Art milestones: First face, first family

A drew her first recognizable face and family portrait this morning--although the latter probably resembles a family of jellyfish (or perhaps nothing if you're not her parent).

For comparison's sake, here's Z's first drawing of a face. Fascinating that both girls drew their first portrait at 33 months of age!

Why we gave our toddler an iPod

It takes 20 hours to travel from Chicago to Australia. 20 long hours when you're traveling with two small children. That right there is reason enough to buy an iPod Touch.

Now a couple of years ago, iPods were for music. Podcasts and audio books, maybe. But today's iPod Touch (an iPhone without the phone, really) can function as a mini wifi-enabled computer

and entertainment hub. One with impressive battery life that won't take up space in your carry-on.

We loaded up our new 32GB iPod with music for Josh, Hebrew lessons for me, a selection of photos from our iPhone album, audio books for Z (she's partial to Lemony Snicket), a few Disney animated movies and games. We bought a headphone splitter and two sets of headphones so the kids could watch Toy Story at the same time. Unfortunately we only bought one pair of kid-sized headphones, and they were far more comfortable than the adult pair.

Now about those games. On Rookie Moms' recommendation, we downloaded iWrite Words and iChalky. Sound Shaker and Sort Slider were provided free to me by TickleTapApps so that I could review them. We were gone for 2 weeks and spent a whole lot of time in the air or driving somewhere, and both games were compelling enough to stop a crying jag cold. They were also compelling enough to start a few fights over who got to play them. Both girls mastered the noncompetitive, endless games quickly, and Sort Slider, a game that rewards you for matching a shape ended up being too easy even for 2 year old A. I'm honestly surprised it's recommended for kids 3-5. Sound Shaker (recommended for kids 4+) was the bigger hit: even I found its musical balls and hatching baby birds mesmerizing. Both games are available for $1.99 at the iTunes store.

Calling all princesses

A bit of background: Z's refused to use real toothpaste (the stuff with fluoride) and we've been letting her get away with it, brushing her teeth as throughly as possible with baby tooth and gum cleanser. But today the game was up. We were all out of baby toothpaste.

When I broke the news to Z, she broke down crying. In a flash, I told her that if she brushed with "big kid" toothpaste, I'd let her call Belle and tell her. She opened her mouth a millimeter and let me brush, whimpering the whole while.

She rinsed and spit. Rinsed and spit. Then, wiping her eyes, she said, "I wanna call Belle. But not the Beast."

"Josh," I hollered, "Guess who used big kid toothpaste? And she'd like to call Belle from Beauty and the Beast and tell her all about it!" Wink wink, honey, wink wink.

Well, he sort of got the hint. My husband brings up the phone and says Belle will be calling in a minute. I see Josh's cell number pop up on the caller ID. We answer and my husband does the world's worst Belle impersonation.

"That's not Belle, that's Daddy!"

"Um, you're right! I told Daddy to call a real princess, not pretend to be a princess. Daddy, we know that's you. Now get the real Belle on the phone. Maybe G-l-o-r-i-a or S-t-a-c-i-e could help you out!"

This time he gets the hint. Moments later the phone rings again. Stacie's number appears on the caller ID. I hit speakerphone.

"Is this Z? I heard you brushed your teeth with big girl toothpaste tonight," purrs my friend, "I'm so proud of you."

Z's eyes are like saucers, her face breaks into a huge grin. She can't get a word out for a few minutes, but she finally whispers to me, "Can Belle sing me a song?" She does my friend a favor and requests "Twinkle Twinkle." A softball.

When the song and the call are complete, Z is enthused. She wants to know if she can talk to Cinderella tomorrow after she brushes her teeth. But not the Stepmother. And then maybe Princess Jasmine when she brushes her teeth again? And maybe Cinderella could come over to her house? And the Prince too? Or could she go visit her? And Mommy, do we have to take a plane to get to Cinderella's castle?

Cross-posted to Chicago Moms Blog

A future Sarah Silverman?

