Earlier this week, I happened to arrive at daycare to pick Leah up at the same time as "Keaton's" mom. Keaton is a couple of months younger than Leah, and I picked up from an overheard conversation that he is not a first child. I therefore observed Keaton's interaction with his mother as one might observe mice in a lab: In a controlled environment, I was hoping to learn something that might be useful in my interactions with my own child.
Lo and behold, after Keaton was all suited up in his jacket and secured in his carrier, Keaton's mom presented him with two toys. "Which one?" she asked him, and Keaton smiled and, after a moment, chose the toy in the right hand. "Yeah, I thought so," said Keaton's mom, and she smiled at me, and I smiled back, and off they went.
Well, I can do that, I thought. I can present two options. My kid can make a choice. Surely this is not that difficult.
So today, as I was making blueberry puree and was home alone and thus needed my child to be occupied, I presented Leah with two toys, one in each hand, just as I'd seen Keaton's mom do. "Which one?" I asked her, and she assumed the same happy expression I'd seen on Keaton's face when faced with this question. I dared to hope as she got a knowing glint in her eye...
...And reached out with both hands, one for each toy.
So there you have it. My daughter believes she can have everything she wants.
After giving it some thought, I've decided she's smarter than Keaton after all.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
It's fine. We'll just never clean again.
Leah has been enjoying a period of perfect bliss. Once she got over her initial belief that the outside world sucked donkey balls and she hated everyone and everything that was not a warm, fuzzy swaddle and a mommy snuggle and DEAR GOD, MOMMY, do not let anyone else hold me or I'll scream my head off, she has been a reasonably happy baby. She no longer fears strangers (or grandparents), rides in the stroller are full of win, and it's totally fun to go out to Target and sit up in the cart and smile and babble and giggle to herself. Oh, and bottles? We're so over throwing tantrums about those. Now she prefers to watch all bottle preparation so that the instant it's ready, she may snatch it from your hand and shove it into her mouth. Everything is new and interesting and worthy of being gummed (if possible) or at least oggled with a wide-eyed stare that can only be seen on the face of someone who has never seen This Thing before.
That period, unfortunately, is over.
The world is still pretty awesome and worthy of being explored with the same wide-eyed stare, but we now have "fears" and "dislikes." Green vegetables are a definite "dislike." I've attempted to explain to her that if all she eats is carrots, squash and sweet potatoes, she's going to start turning colors and smelling funny, but so far this logic eludes her. (Or maybe she really wants to be orange. I don't know.)
As for fears? One day, I was home alone with Leah. She was in her Jumperoo, happy as a clam, and so I thought to myself, "I know. I'll vacuum."
The scream of terror she emitted when I turned on the appliance was as though I had opened the gates of hell and let the soul-eating devil monsters out to get my child.
So (because I'm not a complete bitch), I turned it off and scooped her up, and she proceeded to whimper like a puppy left out all night in the rain, and stare over my shoulder at the Vacu-Terror. Even though it was off. And unplugged.
Five minutes later, I took this photo. Guess what she's still staring at? Yeah.
Other attempts to vacuum have been met with similar results. If I try to do it when she's napping on a Saturday afternoon, she wakes up and alerts me to the arrival of the zombie apocalypse. Put her in the bathroom with the fan running, I thought, and that will mask the noise. But no. The monsters are still coming and she is still scared and no stupid fan is going to fool her.
She also seems to have a distinct fear of long-sleeve shirts. I believe it's because she thinks her tiny little fingers are going to get lost inside the sleeves and, Dear God, what will she do without those?
For the sake and sanity of everyone in this house, I sincerely hope she moves on from all of this, and the sooner the better.
That period, unfortunately, is over.
The world is still pretty awesome and worthy of being explored with the same wide-eyed stare, but we now have "fears" and "dislikes." Green vegetables are a definite "dislike." I've attempted to explain to her that if all she eats is carrots, squash and sweet potatoes, she's going to start turning colors and smelling funny, but so far this logic eludes her. (Or maybe she really wants to be orange. I don't know.)
As for fears? One day, I was home alone with Leah. She was in her Jumperoo, happy as a clam, and so I thought to myself, "I know. I'll vacuum."
The scream of terror she emitted when I turned on the appliance was as though I had opened the gates of hell and let the soul-eating devil monsters out to get my child.
So (because I'm not a complete bitch), I turned it off and scooped her up, and she proceeded to whimper like a puppy left out all night in the rain, and stare over my shoulder at the Vacu-Terror. Even though it was off. And unplugged.
Five minutes later, I took this photo. Guess what she's still staring at? Yeah.
Other attempts to vacuum have been met with similar results. If I try to do it when she's napping on a Saturday afternoon, she wakes up and alerts me to the arrival of the zombie apocalypse. Put her in the bathroom with the fan running, I thought, and that will mask the noise. But no. The monsters are still coming and she is still scared and no stupid fan is going to fool her.
She also seems to have a distinct fear of long-sleeve shirts. I believe it's because she thinks her tiny little fingers are going to get lost inside the sleeves and, Dear God, what will she do without those?
For the sake and sanity of everyone in this house, I sincerely hope she moves on from all of this, and the sooner the better.
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