Thanks a Latte, mom...

I suppose it was cruel. But my regular travel mug is way too big and clunky for easy playground use. And Otter does have 2 distinctly colored, perfect size thermos sippy cups. And I did warn her.

Still, the look on her face as she grabbed for "my" cup and took her first big old swig of coffee was, as the commercial says, priceless.

Kitchen Aid

It is no secret that children's toys are unnecessarily complicated to put together. Furthermore, there seems to be an inverse correlation between the straightforwardness of the object and the ease of it's assembly. The microscope? That comes in one piece, give or take a couple of glassslides. The big wheel? Yeah, that bad boy needs a graduate degree in engineering and some night classes with the local auto-mechanic to put together.

So it should have come as no surprise to me that when I opened the play kitchen SB had received for her birthday, instead of seeing 3 large plastic sections (that I was fully prepared to snap together) I was confronted with about 500 miniature plastic pieces (in four snazzy color selections) along with a mysterious bag of screws (in 2 different sizes) and some black and white directions with images so blurry that it was hard to tell which side of what piece was "up." All I could gather was that I'd need a screwdriver and, inexplicably, some wire snips.

Now I consider myself a rather handy, and somewhat clever, girl. No one's suggesting I can build high-rises and suspension bridges, but I've put my share of Ikea furniture together (with a minimum of extra bits left over). But this? This kitchen was a whole new ball game.

To begin with, the various plastic pieces were identified by letters, starting with "A" and ending with "ZZ" - which should give you an idea of how many there were. Add to that the fact that you couldn't actually read these identifiers on most of the pieces and I was left to either cross reference the component to a 6-digit number that identified the actual mold that these bits came attached to or, far less usefully, attempt to match the mystery part to the microscopic picture on the aforementioned guide.

A woman of less grit and gumption than I would have given up right then and there. But I am not that woman. Or is it that I am that woman? This is all very confusing. At any rate, spurned on by a sense of obligation to my child, and (primarily) a stupid prideful stubbornness that wouldn't let me be defeated by a box full of plastic, I spent the next 3 hours poring over incomprehensible instructions, cutting and shaving plastic bits, screwing numerous screws into mysterious holes (and btw, screwing into plastic is not as simple as one would be led to believe), and finally, sticking on stickers. All in time for the nap to end.

Finally, victory was mine. And the kitchen stood assemble in all of its plastic (although slightly crooked) grandeur for Otter to admire. Am I unreasonably proud of myself for having conquered the plastic behemoth? Hell yeah. Now, when Otter makes her next batch of pretend eggs, she'll know those splatter marks all over her toy are mommy's blood sweat and tears.

No skot! No skot!

When SB was but a She-Blob, I often worried about giving birth to a super girly-girl. You know - the pink-clad, bow wearing, purse carrying toddlers who, for inexplicable (and slightly disturbing) reasons have their nails painted before they've reached the ripe old age of 2.

Maybe it's my deeply rooted understanding that the next logical step to these Lolitas' development is the kiddie pageant circuit; perhaps it s my barely concealed envy that even before they've entered pre-school, these future Paris Hilton clones are better attired, know how to match their clothes, can walk the walk, and all in all are better groomed than I will ever be, but I found myself making all sorts of promises about the balanced (read, tomboy) upbringing Otter would have under my Doc Marten wielding tutelage.

Once SB entered the world however, my post-feminist agenda was somewhat undermined by all those darling, precious, ruffled frocks and skirts that friends and relatives love to pile upon you as soon as they realized it won't result in a cross-dressing disaster. So SB's feminine wardrobe grew, running the gamut from the funky rocker chick tu-tu's to dresses that made her look like a refugee from David Williams' YFZ ranch. And admittedly, I contributed to the collection too.