Said my almost-three-year-old daughter today:

"Mommy, do you smell something? What does it smell like? Does it smell like toots?"
[Big smile]

"Z, did you just toot?"

"Yes I did!"

Her first face

Z drew a picture of her baby sister today, the first drawing she's made that's recognizable as a person. And the one she did after this one was even better!

Have the terrible twos arrived?

Z threw one hell of a tantrum at nap time this afternoon. Apparently limiting her to merely three library books was completely unacceptable. When I came back and offered one more book, she triple freaked out--crying, throwing herself on the bed and on the floor, hugging me and pushing me, all the while screaming "No one book. All the books!"

It took her a full half an hour to realize I wasn't budging. I read her one last book and she closed her eyes.

Why, oh why do they have to make life so difficult? So dramatic? Most of us grown-ups would give our right arm for a daily siesta.

Major potty training breakthrough

While Z didn't use the potty at day care yesterday or today, she's tinkled 3 times in the past 2 1/2 hours at home. The trick? Rewards she actually cares about. M&Ms weren't doing it. Cookies weren't doing it. Promises of a trip to the Aquarium weren't doing it.

But nail polish and the opportunity to watch Alice in Wonderland? Now that's some serious motivation. We're painting one toe or finger nail for each successful trip to the potty. OPI's I'm Not Really A Waitress, in case you were curious.

Digging for diamonds

Z figured out how to pick her nose this week. I've caught her with her finger up a nostril a few times in the past few days. The first time, I tried sounding casual, "Hey sweetie, what are you doing?"

"I'm just taking out boogers, Mommy," she replied, wiping one on my husband's side of the bed.

"But we don't put our fingers up our nose. You can get the boogers with a Kleenex."

"It doesn't work as well," she said, pointing out the obvious as her finger headed back upward.

When the clock strikes midnight...

Last night. 11:56pm. I hear my daughter call out from across the hall, "I need to throw up." I'm out of bed in flash. She seems cool and comfortable as I pick her up for a hug.

"Do you want to rock on the chair or go throw up in the toilet, Z?"
"Throw up in the toilet."

She leads over the can, dipping her head in so far I can hear her bangs swish in the water. I pull her up to wipe off her face and... she vomits all over herself, me and the bathroom floor. Bright red pomegranate juice and pizza puke. I strip off her pajamas and we sit on the side of the tub. She's got her head resting on my shoulder when the second wave hits. I catch some of it in the bowl we use for rinsing off shampoo.

A cool sponge bath and fresh pajamas and she's back in bed.

12:36. "Throw up. Throw up, Mommy." This time Josh races to her room. Only she's already soaked her pillow. As Josh wraps up the sheets with the clothes soiled earlier and heads downstairs to start a load of laundry, I encourage Z to drink a few sips of water. We cuddle, clean off her face and read a story. She willingly lies down in bed.

This time Z sleeps peacefully through the night, but we don't. We're too tense, listening for the next summons.

Death by Popsicle

Is there anything more torturous than watching a toddler eat a Popsicle? The mercury hit 90 degrees in Oak Park this afternoon, so I gave Z a Popsicle Scribbler (basically a smallish Popsicle "made with fruit juice") for dessert for dinner. We headed out to the back steps to enjoy our frozen novelties in the fresh air, but the torture of watching Z slooowly take a little lick of the top of her pop, scoot down all 10 of our steps, scoot back up, and take another tiny lick sapped all of the fun out of it for me.

How old does a kid need to be to understand that enjoying ice cream on a stick means battling against the forces of time and temperature? The Popsicle was glistening in the heat, and Z would grab it by the frozen center to get a better hold on the stick. Did I mention she was wearing a really cute skirt? Well, I pulled it off after the first drip landed.

I was cajoling her to take a little bite...lick the sides...anything to get the show on the road, but she blithely ignored me, happy instead to spy on the neighbors as Popsicle juice ran down her chin and cascaded over her fingers. Her remedy? Once again, she grasped the Popsicle around the middle so she could lick the sticky runoff from her fingers and inner arm. Kind of defeats the point, doesn't it?

