Skipping Town

Dear Little Big Girl, “Big girl” is what you call yourself these days, when you use the potty and pull up your own pants or do something else independently. Indeed, you’ve taken a lot of big-girl steps in the past few months. You’re almost totally potty trained now, except for nighttime; when we go out, I don’t even worry about accidents anymore, as you seem unfazed by public restrooms (and have proven to have the blad der of a camel). I always ask you if you need to go before we leave the house, and you invariably say no, then follow up with a worried “Will there be a potty there?” You love preschool, and you haven’t even cried at drop-off the past two times. You are always excited to report what you did at school—particularly that you rode a scooter and in one of those Little Tikes cars during gym time—and practically burst with pride when you show me your art project from the day. At home, you talk a lot about school, and when we play with your (amazing, fantastic, vi...

It’s finally fall around here. The radiators are on. Leaves are falling. Not too much color yet around our house, but we have high hopes for all the Japanese maples along the side of our driveway and beside the porch. Piles of leaves are appearing by the roadside, but it’s been too wet and rainy to do any good fall crunching-walks. Soon, I hope. Fall in the suburbs promises to be lovely, if the ground ever dries up. This time last year, I’d been in the hospital for a week and was facing down two more. I watched October from my antiseptic perch above West 59th Street; the only fall-blue sky I saw was whatever peeked between skyscrapers. I got to see tiny, bundled-up Lucia only a few times each week. I watched a lot of TV episodes online. I read all the Twilight books. I spent all day in bed, just me and kicking, rolling Greta in my belly. That was last October. The pumpkins we picked on the day I was admitted to the hospital got moldy before I came home. Now, a year later, we’r...

("Lucia, ready to feed the ducks?") "That's wonderful!" ("Lucia, would you like a snack?) "That's a good idea!" "I can't wait to show Daddy what I made! He'll be so happy!" ---variation: "I went poopie in the potty! I'm a big girl now! I can't wait to tell Daddy!" ---variation: "I went poopie in the potty! I'm a big girl now! I can't wait to tell Nora!" (a neighbor we spotted in her yard a few moments before heading to the bathroom) "It's spicy." (Anything she doesn't like is deemed spicy, with a worried and disturbed expression, as though she's saying "It's moving .")

Lucia’s language has gotten both precocious and hilarious lately as she tries out new words and phrases, not always correctly. Some highlights: Andrew, bleary-eyed, stumbled into Lucia’s room one morning this week. She’d been calling for me in her usual way: “Mama…Where ARE you….Maaamaaa….Where ARE you…..Maaamaaa…” When she saw Andrew in the doorway, she said, “First of all, I was calling Mama.” This week I asked Lucia to carry her water to the table for lunch. “Sure, Madame,” she responded with a little smile. She brings out “madame” at random times. “Lucia, are you ready for breakfast?” “Yes, Madame.” “Lucia, here are your Kix.” “Thank you, Madame.” The funniest thing is that she has no idea what it means; I always call her madame when we have tea parties, which is where she learned it, but she also calls Andrew “madame.” We’ve tried to explain that Daddy is “sir,” but it has yet to stick. Sometimes, when Lucia is traipsing around the house babbling to herself, I hear he...

With the weather gloomy and cold, we headed to NH for the weekend, hoping to see some fall color despite the rain. We saw oranges and yellows, but no brilliant reds; it seems we missed the peak, or that there wasn’t much of a peak this year at all. Still, it was lovely to be there this late in the year. Milkweed was everywhere, mostly new and green, but some had dried and split, the soft fibers spilling out. There were a few small frogs in the pond—the bees that had kept us from the dock on our last trip were gone so we were able to go say hello. We saw a flock of ten wild turkeys along the roadside, and then in the back field on another day. Being at the house in rainy weather isn’t easy; there isn’t much for the girls to do inside. Spending time outdoors, in middle-of-nowhere nature, is what NH is all about. Still, during breaks in the rain we went on short, damp nature walks. Lucia wasn’t enthusiastic until she saw me collecting pretty leaves and flowers in a bag, to press late...

