No, nyet, non, and my personal favorite - oh hell no!

Monkey is acquiring words with more speed now.

She has added eye, bottle, up, down, more, all done, and bubble to her repertoire.

I couldn't be prouder!

Unfortunately, she has also redoubled her use of the word "no."

When asked if she would like something (say, her favorite toy - Elmo), more likely than not she'll say "NO" and vigorously shake her head. And then stick out her hand for Elmo.

She has reached the infamous "land of no." Much like the land of the lotus-eaters, this isn't a stop you willingly make. Rather, it is a land through which you travel, praying it is a short trip and that the border guards will let you out when you get to the other side. Because every.little.thing is a battle! Let's put on your shoes...no. Let's have some lunch...no. Time for a bath....no. No, no, no, oh hell no. Sigh.

Unfortunately, as my mother happily reminds me, next up on Monkey's list of words will be "why"............and that, dear readers, will be a real pain! I can already see that one coming down the pike.....because Monkey's other single-favorite word? Yup, it is "dis" (aka "this" in toddler-speak) spoken with an inflection, often accompanied with a pointed finger, as she asks what something is, again and again and again.

Funny how after you've answered the question of "what's this?" twenty times in a row you get dumb.

That's a thing, that you know, um, does stuff.

Bring on the spoilage.......

My folks arrive tonight at 7:30pm to stay with us for Christmas. And they don't leave until late next Friday afternoon...that is ONE FULL WEEK of grandparents!

Monkey is going to be spoiled rotten! The hugs, the stories that will be read, the presents that will be unwrapped....ah, such is the life of a grandchild. ;-)

My parents haven't seen Monkey since my beloved (and much missed, really really missed) Grandmother's funeral in July, so they will be delighted at the changes.

They will also be amazed at the phenomenal temper tantrums she can pitch!

The energy, the fervor, the - oh - wait, it's already over and she's onto something else. heh.

Wish me luck.....

Monkey woke up this morning with a dry diaper. Which is one of the signs that she is ready to start potty-training! Wow. Woohoo! She's on her way to really becoming a big girl! No more diapers!!! Only, her school has me a little wary about this process.

See, Monkey is enrolled at a wonderful daycare that follows the Montessori method. Most days, this means that her school (if we have parent-teacher conferences, I'm calling it a school, dammit!) is a daycare on steroids. And I don't mean steroids in a nasty cheating Barry Bonds and (you too??? sigh, my heroes are cheaters...) Roger Clemens way. No, what I mean by "on steroids" is that it is a place where I would LOVE to spend my time!

It has two indoor gyms and a pit full of balls and cool toys and music lessons and field trips to the park and tables and chairs that are Monkey's size....so let's just say that this place is actually worth what we pay. (and um, that's a LOT, thank-you-very-little Manhattan you price-gouger you...)

But, what this also means is that they never, EVAH, take the easy way out. If a child is throwing a tantrum because he or she can't get the lid off of a can, do they take the lid off to stop that infernal whining? Nope. They sit down, talk to the child in a reasonable and kind manner, and show her how to take the lid off by herself. Like a BIG girl.

The same mentality holds true with....dun dun duh......potty training; they.......don't........allow.............pull-ups.

The theory is that pulls-ups (like diapers) do such a great job of keeping the liquid off of the skin that it isn't uncomfortable to wear a wet pull-up for minutes, even hours! (This is how kids pee their diapers yet sleep, blissfully unaware, through the night. Thank you pampers, I love you! My undereye bags thank you!). So no pull-ups, or they never become aware of their bodily functions.

Oy.

Yup, they use "training pants" which are essentially thick cotton undies. So the kids pee their underwear, and get the icky wet sensation. Which they want to avoid...and learn to avoid by using the potty.

Ok, I get this. It makes perfect sense. Only this also means that you need to bring tons of clean clothing to school each week (since they might pee themselves, and their pants, a few times each day...). And, you have to have extra shoes on hand. So when the pee rolls down their legs and puddles in their shoes, they have something to change into.

Ugh. I am reminded, yet again, how much I luuuuuve diapers. Did I mention that I am slightly anal and don't like messes? And am maybe a bit of a germaphobe?

The idea of cleaning out a potty chair grosses me out. It is one thing to diaper a baby, with squishy mustard-poo, and then to move into stinky poop once they eat solids....but this is all nicely, and mostly neatly, handled by a diaper. That you throw out.

Soon, I'll be washing undies (and clothes, and shoes too, apparently) that are full of poop and pee. Here's hoping she gets potty-trained in record time!!

So, yeah, wish me luck!

Frustration

Monkey is a full-blown toddler. She gets so frustrated that I can literally see her little brain smoldering, about to burst into flames because she is so pissed off.

This morning she was crying, and I mean BAWLING with huge tears rolling down her beautiful cheeks....because the book she wanted was wedged under the bookshelf and she couldn't figure out how to get it out.

So, I got it out for her. And she didn't want it anymore. Sigh.

Eeny, meeny, miney mo.....

So, as Christmas approaches and our mailbox swells with wonderful holiday notes from friends and family near and far....we feel guilty that we haven't even bothered to THINK about Christmas cards.

So, we think about it. We think about the time that we have (um, not much). We think about the list of friends and family we would write to (um, tons - woohoo!). We debate about which picture of Monkey we would insert/use in the card............and the whole process grinds to a halt.

Why? Well, because I have a fab-U-lous digital camera (the Canon Rebel Xti...I'm in love with it, seriously) and have a gazillion photos of Monkey on our computer. There are just too many photos! True confession - I keep even the bad photos. Yup, I keep the photos where she clearly has a huge booger dangling out of her nose...because I am that much in love with my daughter. (And besides, how else would I be able to blackmail her with when she's a teenager?)

Last night, after several nights of retiring to bed as soon as Monkey did (another bout of bronichitis, compliments of a cold I got from my daughter who, unlike me, shook it off like a lab shaking water from its glossy fur...), I decided to be productive and pick out one photo for our Christmas card.

After 45 minutes of noodling about in iPhoto, I realized that I had only gotten to the photos of Monkey at age 6 months - and she is now 16 months old! I had ten more months to go!!

Ufda.

So, I resorted to an honored tradition for making weighty decisions....I put together a short list of my favorites, and then went eeny, meeny, miney mo....

Because seriously, what else would you expect from a woman that keeps a magic eight ball on her desk at work? heh.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness....right?

We are desperately trying to get Monkey to not chuck her food on the floor at every single snack and meal.

To this end, to teach her that her actions have consequences, she is supposed to “help” clean up when she does throw her food.

So......what does she do when it is time to pick up the cheerios??? She stomps, precisely, intentionally….and with visible pleasure, on each and every single g*ddamn cheerio, reducing it to dust. Motes of cheerio-dust waft through the air and deposit in a thin layer, all over everything (including me, dad, and our beleaguered cat Ollie).

If cleanliness is next to godliness, we're raising a heathen.

WTF?

I am officially old.

My colleague, who is a mere 6 years younger than me, totally confounded me today with emoticons. I've NO CLUE what they are supposed to mean. Which makes me old.

