coping strategies exhausts me, I fear it could be a glimpse of her at 13.

When I was 13, I could not figure out what mood I was in much less what mood I wanted to be in. I snapped at my parents daily, my mom getting the brunt of it. I just wanted to be left alone, and I wanted to be the center of attention, all at the same time. Those young adolescent years were terrible. Plenty of tears, secrets and silent treatments encapsulate my memories of the late 80s. Plus, I had to deal with my pin straight hair which would not tease up no matter how many hair picks I tried. That's enough to make a girl crazy!

Yet, my princess's rants are followed by many tender, breathtaking moments. Everyday she gives big hugs, produces contagious giggles, and cuddles into my lap. My favorite moment, though, is when she abruptly stops what she is doing, searches the room to find me, and shouts "I love you Mommy!" I have my doubts that will happen when she is 13.