My mother experienced quite a shock when she picked up Miss Bee from daycare last Friday. As they were about to leave, Bee said, "Wait, Mimi, wait! I forgot my billy club."
"Billy club?"
And indeed it was.
Miss Bee's special project of the week was to make a police baton/night stick/people whacker. And she had learned, as part of her unit just what police officers do with those batons.
"They hit people!"
I'm all for learning about community helpers, but hand painting carefully cut and glued paper towel rolls with multiple layers of black paint to make an authentic looking billy club, well, that's just going a bit too far. What's next, paper mache handguns?
And plus, if you're a four and a half year old with a little sister who gets on your nerves periodically, what would you do with a pretend billy club? Whack your sister, of course.
I know that as my children grow up, the world will rush in the the force of an ocean wave, washing away the sandcastles and fairy lands of childhood. But for a little while yet, I will be standing in front of that wave, diverting the water as best I can with my hands and feet and buckets. These early years are supposed to be the magical ones. Billy clubs have no place in my kingdom.
Showing posts with label Bee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bee. Show all posts
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
outside kids
Read Bee her bedtime stories out on our balcony tonight. You would have thought I had served her the moon on a silver plate, she was so excited. We read "Harold and the Purple Crayon," and if you don't know the story, there's Harold, he has a purple crayon, and he draws what the author narrates. Or the author narrates what he draws. It's a nice little literary paradox.
As we read "Harold" and watched the sun set on our street. We are soaking up this beautiful spring weather as much as possible before the mosquitoes crash the party.
As we read "Harold" and watched the sun set on our street. We are soaking up this beautiful spring weather as much as possible before the mosquitoes crash the party.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Child labor
Last week, my husband took Bee to the pediatrician for her four year old checkup. During the visit, the doctor asked Bee a lot of different questions, partly to distract her from the fact that she was about to receive five immunizations, but also to check her language ability.
After Bee successfully answered a few basic things the doctor asked, "What is your favorite thing to do with your Mommy and Daddy?" Her favorite thing, as in the thing she loves to do with her parents more than anything else. . .
Now, if you had asked me to speculate on this question, I might have had a couple ideas--bringing a stack of picture books over to Starbucks for special reading time with Mommy; riding her brand new scooter to school with Daddy; being pulled in her red wagon to the farmer's market on Saturday mornings; carving pumpkins for Halloween and her owl-themed birthday party that included an owl pinata and very adorable owl cake. . .cue the happy family music right there folks. But when the question was put to our saintly daughter, only one thing came to her mind:
"Vacuuming."
This should be an interesting year.
After Bee successfully answered a few basic things the doctor asked, "What is your favorite thing to do with your Mommy and Daddy?" Her favorite thing, as in the thing she loves to do with her parents more than anything else. . .
Now, if you had asked me to speculate on this question, I might have had a couple ideas--bringing a stack of picture books over to Starbucks for special reading time with Mommy; riding her brand new scooter to school with Daddy; being pulled in her red wagon to the farmer's market on Saturday mornings; carving pumpkins for Halloween and her owl-themed birthday party that included an owl pinata and very adorable owl cake. . .cue the happy family music right there folks. But when the question was put to our saintly daughter, only one thing came to her mind:
"Vacuuming."
This should be an interesting year.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
The longest day
Now that I have been home for over a month, I think I can write about our trip home without having any harmful flashbacks.
It was an adventure, full of stories that will become party of family lore, and repeated for years to come. Above all however, traveling solo from Romania to the United States with my two little girls was a reaffirmation of the kindness of strangers. If it weren't for all the help I received on my trip, I would still be on the first floor of Bucharest's airport:
We arrived at the airport very early, and after saying goodbye to my husband, and doing my best to put on a brave face for Miss Bee, we proceeded through security and headed for our gate. I pushed Cheeks in her car seat, which fortunately attaches to the stroller, had Bee in one hand and a suitcase and duffel bag in the other. The diaper bag was stowed under the stroller. We must have looked much like a peddler with his cart, baby toys jangling, suitcase wheels squeaking, and Bee singing to herself. "I can do this," was my silent mantra as we made our way to the gate.