Can someone translate this (below), puhleez?

2:35 PM Shawn: I found Monkey's emoticon
2:36 PM :() It's allegedly a monkey according to google :-)
2:37 PM They've given me way too much fun! :P
2:38 PM OH NO, HERE IT COMES (and yes, I realize I'm talking to myself) :P :-/ ;) :-o :'( :D x-( Hrm... :P x-( :(

Smiles

So earlier today I was exhanging emails with Boulder Mama, my sister in law. Her little one, HP, has just cut her first two teeth.

HP has a gorgeous smile. I'm her aunt, but damn - this kid is GORGEOUS! Boulder Mama hopes that HP's smile won't change once all her teeth come in.

Upon reflection, I said that Monkey's smile did change.

But really, I think the change is driven more by their emergent personality and ability to use their face muscles more than anything else.

Plus, I think Monkey likes to show off her teeth, since now she smiles with this super-toothy look, almost like she is baring her teeth like an enraged chimpanzee.

And yes, I just compared my child to an angry primate.

Must love cats

Attractive, cheerful brunette that walks, climbs, dances and is working on self-feeding seeks like-minded partner for supervised playdates at the park, trips to the American Museum of Natural History, and brunch on the UWS.

Must love cats, as evidenced by shrieks of joy and pointing at pictures of cats on MTA bus shelters (Bideawee ads, for example), and also by petting and kissing pictures of cats in such literary masterpieces as Olivia and One Dark Night.

Enough with the Snot already!!!!!

Ok, Ok, I realize that Monkey is in her first year of school/daycare, so she is being exposed to every mutant cold bug on earth. And that we live in New York City, in which millions of people sneeze and share their lovely cold bugs daily. And yes, that she is building her immunity.

BUT STILL.

When, on God's Green Earth, will we be DONE with the snot?

Monkey sneezed this morning on the way to school, and then wiped her nose with her hand.

Have you ever seen the Nickelodeon product "Slime"???? Well, it looked like she had stashed a quart of that shit in her hand....and it was stretched in between her hand and her nose.

Gah.

Thankgiving

We had a lovely Thanksgiving.

The night before Thanksgiving, we took Monkey down to see the balloons being inflated. We've done this for years. The balloons are all laid out, on the streets around the American Museum of Natural History, and you walk counter-clockwise, looking at the balloons with every other family on the UWS wondering what the balloon is...until some toddler yells out "Diego" or "Clifford!" and the mystery is solved.

Years ago this was a mellow event, but now it has turned into a circus. I would rather go to Times Square on New Year's Eve with Monkey than repeat that mess. Waaaay too many people, and poor Monkey was down low on the ground in her stroller. I got claustrophobic FOR her, and we only got as far east as Columbus before giving up and heading home!

Thanksgiving Day the weather was unbelievable warm, a temperate 65 without much humidity, and it made for a nice day outside with Monkey. (I loved the weather, but I'm convinced that Al Gore got that Nobel for a reason....hello, global warming!). Because it was so nice, and despite the night before, we took Monkey to the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, to watch the balloons.

She loved the balloons! Loved them! She screamed with delight and reached for them, cackling with insane toddler glee.

Only, the balloons she loved were the ones sold by the vendors, and held by happy toddlers in the crowd in front of us. We played the grinch card and declined to buy any for her, letting her scream with delight at the mere proximity of overpriced potentially lead-infested Thomas the Train Balloons on a stick for the low low price of 22$. (I've no clue what they charged, but I am confident they were waaay too much!). If there had been an Elmo balloon? Yup, we'd have been goners!

The real balloons? Meh. She could have cared less. Maybe next year........

Bad Bus Karma

I seriously hate the bus. My family laughs at me...but I seriously hate the bus.

And, I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual.

This morning I waited for 12 minutes, in the rain, with a screaming toddler pitching a tantrum because she hates the rain shield, waiting for a bus that NEVER SHOWED UP.

Isn't there a pithy quote about how 90% of life is just showing up? Apparently MTA BusM104 missed that nugget of wisdom while bouncing on his grandpappy's axle.

I know, 12 minutes isn't the end of the world. But still, it is just the latest in a long list of crummy bus experiences.

There was the time the bus I was on got pulled out of service because an insane guy refused to let an obese woman sit next to him. When the bus driver (rightly) tried to intervene, it got physical, the cops got called.....and I ended up running 15 blocks to make it to my doctor's appointment on time.

There was the time I waited for a bus for 40 minutes. And it never came.

And there was also the time that the hydraulic lift got stuck - halfway up - with a woman in her wheelchair on the lift. That bus also was taken out of service.

If you are ever with me in New York city, and I suggest that we take the bus together? Just say no.....you never know if my bad bus karma is contagious.

Gonna have to face it, you're addicted to....

Elmo!

Monkey is addicted to Elmo. I mean, wh

at is it about this monster? Isn't he just a red Grover?

Whatever it is, it has supplanted all other desires....Monkey will forgo just about anything, including cookies, in order to watch Elmo.

She has even started singing the welcome to Elmo's world song...and saying "mo?" while running down the hall to bang on the door and beg for access to the computer (so she can see Elmo at www.sesamestreet.org)

It's baby crack.

We didn't want to face the truth, and laughed it off as a phase. But then, reality hit. I knew we needed to stage an intervention when Monkey starting waving and saying "hi" to her pampers diaper....because it has Elmo's face on it.

Is it too early to check her into Promises? To you know, face her addiction and start on her twelve steps?

I know, I know.....at least it isn't Barney, right?

Fearless

So for everyone that wonders why I call Monkey's daycare "school"? Well, for one, since they held "parent teacher conferences" recently.

We showed up, not sure what to expect, and both inwardly groaned when the "teacher" opened up the conversation with "How can we describe our Monkey"....pause, smile, laugh....."she's fearless." Um, yeah. We noticed.

The teacher (whom we adore) used that word over and over again, describing how Monkey will leap or engage in some other acrobatic behavior, narrowly make her landing, then turn and smile at her teachers....who are hurtling across the room attempting to prevent this lapse in decorum. Um, yeah, welcome to our world.

We learned several other things. Monkey is the "queen bee" and likes to sit on the rocker and just admire her subjects (I mean classmates). She is fearless. She loves to read books. And she's fearless. Oh, and she speaks Spanish - knows that agua means water. I doubted this until yesterday, when both Dad and I heard Monkey say agua - clear as a bell!

So she's a bilingual EvilKenival. Woot!

Boo....k!

Huzzah! Monkey said book last night! Ok, so the "k" might have been a bit soft, so it sounded more like boo than book. Still, she said book!

She looks like her dad, she sleeps all crazy-entangled like her dad, but she likes books.......like her mom! Woohooo!!!

And just in time. Yesterday's Times ran an article about how people are getting dumber. No really, they are! In an alltime DUH moment, I learned that NEA spent money to learn that test scores are dropping because people are reading less. Probably because they couldn't read the questions. Heh.

How do I love thy insanity? Let me count the ways...

