Two year old's day
6:35 a.m. She comes out in her Lightning The Queen footie pajamas, dragging an armload of stuff: her blankie, her new baby doll, Diamond, and Diamond’s blankie as well.
“Goo’ mornin’, mama,” she says, dropping the pile on the floor and snuggling into my arms. After a moment of cuddling, she looks down at her belongings. “Diamond was cryin' in the morning,” she says.
"So that's why you had to get up? To take care of your baby?" I say. "Yep," she says. "You're a good mama," I tell her. I don't mention that dropping your baby on the floor is not necessarily an acceptable parenting method.
I ask her what she wants for breakfast, and she requests apples and peanut butter. That's more of an after-school snack than a breakfast, to my mind, but there's nothing wrong with it if that's what she wants, so I get up from my morning coffee and newspaper, and start slicing apples.
She follows me into the kitchen. "And maca-oni and cheese," she says. "For breakfiss."
Apples and peanut butter are one thing, mac & cheese at 6:30 a.m. is another. I tell her I'm not making macaroni and cheese for breakfiss, and she contents herself with the apples.
As she finishes up, she swipes the bowl with her finger, wiping up the last bits of peanut butter and licking them off.
"Do you care if I do it like this?" she asks.
I suppose I should care--it's not very good table manners to lick your bowl, or your fingers, but at 6:30 a.m. I don't. "No, I don't care," I tell her, so she continues.
8 a.m. She runs out of her room stark naked. "Naked baby!" I shout. "Naked Evie!" she giggles. I hadn't told her to get dressed yet, but she must have decided it was time, and got started herself. The getting clothes off part she's pretty good at. Getting them back on, not so much.
8:20 a.m. Evie, to Lucy: "Let's play CareBears!"
"OK," Lucy says. "You be No-heart! You have to go like this!" and she throws back her head and cackles, a perfect villainous laugh.
"Ah ha ha ha ha!" Evie copies her, and they go off together, laughing evilly all the way.
8:30 a.m., and they're still playing CareBears, although Evie is now, apparently, the foolish henchman Beastly, instead of the arch-nemesis No-heart.
"Evie, you need your coat on," I tell her.
"No, I'm Beastly," she says, glaring at me, not making a move for the coat.
"Beastly, get your coat on," I say.
"OK, mama," she says, smiling sweetly and complying.
9:10 a.m., we're back from school and cleaning the playroom. What's more, Evie is actually helping for once. We clear away a pile, and Evie finds a prized possession.
"Oh, I was looking for you, Magna-Doodle!" she says, and kisses it loudly all over.
9:15 a.m.--potty time. Evie cheers and claps for herself when she does her business. "Yay, Evie! Good girl!"
10:15 a.m., she wanders into the kitchen. "I hungwy and firsty," she says, "Can I have maca-oni and cheese?" I placate her with a banana and a glass of water instead.
10:46 a.m. It's a dance party in the living room--Evie is singing a nonsense song and they're both rocking out: "Ah, ah ah, oh, doodee lee hee haw, doodee lee hee haaaaaawwwww!"
10:52 a.m. Tears from the living room. She runs in to the office. "I don't want Lucy to pway this game!" she says.
"Then go play somewhere else," I say.
"NO!" she says.
"Then go to your room," I say.
She runs out. A moment later, a scream from Lucy.
"What happened?" I ask.
"She just hit me in the stomach!" Lucy says.
There are consequences for her action. There are tears. At the end of it she is sitting on her bed, clutching her blankie and sobbing.
11 a.m. Tears have subsided. When I go in to talk to her about what she did wrong and why she was punished, she's sitting on her bed and singing again.
Noon. It's finally maca-oni and cheese time. However, there is a problem when they discover that I’ve purchased "shells and white cheddar style" instead of regular macaroni noodles. I try to assure them it will taste exactly the same. They open the box, examine the shells, feel them in their hands, and then eat the dry, hard noodles. Lucy says she does not like them and opts for bread and jam. Evie says she does like them, so I put them in the pot to boil. While they are boiling, she comes up and tells me she doesn’t like them after all.
“Goo’ mornin’, mama,” she says, dropping the pile on the floor and snuggling into my arms. After a moment of cuddling, she looks down at her belongings. “Diamond was cryin' in the morning,” she says.
"So that's why you had to get up? To take care of your baby?" I say. "Yep," she says. "You're a good mama," I tell her. I don't mention that dropping your baby on the floor is not necessarily an acceptable parenting method.
I ask her what she wants for breakfast, and she requests apples and peanut butter. That's more of an after-school snack than a breakfast, to my mind, but there's nothing wrong with it if that's what she wants, so I get up from my morning coffee and newspaper, and start slicing apples.
She follows me into the kitchen. "And maca-oni and cheese," she says. "For breakfiss."
Apples and peanut butter are one thing, mac & cheese at 6:30 a.m. is another. I tell her I'm not making macaroni and cheese for breakfiss, and she contents herself with the apples.
As she finishes up, she swipes the bowl with her finger, wiping up the last bits of peanut butter and licking them off.
"Do you care if I do it like this?" she asks.
I suppose I should care--it's not very good table manners to lick your bowl, or your fingers, but at 6:30 a.m. I don't. "No, I don't care," I tell her, so she continues.
8 a.m. She runs out of her room stark naked. "Naked baby!" I shout. "Naked Evie!" she giggles. I hadn't told her to get dressed yet, but she must have decided it was time, and got started herself. The getting clothes off part she's pretty good at. Getting them back on, not so much.
