Sneak Preview or Daddy's Girl

I usually joke that Otter is almost 3 going on 13. And it might more true than I want to believe. In the last few weeks, I've been progressively getting previews of what's to come some ten years in the future, or now - whichever comes sooner.

It started innocently enough - being told to come back when she wasn't quite ready to get up in the morning. Then came the day I was sent away while she was playing train ride with Bree. Last week, when I accidentally nudged her with the door, she ran off, sobbing and burying her head in the guest room bed. She screamed, "Go away!" while I vainly tried to apologize. Eventually I had to retreat, only enticing her out by loudly telling the rubber duckies how sorry and sad I was, and reading them the bedtime story meant for SB.

And today the beginning of the end...well, began. After 2 nights of being late - an event that usually requires extra attention - I came home early enough for someone to go to the grocery store. But when she heard that Bree was heading out, she freaked. And when I asked her if she wanted her Papa to stay and put her down (again) while I left, she quickly, and happily, agreed. And why shouldn't she? Papa plays Elevator, Train Ride, Airplane Ride, and Picnic better than I ever will.

My place in the sun is temporarily (or permanently?) eclipsed.

And it's weird, and surprising, and a little liberating. Good luck, Papa!

From the Bad Mommy Files: Wino Rhino

Our little girl is growing up. Faster than we may have bargained for.

As I worked late the other night, Bree was manning bedtime, and specifically, the requisite pre-bedtime picnic. It is a complicated game, with ever-changing rules that are as hard to follow as they are ephemeral. Mainly, it involves the stuffed animals (known collectively as "all the guys") to ride around in the toy F-150, then be deposited on the kitchen floor (along with the rubber duckies and the 'nest' of plastic eggs), wait for the elevator, when it's too hard to take the stairs, and possibly eat and drink.

And so, I received the following message from Bree:

Good job mama. Guess what the animals are drinking at the picnic?

Wine?

Yep. They have two big glasses that they're sharing.

Now, there are several ways to interpret such news about your not-quite-3-year-old. And here is what I choose to go with:

1) All things being equal, some wine guzzling teddy bears aren't as bad as it could be. Hell, they can be taking shots, smoking cigarettes, or engaging in risky behaviors. Not to imply that that goes on in our house.

2) To make wine taboo is to nearly ensure a future in sneaking drinks.

3) Let's not forget - the animals were sharing. And sharing is a good thing.

My only question - Red or white?

Catch-22

Of late, Otter's been skipping naps.

This development was met with unadulterated horror on my part. She's not even quite 3 - should this be happening? Will she be getting enough rest? Will she be melting down by day's end? More importantly, will I? How does one survive one's own child for an uninterrupted 14 hours without going mad or developing a serious Valium addiction?

Sure I say I relish every fleeting weekend moment with my kid. Those charming impromptu picnics on the bed, digging in the backyard dirt, pretend train rides in her crib - but this is all contingent on a 2-3 hour span where she's tucked far away in dreamland, while I get to be a grown up. Dragging my kid through the mall because she wouldn't nap so I took her to go shoe shopping and now I'm peeling her off the mannequin in the Lucky Store display and talking her out of splashing in the fountain after she refused to even try the ice cream she begged me to buy doesn't quite inspire parental bliss. The only thing that gets me through those days is the knowledge that once she hits the pillow at 9, within 15 minutes (at most) I will be free to pursue the illusion of being an untoddlered adult.

On the other hand, the days she does nap we pay the price at bedtime. After putting SB down diligently at 9, we spend the next hour to hour and a half returning to her room at intervals for hugs, kisses, sips of water, the occasional diaper change, blanket adjustments, resetting the music, resetting the night light (which times out at after a length of time the makers deemed sufficient for your average child to fall asleep). This rinse and repeat process is maddening - my dinner, work time or (if I'm feeling really crazy) reading constantly interrupted by plaintive bleats of "Moooommmy, " emanating from the baby monitor. Ignoring the summons is of no use - as they gain volume and urgency with each passing moment. You'd think she was dying of thirst. Eventually, worn down by hours of making me run to her, she thankfully falls asleep, leaving me to enjoy and 11 o'clock dinner.