5 Ways I know that Monkey is still an insane toddler:

1. She turned a lovely hue of magenta last night, sobbing because I would not let her chew on the nail clipper. Maybe fuchsia?....nope, it was magenta.
2. She likes country music. And western. Which is wrong.
3. When prompted to give either me or her dad a "kiss" she headbutts us. Gently.
4. She sleeps arse up. Literally hunched on her knees.
5. She won't wear her mittens. But my gloves? Hooboy, now those are sweet!

....a dish best served cold

I spoke with 'Andpa** the other night. I told him about Monkey dancing to country music, and how this music made my ears bleed and the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

And what did he do? He laughed. Hard. And said something about how I deserved this.....

I'm guessing he waited 30+ years to be able to laugh at me for this one. Thanks, dad. Um, want to tell me what else I'm in for???? Puh-leeeeze??????

** P.S. 'Andpa is my dad, Monkey's grandpa....and that moniker is due to the "g" and the "r" falling off of a tshirt someone from his work made him....GPMM&B might be full of smart lawyers, but they aren't the best at iron-on letters! heh.

Inheritance

There are some things about me that I hope Monkey inherits. You know, some traits about me that don't suck. Less wrinkles than normal, more friends from kindergarten than normal, stuff like that.

And then there are things that I am not sure I want her to get. Specifically, I am ambivalent about whether or not it will be a good thing if she inherits my "approachable" face.

(Backdrop to the story -I am wearing my black cowboy boots under dress pants. It's my friday dressy-casual approach to life.)

So, I was on the platform of the subway this afternoon with a colleague, returning to work after a meeting with donors, when this uber-tall guy with a southern twang starting talking to me.

He saw my cowboy boots and it set him off on this long narrative tale that started with how he had cowboy boots that had the same pattern on the toe, moved through life as a 9year old in the swamps outside New Orleans, and ended with him narrowly missing death after taking a swing at a horse amped up on steriods...and missing.

Yeah, some (Manhattan?) cowpoke took a swing AT a horse, missed, and lived to tell the tale.

Yes, a swing, as in trying to punch a horse in the mouth.

Story done, he ambled away, leaving my colleague to shake his head, raise an eyebrow and ask "do you always get wierdos talking to you?"....sigh...Yes, I do.

This is the price I pay for having a face that looks approachable. There is something about me that screams "tell me bizarro stories! I really DO want to hear your medical history? and "Yes, yes, I AM waiting to be saved by the lord."

Nashville Star

Monkey likes to dance.

And damn, if she doesn't do the best white man's overbite I have ever seen!

Almost makes me want to buy a videorecorder, so that I can torture her by showing home videos to her dates 16 years in the future....or just provide hours of entertainment to her inebriated friends. (kind of like the time we were in the basement of Splude's parents' house, and found the slide reel full of shots of Splude in her rhythmic gymnastic stage of life. heh. and no, I wasn't the one that started that - I blame Freak. call me and yell at me if you want for that, baby, but you KNOW you found those slides!)

Ahem. Back to Monkey.

I find the dancing irresitable. Except there is one wee problem. Monkey likes to get her freak on to.......country music.

Oh. My. Bleeding. Ears.

Dad put the "Americana" channel on (channel 647 on Time Warner), and she danced!! And danced! And spun, and giggled, and danced!

Oy. Too bad Auntie L and Uncle J moved from Austin, TX. We could have blamed it on them.

The dreaded stethoscope

Monkey's recent visit to the pediatrician did not go well.

Monkey was ok at first. Our nurse was kind, with a gentle presence, someone I'd trust to treat my child. But then she measured Monkey's head with a small measuring tape....which sent Monkey into paroxysms of fear. We had crying, shrieking, hyperventilation, trembling, and attempts to escape the nurse by climbing up my body and over my head.

So strange! Oh wait - what I had failed to notice (um, yeah, BAD move mom....) was that the nurse had a stethoscope slung around the back of her neck. So it was right in Monkey's face when the nurse tried to measure her head.

It went downhill from there. And then it got worse. The doctor came in... and actually had to listen to Monkey's chest with the infernal stethoscope. I was rendered partially deaf in my left ear, due to close proximity to Monkey's mouth and the screams emitted therein. Ouch.

Scrapes on my belly from Monkey trying to climb over my head? Check.
Ringing in the ears? Check.
Incredible sadness that I can't protect Monkey from an irrational fear? Check.
Embarrasing mom moment? Erm, check.

See, I felt compelled to state that Monkey is "normally a charming child" to a young intern shadowing our doctor. Like.. she....cares........

Billabehuh

I got to laugh out loud, heartily, twice this morning.

First, I went in to grab Monkey when she moved from saying "hi," and clicking the light on and off in her room, into that keening cry that says retrieve me and feed me NOW or I'll cry so hard the paint will peel off the walls.

As I walked through the door, she popped up onto her feet to say "hi" and STILL HAD PONYTAILS in! She looked like Boo, from the Pixar flic Monsters, Inc. It made me laugh outloud, I was so startled at this giggling, goggling daughter of mine with her hair all messed up! (Nana babysat last night, and, well, she raised boys....)

An added bonus? After I took the ponytail holders out and brushed her hair, I realized I could leave the top bow in - she went to school that way! Ta dah. 5 minutes saved, right there. Awesome.

Second cause for glee??? Monkey said bellybutton this morning!!

I was kneeling on the floor, she was in the glider (aka the Big Girl Chair) and I was wrangling her into her outfit for the day. Once I peeled off her new footed jammies (compliments of Jason, Lauri and Emma who gave Dad a gift certificate to Century 21 - thanks guys!), she was clothed simply in her diaper. She reached down, peeled back the top of the diaper that was obscuring her belly button, pointed to her bellybutton and said....billabehuh!!!

Ok, so we need to work on enunciation.

But when Dad came into the room, she said "billabehuh" and pointed at his midriff, demanding an on the spot belly button inspection. Dad complied, of course - belly button patrol is an important part of each day in our household. Good times.

Update on "Family Planning"

Yes, so the post below? In case you were wondering? No. Nope. Nada. We have nothing to announce to the family. No bun in the oven, no babybump, nothing...as in not trying. I was merely exasperated that the questions presume an answer. You know, the old saw about "when did you stop beating your wife"...

Family Planning

Each day, when I pick up Monkey from school, I get a green sheet of paper with a report of her day.

Vital statistics are reported:

• number of diaper changes (and of which variety)
• snacks consumed
• lunch report
• checkboxes next to activities in which she engaged (conversation with teacher, listening to directions, wiping own nose, etc.)
• So on and so forth...

But the bottom of the green sheet (because she's in the green room, bien sur!) is my favorite part. That is where the teacher writes a short, free form description of Monkey's day.

Yesterday the report noted that Monkey and Christina (another little girl in the green room) played with a baby doll, and pretended to put the baby down for a nap. Awesome - Monkey is engaging in imaginary activities! She is creative! She is modeling the behavior she sees! (note to self, never pick nose or undies out of butt....Monkey is watching. heh)

I read the report while still at the school, and commented on how she was putting the "baby" to bed.

And you know what BOTH teachers said to me? "She's getting ready for her little brother or sister!"

Um, when did I invite you two into my bedroom? Just saying.