Finally, after 10 minutes of this torture, she handed me the remainder of her Popsicle with an "I'm done." I tried to figure out what was more urgent: throwing away the melting mess or getting my messy kid under some running water.

Little night owls

I just returned from a late evening run to Target, and I was surprised how many toddlers I saw up and about, running errands with their parents at 9pm. I would understand if the kids were with a single parent since it probably doesn't seem worth the money or hassle to pay a babysitter for chance to buy laundry detergent in peace, but all of the kids were with both of their parents.

Do these children sleep in? Do their parents have jobs that make sleeping in late a possibility? Do they make up for their late nights with long afternoon naps? I know that children's bedtimes are dictated by culture, and many folks have told me that in Italy and Spain, kids are out at restaurants with their parents at 10pm. But given how many jobs, preschools and daycare centers open for business between 8 and 9am in this country, I wonder if burning the midnight oil is such a smart move for such small children.

Potty training theories abound

As I've mentioned before, my 29-month-old daughter has total control of her bodily functions and talks the potty talk like nobody's business, but she'll only do her business in a diaper.

Josh and I read Toilet Training in Less than a Day and The Pocket Idiot's Guide to Potty Training Problems, and we agreed that the old-fashioned approach of the former probably wouldn't work for Z since it was largely focused on potty education and avoiding accidents--two issues we don't need to address. The second book pointed out some mistakes we'd been making. It recommends against talking about "being a big girl" and "making Mommy proud," since sometimes kids don't want to grow up so fast--they want to hold onto some of their babyhood. Instead, we let Z pick out a nice new potty chair from Target and gave her lots of opportunities to practice going on it. She taught her teddy bear how to go and spent lots of time pulling her underpants up and down. She wore panties most of the time, only switching to diapers for naps and bedtime and the occasional "I need a diaper" gotta-go-right-now emergency.

But as much as she enjoys showing off her underwear and her potty, we're not seeing any progress in the actual use of the potty. So we asked my midwife (a mother of 5) if she had any insights. Her advice? Tell our daughter that she isn't ready for underwear. Say she's still "a bit of a baby who needs to wear diapers and as such, we're putting all the potties away until she gets bigger." No more taking her special potty to daycare or showing it off to friends and family. She can't have it until she's ready to really use it.

Basically, Hillary recommends a healthy dose of reverse psychology. She says all the hard work is done: Z knows how to sense an urge and control the flow, and she's got the mechanics of flushing and hand-washing done. We just need to wait for her to decide she's ready to pee in the potty and we should be home free.

Anyone want to take bets on how long that'll take?

Bye-bye rotavirus

From my phone conversation with Josh around 5:15pm yesterday, I was pretty sure I'd be home taking care of a sick kid today. She was crying for Mama nonstop and refusing all food and drink, and it was clear my husband was at the end of his rope. But from the moment they met me at the train station, Z was her happy-go-lucky regular self.

We got home and she decided she'd like some orange juice, which she sipped as we played Cariboo, her very first game. After playtime, she willingly undressed herself and hopped into the bath. She even let me give her a shampoo, so I was able to finally remove the lingering scent of barf from her hair.

We returned to our night-night routine, putting on clean jammies, brushing teeth, reading library books on the rocking chair and cuddling for a few minutes in the dark. When I brought her to her bed, she asked for song, which is also pretty typical. But in a new twist, I am no longer allowed to sing any familiar tunes. I have to make up a song based on her request. "Sing a song about Z and sippy cups," was last night's demand. So, to the tune of "Puff the Magic Dragon," I sang the tale of Z and her Magic Sippy Cup.

The girl slept all night and woke up with a plain old wet diaper, a healthy appetite and a very strong desire to go to Adriana's house (day care). I can't tell you how relieved I am to see her back to normal, and I've got my fingers crossed that she stays that way.