I was actually feeling pretty good; the girls were behaving, I was managing all the luggage without a problem. We were going home!
Oh, how quickly things unraveled from there. Our flight was leaving from gate 10. As we walked through Bucharest's smoky terminal, it became apparent that Gate 10 was not on the first floor. Oh no, it was located downstairs. "No problem, there has to be an elevator around here somewhere . . ."
I looked all around but there was no elevator. I looked around for someone to ask, but of course there was no one to help me. Finally, out of desperation, I stopped the one person in uniform that came walking by-- a pilot for KLM. He confirmed that there was no elevator, thought it over for a minute, and then offered to help carry the stroller and my luggage down the four flights of stairs to the gate. Another man pitched in as well. (I really would like to know how someone in a wheelchair accesses the lower terminal.)
That problem solved, it was time to solve the problem of Cheeks McGoo's diaper. I had plenty of time before our flight left, and figured I would probably change Cheeks and then feed her and she would be ready for a nice nap on the flight to Munich. We find the bathroom, wheel in all our luggage, I start to change Cheeks and she pees all over herself and her clothes. Wheeeeeeeee! Faaaaannnntastic. Fortunately I had packed a few extra outfits.
Our trip proceeded in the above fashion. . .the plane was not at the gate, but instead a bus ride and a very tall set of stairs away. (More help was necessary, including a wonderful gentleman who waited on board once we had arrived in Munich to help us deplane.)
During the flight to Munich, Cheeks napped and Bee ate three packages of gummy bears. I cannot say enough good things about the professionalism of Lufthansa's flight crew. They were unflappable (need to feed the baby? can I get you an extra pillow to support your arm?)--helpful (giving Bee every coloring book, sticker set, and puzzle on board)--and above all, kind. U.S. air companies could learn a thing or two from the German concept of service.
The good thing about flying into Munich is that it is a small airport, with the bonus of flying in and out of the same terminal when en route to the U.S. After a relatively peaceful four hour layover, we were ready for our 8 hour and 49 minute flight to the United States. (Why don't we call it like it is, and just say NINE HOURS!) Ahem. Many thanks to the man in seat 1A who ferried my bags from the door of the aircraft to my seat. Evidently he was not only a millionaire, but also a gentleman.
I would say that eight out of the nine hours went very well indeed. I abandoned all my usual parenting guidelines and let Bee feast on ice cream and chocolate candy. She watched Sesame Street on my laptop until the battery died. Basically I did my very best to keep both of my children quiet and well behaved, even if that meant indulging them like crazy.
Cheeks had me quite worried when I realized about halfway through the flight that we only had three diapers left. In her excitement at traveling halfway around the world, Cheeks was averaging one dirty diaper every 45 minutes. Thank you to the very kind woman with a very red headed baby who lent me enough extra ones to make it home.
The biggest drama of our trip was saved for the last hour of the flight. Bee, having refused to nap throughout the entire flight, finally passed out from sheer exhaustion. This also happened when we flew to the U.S. in November 2009. I couldn't rouse her. The plane was landing and she was curled into the seat like a hibernating turtle in its shell. I spent 30 minutes trying to gently wake her to no avail. Once the plane began its final descent, and all passengers had to put their seats in the upright position, Bee was maneuvered upright and awake and screaming. The emphasis was on screaming here.
We landed, and Bee's screams eventually reduced to sniffles. The plane reached the gate. It was time to get off. Exhausted, Bee refused to walk. She had to walk. I had to carry Nora and all of our bags. She refused to walk. Stalemate . . .We were evidently going to be stuck on the plane for the rest of our lives.
Sensing my distress, several passengers came over to help. I found myself handing over my suitcases and backpacks to total strangers. Bee was still not walking. Finally, and thank the Lord because I was running out of ideas, a big fat bearded man scooped her up. She started to scream in protest. I took a good look at the man, judged him to be neither a murderer or kidnapper, grabbed Nora's car seat and fled the aircraft. The man followed in hot pursuit with my wailing daughter.
The whole family was reunited on the jet way and while Bee was very displeased at having been abandoned by her own mother, the plus side was that she was now wide awake.