Daycare-itis

First it started with a headache and nasty cold.

Then it dropped into my lungs and graduated to bronchitis.

Now, laryngitis. I can't even answer the phone at work, since no one understands me. Um, hello? I'm a fundraiser - I'm supposed to TALK to people for a living! Ugh.

I'm sick. I call it daycare-itis. I have the cold that Monkey brought home from daycare (and still has, herself).

The worst part? I kind of brought it (the cold, at least) upon myself.....

Monkey has tons of teeth, eats solid food, and therefore needs to have her teeth brushed. But she hates it, so I try to be creative.

In one of these fits of creativity? I let her brush my teeth - and she loved it! She even smiled long enough to let me cram the toothbrush into her mouth and attempt a full-mouth scrub down. Unfortunately, this learning activity then went south. To wit, Monkey took her toothbrush out of my hands, out of her mouth........and then shoved it into my mouth to brush my teeth. And I let her. Ew.

Not sure which is more gross - letting my daughter brush my teeth with her toothbrush, or the time she vomited on my face (and, um, a wee bit into my mouth). No, wait, the vomiting wins. Never mind.

Monkey see, monkey do

A new friend of mine has a child that is one month younger than Monkey. We have made plans to go hang out at AMNH in about a month...and got to talking (ok, "typing") about whether or not her son would be walking solo by then. He's about 14 months old, and content to walk with a helping hand from mom and dad. My friend commented that she loves getting together with us, and seeing what the older and "wiser" child is doing...a preview, if you will, of what her son will do soon.

Somehow I doubt the term "wiser" applies to Monkey. I'm thinking "dare-devil" is more like it.

To wit: last night I found her hanging almost upside down off of her pack n play! She gripped the top like she was on a monkey bar, and then somehow she worked her feet up to well past her waist...and was happy as a clam! Literally hanging off of the bar, dangling in the breeze.

Did I grab her and protext her from harm, prevent gravity from having its way with her noggin? Nope, I was busy trying to dislodge my heart from my throat.

And, before I could even flinch, she nonchalantly dropped her feet down and went on her merry way.

Her nickname IS Monkey for a reason. Somehow I don't think this is what my friend wants her kid to do.

I am SO not sending her the link to my blog. Nope, no can do. Monkey needs her playdates, and I'll drive away enough of her friends later on in life....sooo, I'll just let my friend (and her son) learn the hard way, when he starts keeping up with Monkey and does a triple lindy into my friend's startled arms. Heh.

Keeping Time

Ok, so Monkey has only mastered - like - 4 words (she understands dozens, but most of what comes out of her mouth sounds like "bah").

She can only hum the first part of the song Frere Jacques...and she certainly can't count.

She's a normal 15 month old.

So is it wrong for me to hope that I can teach her to tell time?? You know, so that I can get her to sleep in until an acceptable, nay - humane - time?

Because this daylight savings is KILLING ME.

Monkey woke up at 5am this morning (which until recently was 6am, and therefore an acceptable time to roust mom or dad). Dad is traveling, so they only way I could get clean...and trust me, I needed it after 2 days of sweating out this nasty cold....was to strap Monkey into her highchair, drag the highchair into the bathroom with me, ply her with paper and crayons, and take a shower (quickly!) while singing "old macdonald" and "Frere Jacques" at the top of my lungs so she'd hum along with me.

I told a colleague about this, as we were riding up in the elevator to work (I think she was wondering why I looked like something the cat dragged in). She laughed and said "whiskey." I don't know if she meant it for me, or for Monkey....

Go call your mom. Now, dammit.

Everyone has a mom. And everyone should call their mom - right now! - to tell her that they love her and adore her and are grateful for all that she did.

(If your mom is no longer with us, I'm sorry for your loss. Think good thoughts about her. Hug someone else's mom and spread the love).

Someone I love, one of my best friends in the world, is having a rough week; her mom is having an even worse one. They are both in my prayers (the whole family is). I'm praying for treatable and beatable.

Halloween Karate - hiyaaaah!!

There will be no adorable photos of Monkey in a Halloween costume this year. No hooting monkey, giggling pumpkin, clucking chicken, wee lamb or scary monster....

Why you may ask?

A) Is it because your beloved camera is broken?

Erm, yes, in part. But I'm getting that fixed and really, I have a fantastic backup...plus my cellphone camera in a pinch.


B) Is it because the truly fetching and adorable monkey costume you ordered was put on backorder, and then finally cancelled when the company realized the earliest delivery would be in December? (wow, talk about poor management there!)

Yeah, that too. Stupid company.

C) What is it then? Inquiring minds want to know!!!

(yes, yes, I know, I have a grandiose view of my blog...and your alleged avid interest in reading it...just roll with it!)

Well, it's like this........a few weekends ago, the day before Monkey's dad went away on a business trip, we took Monkey to the Bronx Zoo for their "Boo at the Zoo" activities. Most of the scheduled events were for older kids - face painting, sing alongs, etc. But there was an all-ages Halloween Parade through the zoo, replete with children AND adults in costume. We watched the parade go by, giggling and goggling at the funny/cute/strange outfits on display.

All was well. Monkey happily sat in her bugaboo stroller (thanks grandma and grandpa Larson, that ride rocks!), watching the parade go by.

Then, a tall adult in an elephant costume (Bronx Zoo employee, I'd guess) decided to "play" with Monkey.

You know, lean waaaay over with his HUGE ears and LONG SWINGING nose and gently bat her hands and faces with his GIGANTIC elephant feet.

Monkey did not take kindly to this assault upon her person.

She screeched (damn girl, you just sassed out an elephant that is waay bigger than you!) and swatted the elephant's hands (feet? paws?) away. She landed a few karate chops on the guy...and he moved on.

And I decided that costumes? This year? Yeah, they might be a tad much for the Monkey. Plus I didn't want to apologize to any parents if Monkey got freaked out by their kid and smacked him in the face.

She's fierce.

Language

Monkey's dad is traveling this week for work. Two weeks ago it was bonding time for Monkey and her daddy, not it is bonding time for us. A little yin, a little yang.

Monkey is becoming more verbal. She repeats words, and phrases. Recently we've heard her say (something approximating) "barnyard dance" which is the title of one of her favorite books. Mine too - it makes me laugh. And this morning she kept repeating the word "eye" in response to me pointing out the eye (singular) on her Ugly Doll.

She also understands things now. When I say "let's go play with your blocks" she'll run into the living room and tip over the box of Haba sticky bricks (awesome for toddlers!). So she is starting to "get" things.

But more importantly, she is starting to use words to communicate.

Which is how our week started. Dad flew to Geneva on Sunday night, so Monkey and I ate breakfast together (sans papa) on Monday morning. And what, you may ask, did our beloved insane toddler "say" that morning?

Dada. dada. dada. dada. dada. dada. dada. dadaadadadadadadadadadadada.........all with a little lilt to her voice, a questioning tone.

She wanted to know where daddy was. Awesome. Heart-achingly wonderful.

I have a sense that we are on a river of words, getting ready to go over a waterfall...we can't see it, but soon there is going to be a torrent of words streaming out her her little mouth. And once she starts talking, I don't think she'll stop.

