Perspective

Last year we hid Easter eggs in our living room. My husband hid a few in plain sight at the top of a bookshelf and on a window ledge. When Easter morning came around we couldn't say "look higher" enough. She just didn't get the idea of looking higher. This year, she started to look up, not high, but up. It speaks to the concept of seeing the world through the eyes of a child. We are, as parents, reminded that children do not see the world from our perspective.


Last week I gave the chicken my camera. I needed to occupy her completely for as long as possible so that I could exercise in the family room. When I was done, I looked through the pictures and was again reminded of the fact that her perspective is small; she doesn't see the whole table, she sees the cup on it.

I need to remind myself of this altered perspective when parenting. She does not see the big picture, she does not need to. Her view will grow in time, and its my job to teach her about the whole picture. For now, though, we both need to relish the smaller world of us.

Reclaiming My Name

I became Mel in 1992 when one of my new high school friends couldn't remember if it was one L or two, he took the easy way out, and it just stuck. I'd tried Missy on for size as a grade school girl when my older sister came home with the coolest like-named friend. My given name, Melissa, is most usually my preference if only because its most often used. I like my name well enough. Though the first time my daughter called me "mama" its weight pushed my first name aside and opened my heart to something, a club I'd never been part of, and there was no turning back. Mom. Mama. Mommy. The club of women who breathe love of child. Who eat, drink, sleep mom-worry.

Last week when my daughter opted for "Melissa" I didn't think much of it. I assumed if I ignored the casual first name drop I'd sooner return to Mom. How wrong I was. We're in day seven of life on a first name basis and I want it, no need it, to end. Middle of the night, 3 a.m., the child wakes and says, "Melissa, I need go pee." Shopping at Kohl's she struts around, "Oh my! Melissa look at this beautiful dress." Like I'm her girlfriend or aunt or something less.

The fact is, while I become old being called Mom will not. In chatting with a grandmother about my current mom-ailment, she too agreed. Her daughter calls her by her first name and she dislikes it. It lacks the personal connection that mother-daughter relationships are wrought with.

I am certain it will end. I just really want it to be this very instant. I wish I could say that there was a reason she is using my actual name - as if I'd researched the developmental stage, but I'd much rather pout about it and get my Mommy back.

Lesson Learned

If you know me at all, and lets be honest, the ten of you do. You know that I occasionally have gas and that I am not one to hold it if I needn't hold it. I can clean it up for social situations, obviously, I'm human - I know when not to pass gas. At home, however, I haven't taken any precautions.

Lately my husband and I have been talking about how we might need to start cleaning our act up a bit if we're going to raise a little girl to be a little lady. Up to this point the closest we've come to being polite about burps or farts is to say excuse me afterward. Occasionally we raz each other about the sound of the other's passage of gas or the foul odor that follows. We really need to grow up, we know this, but sometimes really, what else is there to talk about? We could go days in silence if it weren't for the obviously necessary comments regarding the others stench. Our daughter has, therefore, developed quite a fart sense of humor. In her opinion, all farts, stinkers, or busters warrant laughter. Not good.

Today I learned a valuable lesson in why I need to up my gas passing etiquette. My stomach was in a bad way this afternoon. I have no idea why, I've not ingested anything that would normally cause gas. In any event, I have delt a few gross ones today. My daughter cannot let a smell go unnoticed. Anywhere, anytime. Her line is consistently that same: "Mom somefing smells." We could be walking through a meadow of flowers and she'd use it. The line gets a lot of play lately because baby number 2 poops A LOT.

This being the case, I could EASILY blame the littlest, but I don't. It just seems mean. He already stinks, so its not fair to blame him for odors he hasn't created. This afternoon after changing his diaper my daughter entered the room. She said, "Mom somfing stinks." I said, "Oh." She said, "Its him." I said, "No, really it isn't him, I stinkered." She replied, "You stink Mom" and then giggled while trying to climb my leg. We then proceeded out to the front yard to play t-ball.

I chose the front yard over the back yard because of the dog-poop-booby-traps in the back yard and all the fun outdoor toys are in the garage. We're out there 30 minutes playing, she and I, while Dad was in back collecting the booby-traps. We were engaged in a lovely game of kick ball in our court when one of the neighbors pulled down the street and then into her drive way. She hadn't met our new addition yet, so she came out to chat and see the baby. We both greeted her, chatted a little, and then the toddler continued her kick ball game.