Dear Littlest One, You get cuter by the day. Really. Sometimes when I go to get you from your crib in the morning, where you’re standing at one end waiting for me, sleep sack askew, your pacifier in your mouth upside-down, I’m amazed that you’ve managed to get still cuter than you’d been the day before. You are cute to look at, to be sure, with your two-front-teeth smile (soon to be gone forever—two more teeth have just poked through), fat cheeks, and baby-soft hair. But you also do countless cute things. For example, your wave is progressing. You’ve been waving goodbye for about a month now, with your entire arm. But now, sometimes, you open and shut the fingers of both hands when you want to wave. The movement is so subtle as to be pretty much invisible to whomever you’re waving to, and I find myself announcing it—“Greta is waving to you. She’s waving.”—to ensure that your action is recognized (and adored). You’ve decided that eating is hilarious, and you laugh uproari...

At Target yesterday, I was buying Lucia some socks when she announced loudly, “I WANT A PRETTY DRESS. A PRINCESS DRESS.” I bought her a ruffly $5 skirt, which she is wearing today over her pants. “I’m a princess! I’m a ballerina!” she said this morning. I felt the first stirrings of a long-dreaded princess phase today. But it’s hard to sustain that dread when that ruffly skirt, and Lucia’s happy prancing, are so cute…

This weekend, thanks to the kind offer of a friend of Molly and Ian’s, we spent three days in Bethany Beach, DE, at a lovely house just steps from the beach. Somehow, all six of us—Molly and Ian, Andrew and I, Mom and Dad—managed to be free for this weekend, and we were all looking forward to it immensely. Andrew and I planned to leave early Friday morning. In the wee hours, however, Greta threw up after nursing. Around six-thirty, she threw up again. For some reason I decided she must then be hungry, so I gave her a piece of toast, which she promptly threw up. We hadn’t showered or packed the car, and I was already covered in vomit. We knew Greta was the latest victim in the crazy bug that had already gotten Lucia, Andrew, and Robert. Greta was falling asleep on my shoulder by nine, so we decided to set out anyway. Then our third-floor bathroom sink, which usually leaks, began to gush water, and Andrew tried to wrench a bolt, but made it worse, and it was rapidly filling a tr...

Last weekend was our block party, which was a lot of fun. It’s pretty elaborate—everyone donates money, brings food, etc. Some people play music. And the organizers always rent a bounce house for all the kids. When we arrived, of course the bounce house was the first thing Lucia noticed. It was full of shouting, bouncing kids. I was certain we’d go nowhere near the bounce house this year—most of the kids on our street are school-age—but Lucia immediately declared that she wanted to go into the bounce house. I took off her shoes, and then she crawled up the ramp and squeezed into the bounce house, where she jumped a few times with a huge grin before scrambling back out. She did this a few times, testing the waters, and that was that: she was in for good, and we nearly couldn’t get her home. She bounced; she held hands with another little girl and bounced; she did somersaults. She screamed and squealed. It was mania in there, but she loved it. Greta continues to be an insanely good ...

Dear Little One, You’re growing up. Over the past month or so we’ve weathered quite a few storms, featuring wall-shaking meltdowns and a terrible dose of sibling rivalry. For weeks, your usual affection for Greta disappeared and was replaced by pushing, hitting, kicking, toy-swiping—all manner of awfulness. It was heartbreaking to see you act that way, so out of character; and heartbreaking to see its effect on Greta, too. Knock on wood, it seems the worst has passed. For the past couple of weeks, you’ve been back to your usual self—fun, giggly, funny, full of chatter and songs, and, most importantly, fond of Greta once more. The meltdowns have been so rare I can count them on one hand. What flipped the switch? I don’t know for sure. I read a book called Siblings Without Rivalry that gave me some ideas for how to lessen some of the frustrations you understandably feel with this tiny baby who’s crawling through your stuff and then putting all your toys in her mouth. I’ve tried...

Today was Lucia’s first day at nursery school. Or preschool, or co-op preschool, or whatever it is they call it these days. This was a huge decision, one Andrew and I have been debating for a few months now. We thought the decision had been made for us—by June, when we moved out here, the places we researched were all full. But I made a few queries, put us on a couple of waiting lists, and then finally found an open slot at a very small co-op nursery school that I’d heard about from both new friends and neighbors. After a tour and a nice talk with the director, we made the leap. “Leap” might be a bit too dramatic a description; it’s just two days a week, two and a half hours a day. Still, it’s her first experience with a group of kids without me around, so it is a big deal for sure. I stayed the whole time today, not because I didn’t think Lucia could handle it but because we hadn’t officially enrolled; I’d agreed with the director that we could attend the first day to be sure t...