Yeah, yeah. Apple doesn't fall far from the tree. But hey, she looks and sleeps and has beautiful brown eyes just like her dad, so she might as well talk like her mom!

Camouflage

Monkey's school has a no-shoes policy in their room. Shoes are piled into a bucket outside their room, to help keep the germs off the carpet & floors, which we all know get licked occasionally (daily? hourly?) by the toddlers....yummy.

Each day, when I pick Monkey up from school, we have a ritual. She sits on the wee bench (her size - so cute!) and we put on her shoes. Unfortunately, during the 48-odd seconds it takes me to lace up her sneakers, Monkey likes to rummage through the bucket. In fact, she will often spurn my attempts to get her shoes on, in order to go rummage through the bucket.

I have two problems with this:

1) She is touching the soles of the shoes....of toddlers who don't know better than to avoid doggy doo and other nasty substances on the sidewalks of New York.

2) She always ALWAYS grabs the same pair of shoes to play with.....and they are ugly. Not only are they the plastic monstrosities known as Crocs, they are a heinous color combination: the plastic is a babysh*tbrown, and the fabric is a tan camouflage. Ew.

Problem #1 can be solved by washing her hands. No problem.

Problem #2 requires more work. Either we need to start watching episodes of Sex & the City together (hello Manolo Blahniks!) OR, Monkey needs to go to Deer Camp on November 3rd so she can get this obsession with camoflague out of her system and switch to either bright red or blaze orange:

Grandpa Larson would be proud.

Picasso, interrupted

Monkey is exploring her artistic side at her montessori. They color, they paint, and her daily reports have noted that she enjoys using each and every color when painting. A budding Picasso!

However, yesterday's report made me laugh out loud. It spoke about how Monkey was painting, using each color, greatly enjoying herself....and how when she was done, she wadded up the paper and threw it away.

Perhaps our budding genius didn't think her artwork was up to snuff? It was a draft of a masterpiece? Or, maybe, she's just so used to watching me clean up and throw everything away that she assumes that's where all paper goes....

Regardless, I'm convinced she's brilliant. Brilliant! See, she is already starting to read!...... heh

Daddy's girl

Last week I went to Texas and spent way too much time inside a strange biosphere (hello, Pauly Shore??? yech) hotel/convention center. For the record, Grapevine, TX has little to recommend it. And the Gaylord Hotel and Convention Center there is perfectly adequate....just so long as you don't want to get outside for sunlight or fresh air. After a few days I thought I might be getting rickets....

But I digress. The main point is that Monkey and her Dad were on their own. They sang together, read books, played with toys and chased each other all through the apartment. They relaxed the 5-second rule...and ate cheerios off of the floor.

In short, they bonded.

So this morning, as Dad was going out the door, Monkey and I stood there to say our goodbyes....and Monkey did the most amazing thing.

As I was holding her in my arms, Dad said bye-bye. Monkey leaned into him, reached our her arms, and hugged him with her little head leaning on his chest.

I about died with happiness, watching this scene. She's daddy's little girl.

snoozin' on the job

Attention dear readers:

WillpostlatertiredfromconferenceinTexas. Yeehaw.

MamaCarter

Phew, I'm exhausted

Monkey is officially a kid. A scabby-kneed, sand-eating, thrilled-to-be-alive kid. Wow is she fun.

And her dad and me? We're tired!

This weekend we:

• Drove to the middle of CT to an amusement park that time forgot - it was so cheesy, it was awesome. I've even got photos of Monkey behind the "muscle man" cutout....
• Let Monkey dance to a DJ (company picnic at aforementioned amusement park) that played - by far - the worst/best collection of music I've heard since I was at a wedding that involved copious drinkin' and dancin'....and let's just say that Monkey likes to shake her thang to such tunes as "Baby Got Back" and "Push It."
• Let Monkey run and run and - whoops! she just skinned both knees - on asphalt.
• Watched Monkey inhale no less than 6 slices of watermelon. By herself. Look ma, no bib! Messy.
• Put Monkey into her swimsuit and let her run through the sprinklers in Riverside Park....in October. Global warming......it's freakishly hot here.
• Watched Monkey eat sand. Sandboxes, they're the next "hot" diet in town....
• Generally had so much fun we wore ourselves out.

Thankfully, my beloved Yankees weren't too exhausted and won last night, forcing game 4 in the American League Division Series!! Huzzah! Go Yankees!!!! (yes, I'm watching the game tonight. don't call, I won't answer.......)

Croup stinks

Monkey has croup. She has been barking like a seal, mostly at night. It would be humorous, that barking noise, if Monkey wasn't sick and scared.

So far she has had 3 doses of an oral steriod, which has helped reduce the swelling in her throat/larynx.

She no longer sounds like Lauren Bacall after a long hard night of drinking, but she still has some coughing fits from time to time.

The coughing fits scare her. Last night she was coughing and she literally tried to crawl into the corner and hide. It broke my heart. I am so glad she is on the mend.

MBA-speak

MBA-speak. You know, the jargon that many people learn in B-School and then inflict upon the rest of us: it isn't "supplies" it is Allocation and Replenishment Management.....and "collaboration" gets distended into "interoperate with supply chain partners and break down functional silos..."....gee, and I thought it meant collaborate!

This slang has even infiltrated our DAYCARES!

Case in point: yesterday, Monkey took the lunch boxes and stacked them like blocks. So, in her daily report from her wonderful Montessori, they wrote that she was "thinking outside the box."

I think they meant that she was being creative, but that's just my WAG.

It's banned books week!

Uffda, I'm late to the party.....but it is banned books week!


This is a list (from the American Library Association) of the 100 Most Frequently Challenged Books.

Can you believe (indignation! outrage! puzzlement!) that some folks want to ban I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou ? Or To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee? Oh come on....A Light in the Attic by Shel Silverstein???? Sheesh.

Fight censorship folks.

If we let people ban books, we let them ban ideas. And freedom and democracy are about the proliferation of different ideas, ideals, and individuals.

Husker du?

When I was a kid, I would spend hours playing the memory game Husker Du (the phrase means "Do you remember" in Norwegian).

Yesterday Monkey was being helpful at lunchtime, taking each child's lunchbox and properly identifying it - by name, or by bringing it to the right kid. Color me impressed. This kid pays attention! She remembers things!

Mmm, this post is letting me relive my teenage years, back when I hung out with skateboarders...

A Rose by any other name....

So The King read my blog a few nights ago.

After a few wry comments, such as "your blog has a lot of attitude" (well, duh!), The King said that he wasn't pleased with his nickname on the site.

I use nicknames to protect our identities. Friend and family already know who we are...it's the rest of you lurkers I'm avoiding. Just to be clear.

So, since The King doesn't like his nickname, I think we should have a contest. The person who suggest the winning nickname gets:

• lifelong bragging rights
• the ability to gloat over us non-creative types
• a measure of infamy
• but wait, there's more! we even want you have to have this six in one kitchen tool! (oh, sorry, channeling the late-night standard from my youth, the ginsu knife ad...)