A moment later, while I stood talking to the neighbor, my daughter reappeared at my left to interrupt our conversation with, "Mommy farts." I tried to ignore her and thought, or hoped, the neighbor hadn't heard. But my girl kept talking and the finally neighbor turned her attention squarely on my three year old. "What sweetie?" She restated, "My mommy, her farts." I laughed so hard I nearly farted. The neighbor politely replied, "Kids say the darndest things." I was red-faced and flailing for something to say when the neighbor furthered the discussion with: "Can I teach you a better word for that?" "Sure" my girl says. Neighbor says, "In our house we say 'beaver' 'Mommy beavered' because that is the sound a beaver makes."

So now, not only do I have to clean up my act and show some class, but I've got to delete that memory from my daughter's brain. I simply cannot have my kid running around using the word beaver unless there is, in fact, a beaver around. Gross. Lesson learned.

Pee Pee on Me

In November I tried to get my daughter to put pee pee in the potty. I thought the pending arrival of child number two warranted the start of this process; however, the girl would not have it. The first day, she was really into the crafty sticker chart I'd posted in the bathroom. The second day we went to the circus and potty training was thrown out the window. The sheer terror of that experience was enough to frighten any tot back into diapers.

I dropped my efforts completely. My sister said "closer to three" - so I waited. In the beginning of January I asked again, "Would you like to put pee-pee in the potty" - and she replied, "Mom, I tell you when I ready." Roger that.

On January 15th, she woke and was ready. We've had a steady, consistent, praise her when she does it attitude - and she's got it down pat. She gets far more upset by any accidents than I do, so we're good to go.

The only real problem with this potty training is that since January 15th I have had more urine on my person than I ever did during the diaper years. I cannot for the life of me figure out what I'm doing wrong. I am wiping front-to-back, as all women do in hopes of avoiding urinary tract issues. I can't make it out of there, though, without piss on my hand, finger, or both. I've considered loading up on the toilet paper; however, I don't want to encourage her to overuse it. As it stands, she think toilet paper grows on trees, so I try to be conservative in my sheet use. In this conservation though, I inevitably shortchange myself and constantly feel like a walking germ - regardless of my incessant hand washing.

I've considered her short stature - maybe once she's a bit taller I'll have more luck. I've considered the height and shape of my toilet bowls. I've considered the step-stool factor. What else could it be that leads to pee pee all over me???

The Money Tree

Sometimes my husband jokes around by saying my thumb is black, not green. He chastises me when I bring new plants into our home, he'll look at it, put his arm around me and say, "Do you think it knows its in for certain death?" He chuckles when my tomato garden produces cherry sized tomatoes rather than large, plump heirloom tomatoes. Yet every year, he applauds my efforts.

Plant effort number 876 was a money tree. Said to be one of the easiest to care for (I read: hardest to kill). I bought it at Ikea, got a really lovely ceramic pot, and a three wheeled tray, of sorts, to place the whole combination atop. It had a fighting chance after I did a little online study on how to care for the plant: let it dry out and then water it, don't put it in direct light. Check and check. Pretty pot and online advice aside, it was really starting to look pathetic, shriveled, sad. I hadn't come to terms with disposal of the once lovely, twisting plant until this morning.

I gave my toddler a bit of play-doh to mess around with. She had already combined the three colors into one, so I wasn't on "play-doh watch", I just wanted to run down and switch the laundry. I thought the play-doh would certainly buy me a little time. Wrong. From my post in the basement laundry room, I heard some pitter-patter feet, some closet doors opening, and then I heard the dog's claws merrily hopping around on the wood floor above my head. I walked upstairs and there before me were the remains of the money tree - scattered all over the entryway. Not a single twig or leaf on the stem of the plant, only leaves thrown about its soil.

My daughter was hiding in the closet. I said, "Hunny, what happened here?" She said, "I'm sorry, Mom." I said, "You know you aren't supposed to play with Mommy's plant. Its special to me." She opened the closet door and said, "Well, I know. I'm sorry. But Roscoe and I were just hi-hoing and hi-hoing. So that's all."

What is the proper response to this? I should have been angry and reprimanded her in some way. Though, part of me was kind of relieved the last-leg money plant had bitten the dust. A few months ago she told me she thought my plant looked sad. I couldn't disagree, but said I was trying to make it look happy again. Today, she took matters into her own hands, and tore the sorry tree to bits. All in the name of hi-hoing.