Last week, I decided it was time: Lucia’s hair had crossed the line from wispy and charmingly uneven to rat’s nest. The back was actually matted beyond the help of any comb. So I took her to a kids’ salon for her first haircut. I expected screaming and hysteria—such has been her near-three-year-oldness for the past few weeks—but she did splendidly. She wouldn’t sit down in the firetruck-seat, and she wouldn’t let the cape get near her, but she was calm and unafraid during the haircut and loved the little barrettes the stylist put in her hair at the end. She loved the lollipop she got afterwards even more. A big success. Before... After (coloring at the hair salon)...

Funny stuff comes out of Lucia’s mouth these days. Here are a few favorites: “Mama, are we stuck?”: She asks this nearly every time we’re in the car, and it means, “Are we lost?” Clearly she’s picked up on the pitfalls of driving around a new town with someone with no sense of direction. I am, obviously, often lost. “Can I have some-a one-a your water?”: This means, “Can I have some of your water?” She hasn’t quite picked up on the differentiation between “some of” and “one of” (as in: one of your chips, one of your grapes, etc.). So she just says both. “I want the poopie chocolate!”: This is a family favorite. In an effort to encourage Lucia to do #2 on the potty, I bought her some M&Ms—different from her standard chocolate-raisin reward. She gets M&Ms only for #2. She clearly understands the different types…just not quite the right way to ask for them. “Mama, that’s not your seat!”: Again with the driving. We drive a lot these days—a not-unexpected thing ...

More summer recapping... We made four trips to NH this summer. I believe I wrote about the first trip, when we faced mice and ticks and etc in abundance. On our next trip, we were joined by friends from Brooklyn, who gamely braved the “rustic” conditions and enjoyed our laidback, do-nothing, grill-every-meal way of life out here. We returned once more in July to join Andrew’s family briefly; and then spent the rest of the weekend with Katherine and Patrick. And we returned from our latest trip yesterday, feeling rested and happy despite getting in very late and not getting much sleep the first night. It was wonderful to be there just as the seasons are turning; the Black-Eyed Susans and daisies from our last trip were gone this time, replaced by acres of goldenrod and lots of mint gone to purple-flowered seed. We couldn’t go down to see the frogs in the pond because bees had built a nest on the dock; but Lucia loved pushing her doll in the swing in the apple tree, and Greta wa...

I haven’t been blogging as much this summer as I should have. And so, now that summer’s over, a brief recounting of some of the highlights: A Trip to Fairport At long last, Andrew, the girls, and I traveled to Fairport, NY, in August to visit my grandmother and aunt. The visit was long overdue, and though the drives up and back were not easy, we survived (barely, on the return trip), and were glad we went. We stayed in a suite at the Hampton Inn, and the girls did fine. Both enjoyed the free breakfast in lobby each morning—Lucia always chose a waffle, and Greta was introduced to the wondrous world of Cheerios. We played in my grandmother’s yard and on the porch and even went to a family reunion, which was unfortunately cut short by a rainstorm. I thought it would be strange to return to a place where I spent so much of my childhood with my own children in tow, but things have changed so much—the state of my aging grandmother’s house, my grandmother herself—that it seemed fitti...

Greta is growing up by leaps and bounds these days. The biggest change of the past week is that she will no longer eat anything from a spoon but yogurt. I’d been feeding her multigrain cereal with pureed veggies for part of her dinner, which she’s always loved—and then, one day last week, she saw the spoon   approaching and dramatically turned her head away, her nose in the air, craning her neck and pressing her lips together. Same thing with the mashed tofu and banana that she used to love—a tossed head with eyes squeezed shut: Please, madame, get that filth away from me. She will now eat only regular food, with her fingers. Rice, broccoli, pasta, beans, cheese, bread, carrots, fruit, mac and cheese, sweet potato cubes. We’ve left baby food behind. We are, however, still nursing four or five times in twenty-four hours. And I’m supposed to wean her in two months? Greta can also now wave goodbye. She waves with her whole arm, like a marionette, and she’ll wave as long as yo...

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...