So drink your morning coffee, put on your thinkin' hat, and whip me up some creative nicknames for my beloved husband. For MY HUBBY. (yes, that's for you, ChaChi Lu.....just to make your hair stand on end.....).

How to spot a Manhattan Parent

I realized this morning that to the uninitiated, it might be hard to spot a Manhattan Parent (subspecies manhattan parenterribulus) in its natural environment.

Although some parents are easily spotted by such indicia as 'mom jeans' , most sport protective plumage (seven jeans, burberry purses, etc.) as camouflage and are difficult to spot without help.

Here are a few tell-tale signs that you have spotted and identified a manhattan parenterribulus ("PT"):

• Stroller hip: if you happen to glimpse the right flank of an adult that is slightly mottled with bruises, you have likely spotted a PT. This discoloration is caused by hoisting a stroller on the hip to navigate stairs. The stroller, in and of itself, would not cause bruising, but when filled with a squirming child, toys, blankies, sippy cups, extra pacificers, emergency cheerios and the diaper bag, it packs a wallop and leaves a mark.
• Right calf dirt: caused by stoller wheels banging against the calf when carrying the stroller up or down stairs. Usually paired with an otherwise immaculate outfit.
• Booger shoulder: boogers on the shoulder of an otherwise immaculate suit is a sign you can rely upon with absolute certainty that you have spotted a PT. (Another variant, also certain, is the spitup shoulder).
• Cheerio detritus on clothing.
• Muted response to kids screaming in public space. You have to be observing the PT closely to catch this behavior, but often you can glimpse characteristic responses such as imperceptible nods of sympathy, and offers of assistance.
• Public humming of such songs as "the wheels on the bus," or the alphabet song. Often noted in elevators.
• In depth knowledge of barney, elmo, maisey, thomas the train or the wiggles.
• Ability to eat meal in 30 seconds while simultaneously juggling at least three other tasks. (note, this is a indicator of the species parenterribulus, and is not limited to the manhattan subspecies).

Best of luck spotting these elusive and secretive creatures!

Um, is it reprehensible to gloat?

If you hear news that makes you proud, is it reprehensible to gloat? Do I need to bite my tongue, add qualifying language, or otherwise disavow the unabashed glee I am experiencing? Should I be embarrassed that the news made me want to paste a bumper sticker on my baby's stroller, a la the 'burbs with the "my daughter's an honor roll student" plastered on the minivan???

NAH..........

(is the anticipation mounting? are you curious yet??????)

Well.....Monkey is everyone's favorite at school! Huzzah! I got the news yesterday at pickup, from the afternoon lead teacher.

I realize, in my heart of hearts, that they might pull each and every parent aside to deliver the same news.....you know, to make us all proud of our wee ones.

Still, my baby's a charmer!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I'm damn proud.

Family Planning

Now that Monkey is verging on 14 months old, random strangers and acquaintances at work have decided that our family planning is fair game to discuss at all times.

Now, in general, asking someone if they are planning on having a second child isn't that big of a deal.

But, honestly, I think that the bland "so, when are you going to have another kid" question that the security guard at my building lobs at me weekly is annoying. Not because of the question, per se, but because of the presumption inherent in that question. It isn't IF, but rather WHEN. Kind of like asking someone when they stopped beating their wife.

Of course, some of the people I work with/near have NO tact. Like the receptionist that kindly pointed out last winter that I was "starting to show." And when I smiled and patted my then-slightly protruding belly, she corrected me and said "no dear, I meant here" as she patted her ass.

Yes, that's right folks, a nice little old lady told me I was getting fat when I was 5 months pregnant. For the record? That nice little old lady? She's dead to me.

The Grinch

This morning, I felt like the Grinch when his heart swelled 10x as big....(wait, was it 3x as big? hmmm...I sense a movie we need to get!)

This morning we arrived early at school (The King drove me and Monkey to school, a real treat for everyone). So, to kill ten minutes we walked over to the nearby sliver of Riverside Park that has both a Joan of Ark statue as well as an ad hoc dog run. Monkey luuuuuvs dog runs.

After watching two young men exercise their dogs, and petting a sweet puggle, it was time to walk back to school. As we walked back on the dusty path, Monkey reached up and grabbed first my hand, then her daddy's hand. So we could all walk hand in hand to school. My heart almost burst with joy.

If I could bottle and sell that feeling of unadulturated joy and love? I'd be wealthier than a billion Bill Gates.

I'm blue.........

Monkey is officially "phased-into" her montessori daycare/preschool/school.


No more nanny. No more immaculately dressed Monkey waiting for me at home at the end of a long day. No more neatly folded baby laundry done for me by the nanny. No more running errands with both hands free after work. No more walking to work.

Now, I get Monkey ready for school and together we ride the subway to school. We fight the crowds, sweat in the humidity, deal with the rush-hour "traffic"....

But that isn't why I'm blue.

The reason I'm blue? (and yet, also so proud)??? Monkey didn't cry when I dropped her off at school this morning. She smiled, leaped into her teacher's arms, looked at me with that heart-breakingly beautiful smile...and waved bye-bye.

No tears, no separation anxiety - she was ready to go. Without me.

Viva la resistance!

Monkey has apparently been watching the history channel when we weren't paying attention, and has learned from Mahatma Gandhi's biography the tenets of non-violent resistance. She employs these methods when confronted by racism, sexism, apartheid, the war in Iraq, George Bush's policy drivel, hedge fund's taxation at 15%, and other offensive and/or morally repugnant activities.

Recent offensive activities include:

• changing of poopy diaper
• combing of hair
• wearing of clean clothing

When confronted with an undesired activity, she goes limp and flops to the floor like a wet noodle.

She's fighting the power, man.

Twelve Steps

Monkey is addicted to her pacifier. All the parents in the room nod and say, mmm hmm, yes we've seen that before. And by "that" they mean a toddler's increased reliance upon and desire for their pacifier, their binky, their paci, their -insert pet name here- little gobbet of silicone and plastic that they adore.

Only our daughter? She has a problem. Here are two reasons why we think she needs an intervention:

One: She has secret stashes of pacifiers.
This weekend (she's teething, so we've been kind/pushovers and let her have it from time to time) we took the paci away since she was in a good mood, and she made a beeline to the stroller bag, stuck her hand in a pocket and fished another one out. She popped it into her mouth and toddled away in her Frankenstein's monster waddle, humming away and happy as can be. She even looked pleased with herself! She's like the alcoholic that stashes liquor bottles in the toilet, or behind the cereal....

Two: She is willing to stand still, tethered to her stroller, just to get in one more suck on that paci.
And I have the photos to prove it (will post once uploaded...promise). She will stand still, humming, with the pacifier in her mouth, tethered to her stroller for minutes at a time. And that is the equivalent of years in toddler time. Glaciers could roll on past her...

The pathos of it all. I'm just hoping that we can start on step one soon. Think there is a baby sign for "addiction"?

Slinker & Stinker

Our cat, a gorgeous 13 year old calico that I adopted from some farmers (literally - I was living in Madison, WI during law school and got her from a neighbor whose parents had a farm), has many names and nicknames.