We had almost made it. All that was left was the shuttle bus, immigration, baggage, customs, and staggering through the double doors into the waiting arms of my parents. And while accomplishing the above things, while exhausted, with exhausted children, seemed to take almost as long as the actual trip itself, we made it. We really did.
Becoming a parent has made me fearless.
It was an adventure, full of stories that will become party of family lore, and repeated for years to come. Above all however, traveling solo from Romania to the United States with my two little girls was a reaffirmation of the kindness of strangers. If it weren't for all the help I received on my trip, I would still be on the first floor of Bucharest's airport:
We arrived at the airport very early, and after saying goodbye to my husband, and doing my best to put on a brave face for Miss Bee, we proceeded through security and headed for our gate. I pushed Cheeks in her car seat, which fortunately attaches to the stroller, had Bee in one hand and a suitcase and duffel bag in the other. The diaper bag was stowed under the stroller. We must have looked much like a peddler with his cart, baby toys jangling, suitcase wheels squeaking, and Bee singing to herself. "I can do this," was my silent mantra as we made our way to the gate.
I was actually feeling pretty good; the girls were behaving, I was managing all the luggage without a problem. We were going home!
Oh, how quickly things unraveled from there. Our flight was leaving from gate 10. As we walked through Bucharest's smoky terminal, it became apparent that Gate 10 was not on the first floor. Oh no, it was located downstairs. "No problem, there has to be an elevator around here somewhere . . ."
I looked all around but there was no elevator. I looked around for someone to ask, but of course there was no one to help me. Finally, out of desperation, I stopped the one person in uniform that came walking by-- a pilot for KLM. He confirmed that there was no elevator, thought it over for a minute, and then offered to help carry the stroller and my luggage down the four flights of stairs to the gate. Another man pitched in as well. (I really would like to know how someone in a wheelchair accesses the lower terminal.)
That problem solved, it was time to solve the problem of Cheeks McGoo's diaper. I had plenty of time before our flight left, and figured I would probably change Cheeks and then feed her and she would be ready for a nice nap on the flight to Munich. We find the bathroom, wheel in all our luggage, I start to change Cheeks and she pees all over herself and her clothes. Wheeeeeeeee! Faaaaannnntastic. Fortunately I had packed a few extra outfits.
Our trip proceeded in the above fashion. . .the plane was not at the gate, but instead a bus ride and a very tall set of stairs away. (More help was necessary, including a wonderful gentleman who waited on board once we had arrived in Munich to help us deplane.)
During the flight to Munich, Cheeks napped and Bee ate three packages of gummy bears. I cannot say enough good things about the professionalism of Lufthansa's flight crew. They were unflappable (need to feed the baby? can I get you an extra pillow to support your arm?)--helpful (giving Bee every coloring book, sticker set, and puzzle on board)--and above all, kind. U.S. air companies could learn a thing or two from the German concept of service.
The good thing about flying into Munich is that it is a small airport, with the bonus of flying in and out of the same terminal when en route to the U.S. After a relatively peaceful four hour layover, we were ready for our 8 hour and 49 minute flight to the United States. (Why don't we call it like it is, and just say NINE HOURS!) Ahem. Many thanks to the man in seat 1A who ferried my bags from the door of the aircraft to my seat. Evidently he was not only a millionaire, but also a gentleman.
I would say that eight out of the nine hours went very well indeed. I abandoned all my usual parenting guidelines and let Bee feast on ice cream and chocolate candy. She watched Sesame Street on my laptop until the battery died. Basically I did my very best to keep both of my children quiet and well behaved, even if that meant indulging them like crazy.
Cheeks had me quite worried when I realized about halfway through the flight that we only had three diapers left. In her excitement at traveling halfway around the world, Cheeks was averaging one dirty diaper every 45 minutes. Thank you to the very kind woman with a very red headed baby who lent me enough extra ones to make it home.
The biggest drama of our trip was saved for the last hour of the flight. Bee, having refused to nap throughout the entire flight, finally passed out from sheer exhaustion. This also happened when we flew to the U.S. in November 2009. I couldn't rouse her. The plane was landing and she was curled into the seat like a hibernating turtle in its shell. I spent 30 minutes trying to gently wake her to no avail. Once the plane began its final descent, and all passengers had to put their seats in the upright position, Bee was maneuvered upright and awake and screaming. The emphasis was on screaming here.