A sick way to start your day

Z collapsed into bed around 6:30 last night and we didn't hear a peep all night. That was the good news. The bad news came at 5am when she began shouting, "Mama! Mama!" I went into her room and the smell of vomit hit me full in the face. Eyes watering, I turned on the light to see that my little angel had been sleeping in a puddle of puke. And she had a diaper full of diarrhea.

Am I scaring away my readership yet? If you've got a weak stomach, come back in a couple of days. I swear I'll start writing about something else soon.

I cleaned her up, wet combed her sick-smelling hair and deposited her in our bed so that I could tend to the bed linens and pajamas and start yet another load laundry.

I believe Z's first words to Josh were, "Don't touch my hair, Daddy. It has throw-up in it."

Recovery in progress

Last night was rough. Z had a temperature above 103 degrees, and she was so miserable she was reduced to a pitiful little whimper-cry. At least I was able to provide her with some comfort. About every hour or so. All night long.

Josh took the morning shift of watching DVDs on the couch with our little hot potato, and I made it home around 2pm to take over. By late afternoon, Z was able to hold her head up and keep liquids and a few bites of food down. She still has pretty loud, frequent and frightening diarrhea, but I think we're over the hump. Her fever is way down and she's taking an interest in the world outside. We even ventured onto the back porch to watch the neighbor kids run around.

I'm sad we missed out on having a Passover seder with our friends Julie and Steve and their kids, but we had a nice traditional meal while Z watched Alice in Wonderland for the second or third time today.

Tonight I'm going to go to bed early to make up for last night's fitful rest. I guess women who space their children really closely are pregnant before their first is sleeping through the night, but I'm not cut out for it.

Regurgitating my plans

Even the best-laid plans can by thrown off by a kid with a nasty stomach bug. Our first indication that something was wrong came when we were four blocks away from a Ravenswood pizza place we'd been meaning to try. We heard a gagging sound coming from the backseat, and Z had her fist in her mouth. Seconds later, the first stream of vomit arched over her pink jacket. Then the second wave.

We don't pack spare clothes anymore, so Josh turned the car around and headed toward a more commercial strip to look for a place to pick up a new outfit. I immediately spotted an upscale kiddie boutique and we pulled into a parking space nearby. Baby wipes and coat removal got rid of the biggest chunks, and I carried Z into the chi-chi clothing store where I made a beeline to the sale rack. Forty-seven dollars later (gulp!) Z was freshly dressed in a brown corduroy dress and cream-colored tights and we made it to Spacca Napoli, where one of Josh's freelance friends was waiting for us. Z didn't want to eat the unfamiliar-looking pizza, but she happily munched on cheese and animal crackers.

My lovely green couch and I got the chance to wear said snacks, plus a full sippy cup of milk a couple of hours later.

Then, after one hour and two sippy cups full of watered-down apple juice, my loveseat got the upchuck treatment.

Two hours after that, Z demanded a peanut butter and honey sandwich and milk, which I reluctantly gave her. Then, when my doula stopped by to say hello and drop off a book and CD, Z blew chunks all over the front porch.

Needless to say, we sent Josh to the Chavurah party alone. My evening was a dance of laundry, paper towels, rags and cuddles. And the Peter Pan DVD.

The kid can talk

Over the past month or so, I've stopped asking Z leading questions. No more "Did you go to Adriana's house today? Did you have lunch? Was it beans and rice?"

Instead, I can ask her an open-ended question like, "How as your day at Adriana's house?" I might hear about yesterday's lunch or get a fanciful answer that involves her buddies, zoo animals and "Daddy Monsters," but we're having genuine conversations. And we can finish library books with reading comprehension questions like "What did Angelina do to her china dancer? Why was she so mad?"

Adriana tells me Z is similarly fluent in Spanish, asking to watch Jorge el Curiouso (Curious George) and requesting for a Kleenex for her mocos.

Dinner in the nude

I considered not posting this story since it is more than a little embarrassing, but I just can't help myself. Why blog if not to expose myself and my family to national ridicule?