She was originally named Rufus. By the farmers. I would never willingly assign that name to a living creature. (But we did name Monkey's favorite stuffed animal Rufus, simply because it is such a funny name!)


So when "Rufus" arrived in my apartment, tiny and scared to death, meowing without sound due to her extreme anxiety, I renamed her "Oliver." Why the boy's name for a girl cat? Because the farmers (who are supposed to know about these things, that's their job!) told me she was a boy cat. Except, um, calico coloration only occurs in females. So when I brought Oliver to the vet they had a good laugh at me. Yeah, thanks, farmers.

Before Monkey was born, The King and I channelled a lot of love into that cat. Still do, just not 24-7; they have to share. When I was pregnant I carried Ollie around so much that The King joked her real name should be White Paws Don't Touch Ground.

One of Ollie's other names is HRM. As in, her royal majesty, queen of all she surveys. This name came about because Monkey waves like she's royalty - a little hand waggle like the Queen. I started calling her HRM but was corrected by my cousin (the pediatrician who tortures Monkey with the stethoscope) that technically, Monkey is only HRH - her royal highness. Because Ollie came first. Only fair.

Last night, Ollie reminded The King and I of her final nickname - stinker. In the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the creature Gollum is named Slinker and/or Stinker by Frodo's companion Samwise, since the creature alternates between being merely creepy (slinker) or bad (stinker). Ollie does that too. The nights that she is good? She slinks around the apartment, sleeps on us with her deep rumbling purr, or leaves us alone. Other nights? She is a STINKER. She nudges, nibbles, jumps, plays, licks and generally harasses us. As in, keeps us awake for a good portion of the night.

Why act like a Stinker? Because she is a cat. And because she wants to be fed. (she's on a diet - she got fat a few years back and is now in the "maintenance" stage, keeping the unwanted lbs off)

When we first put Ollie on a diet she would wake us up at 4am to beg for food. We would ignore her, in an attempt to teach her that we would feed her at 6am. This taught her all right - she learned that if she bothered us from 4-6am she'd get food! Duh. Good think we aren't animal trainers.

So now when she bugs us, we feed her a teensy portion of food and stumble back to bed. Not too bad.

Except for nights like last night. Ollie got fed at 4am, but that wasn't good enough. She wanted MORE. More food, more attention, more ribbon chasing, basically anything we were willing to give.

She was so desperate for a playmate that she resorted to her "nuclear option" of......this is gross....licking my armpits. Ew. And which, by the way, really tickles!!!!!!!!

I resorted to hiding under the sheets, hoping she'd go away, the stinker. The problem is, she's such a good cat (99% of the time) and such a pleasure, that I felt bad giving her the heisman. So, I did what any good, kind, cat owner would do. Yup, I pushed her onto The King's side of the bed and went back to sleep.

9-11. Never thought I'd be so happy to be annoyed with my fellow commuters....

My commute really pissed me off this morning. People were rude, it was disgustingly humid, I was covered in sweat and rain, and yet I'm grateful.

Why? Because this morning reminded me of a cartoon I saw some 5+ years ago in the New Yorker. It was a small drawing of a man on the subway, with a statement that effectively said "Things are back to normal, I hate everyone again." That still makes me chuckle. I remember being relieved to see that we could joke, gently, about 9-11 and the effect it had upon us.

The cartoon was, of course, in reference to the extraordinary wave of kindness and openness that swept through the city post 9-11. People held doors for others, looked at each other in the face, smiled, walked slower, and generally tried to get along.

Then life moved on, and people started to hurry again. They sped up to make the train, blowing past (or bowling over) others in their efforts. People stopped looking at everyone and retreated to the stance of "if I don't look at everyone on the train that I am mushed up against, they will cease to exist and make this commute more palatable to me," and so on and so forth.

This wasn't callousness. This was life, reasserting itself and allowing us to heal, to cope, to deal....with the crushing sea of humanity sharing your commute.

And so today, 6 years after 9-11, in the crush of trying to get Monkey to school on time, in the annoying rain and suffocating humidity, during rush-hour, all I was - was annoyed. I wasn't thinking about terrorism.

Thank you, aggressively rude wallstreeter, you who insisted on shoving my child's stroller so you could get into the train before us. Thank you, maddeningly hung-over teenager, you who insisted on wobbling to and fro on the street and making it impossible for me to pass you. Thank you, annoyingly slow commuters, you who forced me to stand in the stairway straining to hold up my daughter's stroller for 5 minutes while you tried to open your umbrellas and I got rained on. You all managed to really piss me off. And for that, oddly enough, I am grateful.

P.S., the insanity is contagious

Apparently Monkey's insanity is contagious.

In the span of 5 minutes this morning I heard my beloved husband (I think I'll give him the moniker of The King for this blog. Why The King? Because his ringtone on my cell is horns blaring a royal procession....and I get to joke that I need to take that call, since The King is calling....oh stop rolling your eyes at me. Yes, that's right, I saw that.)...

Back to the post. In the span of 5 minutes this morning The King said two things outloud:

1) (to Monkey) "Boy, you sure are in a good mood this morning!"

<5 minutes later...

2) (to me) "Monkey sure is a pill this morning."


Insanity. It's catchy.

What happens to you if you fail to flee to the suburbs after procreating

I'm from the midwest. There, in the land of sing-song norweigan accents, corn, smiling faces and grocery store clerks that always ask "so, how are ya?," daycare is a simpler thing. You have a child, call a few places, and when you go back to work, you bring your kid to the daycare you have selected with some diapers and formula/frozen breast milk, kiss them goodbye and then hop in your car as quickly as possible to drown out the wailing as you drive away to work. Fast forward about 8 hours, return from work and retrieve your child. Next day, same thing. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Here? No such luck. Here, in the city that I adore, daycare is a wee bit more difficult.

If you dare to stay in the city, and do not immediately flee to the suburbs after peeing on a stick and reading the tea leaves to ascertain that you are - indeed - knocked up, if you choose to raise your child in this city of sin and iniquity (heh, sin), then you more likely than not will have to suffer through what is euphemistically called the "phase-in" process at your daycare. At first I thought that was some strange rite of passage at only montessori daycares, but apparently it's contagious and all daycares are in on the collective madness.

Yes, of course, you could opt to use a nanny (or babysitter, you choose the term) for your little one. We did, but then we got into our first choice in daycare, a wonderful montessori that makes me want to regress so that I too can play with "manipulatives" (toys) have snacktime, naptime, and playing in the park time. (I'll talk about the nanny experience some other time, I'm sure.)

So we signed up, sent in a check, and looked forward to the start of the school year.

That's right, we waited for the start of the school year. All "new" kids start at school (daycare) the same day. So rather than being able to simply drop off the kid - you "phase in" the child.

First day, one hour.
Second day, two hours.
Third day, three hours.....
but, at any given point in time, if the child is not settling in well? They call you and you must immediatley retrieve your recalcitrant child. So essentially you either run the risk of needing to use all your vacation days, or, you have to have a backup plan. Montessori PLUS a nanny, or a grandma, etc. When does this process end? When the child successfully naps at school.