8:20 a.m. Evie, to Lucy: "Let's play CareBears!"
"OK," Lucy says. "You be No-heart! You have to go like this!" and she throws back her head and cackles, a perfect villainous laugh.
"Ah ha ha ha ha!" Evie copies her, and they go off together, laughing evilly all the way.
8:30 a.m., and they're still playing CareBears, although Evie is now, apparently, the foolish henchman Beastly, instead of the arch-nemesis No-heart.
"Evie, you need your coat on," I tell her.
"No, I'm Beastly," she says, glaring at me, not making a move for the coat.
"Beastly, get your coat on," I say.
"OK, mama," she says, smiling sweetly and complying.
9:10 a.m., we're back from school and cleaning the playroom. What's more, Evie is actually helping for once. We clear away a pile, and Evie finds a prized possession.
"Oh, I was looking for you, Magna-Doodle!" she says, and kisses it loudly all over.
9:15 a.m.--potty time. Evie cheers and claps for herself when she does her business. "Yay, Evie! Good girl!"
10:15 a.m., she wanders into the kitchen. "I hungwy and firsty," she says, "Can I have maca-oni and cheese?" I placate her with a banana and a glass of water instead.
10:46 a.m. It's a dance party in the living room--Evie is singing a nonsense song and they're both rocking out: "Ah, ah ah, oh, doodee lee hee haw, doodee lee hee haaaaaawwwww!"
10:52 a.m. Tears from the living room. She runs in to the office. "I don't want Lucy to pway this game!" she says.
"Then go play somewhere else," I say.
"NO!" she says.
"Then go to your room," I say.
She runs out. A moment later, a scream from Lucy.
"What happened?" I ask.
"She just hit me in the stomach!" Lucy says.
There are consequences for her action. There are tears. At the end of it she is sitting on her bed, clutching her blankie and sobbing.
11 a.m. Tears have subsided. When I go in to talk to her about what she did wrong and why she was punished, she's sitting on her bed and singing again.
Noon. It's finally maca-oni and cheese time. However, there is a problem when they discover that I’ve purchased "shells and white cheddar style" instead of regular macaroni noodles. I try to assure them it will taste exactly the same. They open the box, examine the shells, feel them in their hands, and then eat the dry, hard noodles. Lucy says she does not like them and opts for bread and jam. Evie says she does like them, so I put them in the pot to boil. While they are boiling, she comes up and tells me she doesn’t like them after all.
I tel her that it's already cooking and it's too late to change her mind now. But, after I cook the shells, I add a tiny pinch of turmeric to give it a nice bright yellow color, instead of the objectionably natural-colored white cheddar sauce.
It turns out looking pretty good—even Lucy says, “yum yum” when she sees it-- but Evie eats only a few bites.
Nice yellow macaroni and cheese that she's been asking for all day and then refuses to eat.
"I’m all done," she says.
"If you don’t eat your lunch, you won’t get a snack later today," I tell her.
"I’m all done. Can I go play famma-wee?" she says. And a few minutes later she and Lucy are husband and wife, absorbed in a compelling domestic drama in the imaginary game of Family.
1 p.m. They’re waiting for me on the couch to read stories
I run my fingers through Evie’s fine, white-blonde hair as she sit on my lap, but she pushes them away with an impatient “don’t!” She hates it when I play with her hair, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
We read from Lucy’s High Five magazine, then I carry Evie in my arms to bed. She is the only one who takes an afternoon nap anymore, but luckily she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She never resists. I snuggle her up in blankets and kiss her on the cheek.
"I love you, sweetie," I tell her.
"I love you too Mama," she says cheerfully. "But I hate it when you pull my hair."
3 p.m. I go in to wake her, so we can walk to school and pick up Beth. She silent and sleepy-eyed all the way there and back. It's not until after we get home and she eats two bowls of applesauce (I completely forgot about my earlier no-snack pronouncement) that she perks up.
3:46 p.m. "My name is Gooby! My name is Gooby!" she announces. This is her favorite kitty-cat name. She follows it up with a couple of convincing meows.
"We're not playing that game, Evie," Beth says. "We don't want to be kitties right now."
"But I a kitty," Evie says. She gives two small, pathetic meows. "Who can be my owner? Can mama be my owner?"
"Go ask her," Beth says.
Me and my kitty, Gooby.
She comes in on her hands and knees and crawls up to me, rubbing her head against my leg. "I a kitty. Will you be my owner?"
"Sure, kitty," I tell her. I pick up the ZhuZhu pet toy hamster that's sitting on my desk for some reason, turn it on, and set it on the floor, where it squeaks and begins zooming around the room. "Go chase a mouse!"
She grins, scoots over to the ZhuZhu pet, and picks it up in her mouth. She carries it back to me triumphantly.
I remove the damp toy, pick her up and pat her head.
"My name is Gooby," she says. "Purr. Purr."
"Good kitty," I say, cuddling her some more. "Good Gooby. Good girl."
4 comments:
She is adorable.
Once again you blow me away as a writer. For all the cynicism that abounds at my house full of teens and college students, this post brought back great memories. Love the innocence and joy, and the world as seen through a 2-year-old.
You should be on Oprah. You should be on a book tour. OK, I think I'm done now.
Lighting The Queen or Lightning McQueen?
@ Eric: Not that you're biased or anything.
@ Mike: Thanks!!
@ Rebekah: Yes, the pajamas are actually Lightning McQueen. But none of my girls call him that, ever, no matter how many times we correct them :)
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