Still, in the practical day-to-day outfitting of my child, I found it hard to select times when dresses and skirts were appropriate. While she was really little, she spent most of her time crawling around on the floor, where dresses seemed more of a hindrance. As she grew older, and spent much of her days at playgrounds and parks, putting on frilly gowns appeared misguided and frankly, downright cruel. Sure, we'd roll out a dress for the occasional birthday party - but let's face it - kiddie parties are all about running around and playing, not showing off your chique wardrobe. So, at best I'd pull of throwing something that could pass as a long shirt over a pair of leggings or jeans and calling it a day.

And perhaps I've done my brainwashing a touch too well. For her second birthday, we decided to outfit SB with clothes suited for the opinionated, independent girl she was becoming. Including some very cool, very hip skirts. I happily displayed my new purchases to Otter, expecting her to grasp the fashion-forward approach I had taken to her wardrobe, and to understand, once and for all, that I was ONE COOL MOM. Instead, she looked at me in horror and started screaming, "No skot! No skot!"

She won't even let my put the damn skirt on her stuffed animals.

OMG

Today, SB accidentally kicked me in the face. "Ouch," I said.

"Ouch," she repeated. Then leaned back and followed it up with, "Oh my god."

Signs your almost 2-year-old may be getting blase about air travel?

Me: Honey we're gonna go on an airplane! Want to go on an airplane?

SB: Go on helicopter?

Wet 'n Wild

It so happened that Otter needed a new kiddie pool. After years of dedicated service, our ginormous plastic monstrosity, originally purchased to give our dog a place to cool off (he never even came near it), gave up the ghost.

It also just so happens that there is a birthday coming up, which means that if the girl wants a kiddie pool, a kiddie pool must be gotten. So off I went to one of the chains (which shall remain nameless) that I SHOULD be boycotting for one reason or another, to procure a plastic receptacle for my toddler to splash around in.

Fast forward to this afternoon, when, armed with the pool (which, it should be noted, came with a separate elephant shaped slide), a foot pump and some misguided optimism, I stepped into the 100 degree heat to blow this monstrosity up in time for my dear child to wake from her nap.

I investigated the box - it was covered with pictures of joyous children playing rambunctiously in what looked like an Olympic sized pool. Which alarmed me, being as I had nothing but a foot operated pump. But I took solace in the fact that it was highly unlikely that a lap pool actually fit into a 2 x 2 box I had in my hand. Filled with hope, I took out the plastic pool.

I decided to start small - with the decorative palm tree, which actually had nothing to do with the functionality of the pool, but looked manageable. And it was - minutes later, standing upright and perky, the palm promised great things. It lied.

Fast forward once again - an hour later, as I stood, sweating profusely while madly using alternate feet, then hands, trying to get a flaccid pile of plastic to resemble a pool. The elephant slide lay meekly on its side, resembling something we'd downed on safari and dragged home to display or (judging from its two-dimensionality) use as a rug. Reminding myself that I was getting a workout was of little consolation. Focusing on the joy this would bring my child was undercut by dripping sweat. And as I quietly muttered curses at the pool and all its plastic ancestors (along with a few choice words set aside for the foot pump) I questioned how important a kiddie pool would really be in the greater scheme of things. I mean, when she was 20 would SB still think back woefully to the time she woke up from her nap at age 2 and was confronted with a deflated, overheated plastic elephant?

But for better or for worse (depending on who you ask), I persevered. And when she did see it, and quickly thereafter was hopping around in it, it seemed silly to have even doubted.

Main Man

A few weeks back, we found Otter pretending she's on the phone, deep in conversation as we walked in on her. "Buh-bye Jimmy," she quickly babbled upon seeing us.

Jimmy? Who is Jimmy? Ears perked up, we investigated further. Jimmy, it turns out, is the little boy from the park. What's this? Does Otter have a boyfriend? A paramour to whom she makes clandestine, early morning, pretend phone calls?

Bree took the news far better than I expected - no talk of guns or barbed-wire fences came up. How long this surprisingly blase attitude lasts remains to be seen.

In the meantime, we're suddenly aware that the little girl who had until very recently been a baby, has begun her secret, independent life.

God help us.