So, if have a child that doesn't like to nap (yes, hello, MONKEY, I am talking about you! my insane toddler declines to nap if there is an-eee-thing interesting going on) this process could go on all month long. Alllllll moooooonnnnntttthhhhh loooooooooonnnnnnngggggggggggg. Got a headache from reading that? You are welcome.

We are not even to day one yet. Last Thursday & Friday were "trial runs" with Monkey and some other newbies hanging out together for an hour, while mom/dad/caregivers were still in the room.

Tomorrow is day one. G*d help me, but if Monkey takes more than the month of September to "phase-in" to school I am going to...insert empty threat....

Also, the the whole starting on the same day thing? It means that if you have a child that is too young for the cutoff in September....you can't get the kid in for another YEAR. The term family planning takes on a whole new meaning here.

Crazy.

Did I mention that the State of New York is ALSO insane?

So today was Monkey's first "day" of montessori school/daycare. Actually, she only went for one hour (less, thanks to the MTA's f'd up system this morning, but I digress...) as part of the "phase - in" process. More on that, later, too! (good lord, feeling like Hamlet here with all my asides....)

The State of New York is insane. Certifiably. As a recovering lawyer, I know that we live in a litigious society, and as a result we are often regulated to death. Hell, I used to make a living because of that! But seriously folks, this morning killed me.

Along with our beloved Nanny, who is helping us with this infernal phase-in, Monkey and I went to her school this morning. I dropped off enough supplies to outfit an armada seeking new shores, and in that 40lb bag o' stuff was a container of liquid tylenol (generic, but I was having trouble spelling aceti...aceto...acetam...oh never mind you know what I mean, screw the trademark issue). This was immediately fished out by one of Monkey's teachers and brought to the attention of the Lead Teacher. Because, yes, folks, I need a written medical release form FROM THE DOCTOR saying it is ok to give my daughter tylenol when she is teething and pitching a fit. (see earlier post re: going nuclear).

Ok, ok, I get it. Too much tylenol can cause problems - liver damage, etc. (oh nice, a google search gives me this: In acute acetaminophen overdosage, dose-dependent, potentially fatal hepatic necrosis is the most serious adverse effect. Renal tubular necrosis, hypoglycemic coma and thrombocytopenia may also occur...yummy) . So on that one, fine - doctor's note, no problem.

But get this.......desitin (aka butt cream) ALSO requires a medical consent form!

FOR THE LOVE OF G*D....you mean I need permission from the doctor instructing you on how to spread zinc oxide on my daughter's arse to prevent diaper rash? No, no, they rapidly assured me. (Phew, I thought, that was close to being worthy of this blog.) But then, they went on - no, no, we only need a medical permission form filled out by YOU, not you AND the doctor. Turns out that desitin is an "over the counter" drug and therefore regulated, requiring permission. Sunblock, too, apparently.



Oh. (Heh. Yup, this one's going on the blog.)



So I get to spend 20 minutes filling out two two-page forms to give them permission to do two profoundly innocuous activities: apply butt cream & sunblock. Got it. Good use of my time, I'd say. An even better use of their time - since I imagine they'll have to check the forms each time they change a wet and/or stinky diaper! Yes yes, by all means, let my daughter wail away and wallow in her own excrement while you check the legal files.



Sigh. And people wonder why I'm a recovering lawyer.

Some observations from the mother of an insane toddler....

For the record? I love my daughter. In fact, love is a weak word to describe my feelings towards her.


However, sometimes I have to just laugh.....here is why (at least this week):


1) The pacifier is now known as the "nuclear option" (as in, when she goes nuclear...). It used to be affectionately known as the "mute button" before we learned that Monkey's wails were loud enough to peel paint off the walls while simultaneously piercing eardrums. Why the wailing? See items 2, 4, 5 and 6, below.

2) The only acceptable food groups for Monkey include: a) cheerios; b) fruit; c) fake crab; and d) cookies. All other food/food groups are suspicious and must be licked with a wrinkled nose before potential rejection. Also, all foods must now be transported into Monkey's mouth by her hands, and her hands only. Spoons and sporks are to be rejected or recycled as weapons of mess and destruction. Ok, busted - you're right, I'm exaggerating: she will also happily ingest any random tidbits of cheerios, fruit, dust, paper or other delicious detritus she finds on the ground.

3) Monkey loves to walk, fast, and if at all possible will reject the offer of a helping hand to balance her or otherwise slow her down. Added to her "suicide gene," which prompts her to head right into traffic/towards danger, this means that we are constantly scurrying around half-bent over, keeping her out of harm's way.

4) Never the less, she manages to find harm's way. Yesterday, while at the park, within arm's reach of mom, dad, nana and granddad, Monkey bent at the waist to inspect the laces on her new sneakers. She stood there, gravely inspecting the laces when...she fell forward. Face plant. She has a faint pattern of scratches/bruises on her forehead that looks exactly like the asphalt. Just in time to go to school this Thursday.

5) Speaking of school, Monkey's lead teacher from montessori daycare/preschool came to our apartment this past Friday to meet Monkey. I was all set to comb Monkey's hair into pigtails, and put her in a smashingly-cute (or at least clean) outfit to make a good impression. So of course, not 30 minutes before the teacher arrived, Monkey was toddling past a speaker and wiped out, bashing her face on the edge. Although she was no longer sobbing when the teacher arrived, her hair was uncombed, she was still in her pj's smeared with breakfast, and her eye had puffed up sufficiently to prompt the teacher to ask if we wanted to reschedule so we could take her to the doctor/ER. Now that's what I'd call a memorable first impression.

6) Amidst the trauma and melodrama, some seriously funny behavior....Monkey adores her pediatrician but is woefully afraid of his stethoscope. Having it placed on her back caused her to shake, shriek, and sob for a good 10 minutes AFTER he hid the infernal device from her sight. So, being a good godmother and a good pediatrician, my cousin Heather brought over her own stethoscope to help Monkey with this phobia. At the sight of it, Monkey's eyes grew wide and her lip started to tremble in anticipation of tears. A compromise was reached and the stethoscope was nonchalantly hung on the back of a chair, while Monkey played on the other side of the table, out of sight. Perhaps 5 minutes passed, and then....Monkey tried to sneak up on the stethoscope! She crouched down low, put her hands out in front of her, and - with her eyes glued to the stethoscope to make sure it wasn't moving - she snuck around the edge of the table and another chair to take a peek at it!! My little huntress!!! Heather laughed so hard I thought she was going to fall out of her chair, and I had Elmer Fudd's voice running through my head ("Shh, be vewy vewy quiet, I'm hunting a wabbit..."). While this does not bode well for future doctor's appointments, we did discover that stringing the stethoscope through the handles to the china cabinet will stop Monkey from attempting to break through the babyproofing. Excellent (ab)use of a phobia, wouldn't you say? I thought so.

That's all for now. Stay tuned!
MamaCarter

(Editor's note - Monkey is fine, healing nicely, and that nasty speaker is now swaddled in foam...oh and Social Services has yet to appear, so apparently we're in the clear, for now....)