You see, Z was a bit of a pistol last night. From the minute I walked in the door, she was all over the place, showing me her Cinderella underpants...then insisting I change her into a diaper in the middle of the kitchen floor...while Daddy was cooking. And then heading upstairs unsupervised while I was washing vegetables so that she could fetch a clean diaper for her doll.

In any case, when she found out we were having salmon and potatoes for dinner, she pitched a royal fit for macaroni and cheese. It went on and on, but I wasn't budging. I told her she could try the fish and mashed potatoes, and if she didn't like them, she could have cereal. Under no circumstances would there be mac and cheese tonight!

She cried in the corner. She cried in my arms. She snuffled tears and snot onto my shoulder as I sat down to my dinner. And then, realizing that her crocodile tears weren't moving us, the crying stopped. She said, "I need to get down. My pants are wrong. I need to take them off."

Z slid off my lap and proceeded to remove her pants. And her socks. And her shirt. And her diaper.

"Why are you getting undressed?" Josh asked.
"Because I want to to take my clothes off," she replied.
"Why do you want to take your clothes off?"
"Because...I want to be naked!"

And then she climbed, naked as a jaybird, back onto my lap. Now I'm no prude and I'm glad my daughter is comfortable with her own body, but there is something just a little disturbing about eating a green salad while a 2 year old girl walks her hands over herself and says, "Look, my 'gina, my legs. I got all kinds of parts of my body!"

The good news is that Josh and I were able to suppress our giggles as we shot looks across the table at one another. And the table dance ended as quickly as it began. Yes, she did spend the rest of the evening in the nude, but I'm happy to report she ended up in her own chair. She tried 3 bites of mashed potatoes, declared she didn't like it, and polished off a bowl of Grape-Nuts instead.

I know the naked toddler is a cliche, but I'm not sure how other parents deal with it. Is any inside nudity okay, but outside nudity discouraged? Am I a complete freak for letting my daughter eat dinner in her birthday suit?

Some will find this even funnier than SNL

This morning, Z surprised me and Josh both when she walked away from the Berenstain Bears broadcast and announced, "I'm going to get dressed for for work upstairs." Even though I'd barely had a sip of coffee, I told her I'd come with her to help and I grabbed the jeans and long-sleeved tee I'd brought downstairs just minutes prior.

At the top of the stairs, she made a hard left into my bedroom and said, "I'm going to get ready for work in Mommy's room. I take off my jammies by my self...Now, I need a bra." With a little help from me (I could barely contain my giggles), Z wriggled into a lovely beige cotton number that no longer accommodates my knocked-up knockers. It hung down to her waist like two very saggy old-lady boobs. One shrug and the whole contraption slid down to the floor, where she stepped out of it.

But she wasn't done. She grabbed a shirt from one of my drawers, slung it over her shoulder and said, "I'm going to work in Mommy shirt!" I grabbed the white shirt before it could swiffer up all of the cat hair on the floor, and Z demanded a boost up onto my dresser. There, she tried on all of my necklaces. Then it was onto makeup. I let her go to town with my eyeshadow brush and a still-sealed loose powder. She made painting strokes all over her face and neck while singing, "I'm making myself pretty like a Mommy!"

As the mini glamorpuss hour stretched on, I realized we needed to get the girl dressed for daycare. So I tossed her onto "the big bed" (aka our bed) where she abandoned all pretensions of grown-upness and proceeded to jump up and down, clap her hands, stick out her tongue, shriek like a banshee and evade my attempts to dress her.

And once I finally got her dressed? She peed in her pants. But I was strong. I got her a fresh pair of cotton training underpants and told her she'd have better luck at Adriana's house.

Putting the kid on a leash

There's a very lively discussion at Blogging Baby on the pros and cons of toddler harnesses. I have to admit, I was horrified by baby leashes at one point myself. Now I'm tempted to get one. Z's reasonably good at staying close by, but I'm still terrified of having her dart into traffic or in front of a car in a parking lot. And it is impossible to confine that girl to a stroller. And this monkey backpack-style harness is awfully cute.