Skipping Town

Dear Littlest One, Ten months! Close to a year! And aren’t you getting to be feisty in your soon-to-be-toddler age. No longer content to go along for the ride in our crazy household, you are increasingly making your own demands and protests, letting us know with screeches when you want—or don’t want—to do or have something. You are crawling fast, usually heading for a set of stairs, which you can now climb up (but not down). You climb onto the brown leather ottoman and sit there. You are standing for several seconds at a time without holding onto anything. And you are determinedly practicing your walking by pushing the lion push-toy around the yard. You are active and strong, and I have no doubt you’ll do your best to be walking as soon as possible. You are becoming an increasing source of trouble for your big sister. You want whatever she has, and don’t hesitate to grab it; you want to do what she’s doing, even if it means trying to crawl onto her lap as she spins in the Si...

There was another church rummage sale last weekend—smaller than the epic sale I recounted a few weeks ago, but no less exciting. Andrew, the girls, and I went last Saturday—Andrew rolled his eyes and suggested several times he stay home with Lucia, or with Greta, but ultimately agreed to come. We stopped first in the furniture area, where Andrew immediately chose and purchased an end table. While he lugged it to the car, I headed to the toy area. And there, on the floor, was a gigantic zippered mattress-pad bag chock full of vintage Little People accessories—cars, chairs, tables, a chariot, desks, barber chairs, playground equipment; hundreds of pieces. I had Greta in the Ergo and was trying to keep one hand on Lucia in the crowded room; but I managed to lug that bag to the woman taking the money. “Well,” she said, smiling apologetically, “I’m going to have to charge you $4, since there’s a lot of stuff in there.” “That sounds fine,” I said. It did sound fine. My heart was rac...

Little Greta. From the get-go she has been an easy baby—hardly ever fussy except when tired, a great nurser from the very start, happy to nap in the Ergo, content to go along with whatever Lucia and I had planned for the day, a five-hour-stretch sleeper for weeks when she came home from the hospital. But the easy days with Greta are over. At nine and a half months, she has come into her own, and she is beginning to let us know it. Mere weeks ago, she’d simply sit quietly and not utter a peep if Lucia came up and snatched a toy from her hand. She’d look at her in confusion, sometimes, but usually she’d just move on to something else. No longer. Now, if Lucia grabs a toy from her or prevents her from playing with something (which happens, oh, a hundred times an hour), she emits an outraged screech—she becomes red-faced, enraged, squawking her protest. It’s hilarious to see Lucia’s reaction to this. The first few times it happened, Lucia just stared at her and then took her toy again...

Dear Little One, You are precariously close to three, and oh, have you been giving us a run for our money already. But the good things first: There are hours—days—when you are just so cute. You sing funny songs (in the Whole Foods checkout line today, peppy and tuneless: “I love grocery shopping!...I love the grocery store!...I love buying things!”). You say things in funny ways (o-gin shoom = the orange spoon; nooles = noodles; chockit = chocolate). You wail about the heat and demand air conditioning as soon as you get in the car, truly making you your mother’s daughter. You have some new bedtime rituals, all of which are ways to delay the inevitable moment when I actually leave the room and you must go to sleep. “Can you arrange my animals?” you ask, and I arrange the twenty-some animals you sleep with each night. You know in which part of the crib each one lives, and if I or Daddy put one in the wrong place, you think it’s outrageous: “That doesn’t go there!” Your crib is...

After years of living only marginally above total squalor, we finally hired a housekeeper. She and an assistant came over today and cleaned our house for FIVE HOURS. It is--breathtaking. You could eat off the inside of our trash can lid. If Greta wanted to crawl around the bathroom and then eat bananas, I'd let her. There is not a speck of dust on three floors of our house. There are no dead bugs in the windowsills. You could perform surgery inside our microwave. Why, oh why, didn't we jump on the housecleaner-bandwagon long, long, long ago? I make no pretense of doing any housecleaning whatsoever--I've resorted to buying microwavable meals at Trader Joe's because it's gotten to the point where I often don't have time to make lunch. And if I don't have time to eat, I definitely don't have time to clean. (And let's not kid ourselves: I hate cleaning.) Andrew, in our past, child-free life, would do his best to keep us livable; he once claimed to fi...

Lucia is doing extremely well with potty training. She has #1 down, and had no accidents after the second day of training (though we haven’t attempted going out without a diaper yet). “I have to go pee-pee,” she announces authoritatively. We hurry to the bathroom, she sits on the potty seat, sing-songs “I’m goooiiing…,” and then says “That’s it” when the trickle stops. Then she gets a few chocolate raisins. She knows the system, and how to work it: This weekend, as Andrew was giving her a bath, she announced, “I want chocolate before bed.” “Do you have to go potty?” Andrew asked. “Umm…yes,” she hedged, and eeked out a few drops. She’s having a harder time with #2. She’ll do it—but it takes a long time. Today it took all day. She has to go—desperately has to—but when we run to the bathroom, she’ll sit for only a second before saying “I don’t have to go.” Yesterday, it took all morning before finally she went. Today, she didn’t go until after dinner. She was so excited when it final...

Lucia’s stuffed animals have become more animated than usual lately. We’ve grown accustomed to Lucia talking for her animals—“Cat’s tired.” “Piggy wants some water.” “Lambie wants to go, too”—and we’re used to conversing with her about the animals’ various wants, thoughts, and feelings. But about two weeks ago, Lucia thrust her beloved new Lambie into my face and announced, “I want oatmeal.” Lucia had just eaten oatmeal. “You want more oatmeal, sweetie?” I said. “No,” Lucia said, wiggling Lambie. “ I want oatmeal.” I realized that it was Lambie, not Lucia, who was talking to me. Andrew and I now find ourselves regularly engaged in conversation with Lucia’s animals. “I want some, too,” Lambie will say. And we’ll have to offer the outstretched Lambie a bite or a sip of whatever he wants. “I want to lie down,” Lambie will say. When I’m addressed by one of these animals, Lucia holds him/her right up to me, and I’m forced to peer down at them, Lucia’s little face right there behind, a...

Sharing has become an issue in our house. Lucia usually loves Greta, but that love has been challenged lately now that Greta is mobile and getting into all her stuff. Lucia has little to no patience for Greta playing with “her” things; this has become a regular source of struggle, with more or less constant reminders to share, or trade, or take turns, or bring Greta something else to play with if she can’t play with that. But sometimes Lucia flamboyantly embraces the spirit of sharing. “Look. Mama, look,” I’ll hear her say if I’ve gone into another room for a moment. “Look, Mama. I’m SHARING.” I’ll return to find her and Greta sitting next to each other in the play area, Greta’s lap overflowing with toys, and Lucia pressing still more toys at her with an indulgent smile. “Look, Mama.” More toys. “I’m sharing!” And of course what Greta wants most is whatever toy hasn’t been joyously bestowed on her. And so the day goes on.