Which leads to the Catch-22 - which madness do you choose?

From the Bad Mommy Files: Alert AA

I've always tried to keep my drinking around SB to a minimum. Sure I've imbibed in the occasional glass of wine (I mean I don't want the girl growing up thinking we're teetotalers or anything), but I had been under the impression that the majority of my Bacchanalian endeavors were happening after hours.

But either I've been less careful than I realized, or my kid is showing some early proclivities... Today as we were getting sandwiches from a local market, Otter walked me to the wine section. "Look at all those wines," my 2 1/2-year-old enthused. "We should get some."

Big big floozy

Instead of dinosaur, SB says "Giant Whore." I kinda hope she never stops.

Imagine

A child's imagination is a magical thing, opening a world of possibilities, both real and extraordinary, to the tyke. In the right hands, it is also a powerful tool to manipulate and give the otherwise hapless parent a half step up on their equally manipulative offspring.

My tale begins several months back, when our family visited friends on the East Coast. Along with the joy of a plane trip, the experience of new sights and sounds, endless reruns of the animal show they'd kindly recorded, they had a far more prized possession - two cats.

Otter was fascinated and smitten. She rejoiced in looking for them throughout the house and looked forward to giving them treats every evening. And long after her memories of excursions faded, the torch for Bob and Mabel burned strongly in her heart. Months after we were back home, she would quiz me on their names and inquire about their whereabouts.

Most days, I'd tell SB that the cats were doing well, though living far away. Perhaps one day she'd see them again but in the meantime I suggested she just treasure the memory of the days they spent together. Tonight however, I was hit with a bolt of inspiration that may prove most useful in the coming days.

I decided to pretend the felines were with us. We called them by name during story time, invited the up on the bed. And when the imaginary cats jumped up (complete with the light pitter-patter of feet courtesy of yours truly) we petted them, fed them imaginary treats and red them a story. Bob and Mabel then became highly interested in Otter's tooth brushing technique, were fascinated by her change into a night-time diaper, and positively overcome when SB demonstrated how she gets into her pajamas. And after holding them carefully in her hands while did our late-night hugs, SB was amazingly all too happy to settle in, get covered by her blanket and wait for B and M to curl up under it.

There were no calls for last kisses, no mad scrambles out of bed or protests against lights out. The girl, her stuffed animals, and her new pretend pets curled under her blanket, were cozy and happy and ready for sleep.

I am amazed, touched and overwhelmed by SB's ability to immerse herself in this new, make-believe world. But if I'm to be honest, there is an ulterior motive. Sure I like to nurture the flights of fancy, hoping that one day Otter's outside-the-box thinking will make her the next Einstein, Shakespeare or Van Gogh. But at the end of the day (literally) all I really care about is getting her to bed in time to enjoy a glass of wine and a bad TV show. I just wonder how long this currency will last.

The Art of Negotiation

For the past week, we've been trying Otter to poop. We have explored all the obvious avenues, from bribery...

("Every time you go, you'll get a sticker!")

to story-telling...

("All the animals go poopy, every day!"

"The doggies?"

"Yes, the doggies."

"The penguins?"

"Yes, the penguins."

"The maned wolf?" Really? The maned wolf???

"Yes, especially the maned wolf.")

to reason...

("If you don't go, your tummy will hurt. It won't hurt if you go every day.")

to mildly veiled threats...

("If you don't go yourself, I'm going to have to use medicine. Now I'm not telling you this to scare you, but just to tell you that's going to have to happen...")

Negotiations are not going well.

But perhaps this is because once again, we've under-estimated our opponent. The other day, SB was playing with a stuffed hamster/mouse and, in the course of their morning had him "go poop." I thought we were just a hop, skip and a jump away from her following suit. Instead, she demanded a sticker - on his behalf.

And somehow got it.