We landed, and Bee's screams eventually reduced to sniffles. The plane reached the gate. It was time to get off. Exhausted, Bee refused to walk. She had to walk. I had to carry Nora and all of our bags. She refused to walk. Stalemate . . .We were evidently going to be stuck on the plane for the rest of our lives.
Sensing my distress, several passengers came over to help. I found myself handing over my suitcases and backpacks to total strangers. Bee was still not walking. Finally, and thank the Lord because I was running out of ideas, a big fat bearded man scooped her up. She started to scream in protest. I took a good look at the man, judged him to be neither a murderer or kidnapper, grabbed Nora's car seat and fled the aircraft. The man followed in hot pursuit with my wailing daughter.
The whole family was reunited on the jet way and while Bee was very displeased at having been abandoned by her own mother, the plus side was that she was now wide awake.
We had almost made it. All that was left was the shuttle bus, immigration, baggage, customs, and staggering through the double doors into the waiting arms of my parents. And while accomplishing the above things, while exhausted, with exhausted children, seemed to take almost as long as the actual trip itself, we made it. We really did.
Becoming a parent has made me fearless.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Have Mercy
I am having quite a laugh listening to my husband and daughter play in the other room. Bee is pretending to be some sort of twisted doctor/ beautician and is torturing my husband with her (play) Disney princess hair dryer.
"Have mercy!" he cries.
"I'm not Mercy!" she responds.
"No! Ouch! No! Mercy is a concept, not a person. . ." my husband attempts to explain, as he fights off the hair dryer.
"A person!" Bee squeals in response.
I fear that the distinction is lost on her.
"Have mercy!" he cries.
"I'm not Mercy!" she responds.
"No! Ouch! No! Mercy is a concept, not a person. . ." my husband attempts to explain, as he fights off the hair dryer.
"A person!" Bee squeals in response.
I fear that the distinction is lost on her.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Comedienne
Miss Bee and I were playing library at 7:30 this morning, because that's what you must do as soon as you wake up.
I got to play the role of the multitasking nursing librarian. Bee was the library visitor. I set her to working filling out a library card "application." She worked on that for a while and brought me an elaborately scribbled piece of paper. As I was reviewing her qualifications (name, address etc) I asked, "Have you ever had a library card before?"
Her answer, "Not in my life, but in my heart."
!!!
She is gonna be a reader like her Mama.
I got to play the role of the multitasking nursing librarian. Bee was the library visitor. I set her to working filling out a library card "application." She worked on that for a while and brought me an elaborately scribbled piece of paper. As I was reviewing her qualifications (name, address etc) I asked, "Have you ever had a library card before?"
Her answer, "Not in my life, but in my heart."
!!!
She is gonna be a reader like her Mama.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Lack of willpower
So a nine months pregnant woman and a three year old Disney princess in training are probably not the best pair to be making decisions like, "Should we stop and have ice cream on our way home from work or continue on home to a healthy snack option?"
Really, in our case, there is only one possible answer to this question: "Ice cream! The green kind."
So me and my baby sat and ate mint chocolate chip ice cream cones with rainbow sprinkles at Scoop Beauregard's ice cream shop today.
I knew that this was a hit with Bee when she spontaneously started singing "If you're happy and you know it. . . "
We're happy. We know it.
Really, in our case, there is only one possible answer to this question: "Ice cream! The green kind."
So me and my baby sat and ate mint chocolate chip ice cream cones with rainbow sprinkles at Scoop Beauregard's ice cream shop today.
I knew that this was a hit with Bee when she spontaneously started singing "If you're happy and you know it. . . "
We're happy. We know it.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Cornhusker
Add shucking corn to the list of things that will keep a preschooler occupied for at least five minutes. . .
Friday, June 26, 2009
True love is
At breakfast, giving your daughter one half of your hard boiled egg when you only cooked one.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Childisms
We have been reading a lot of the Disney princess easy reader anthology. (5 stories in one! 5 princesses in one book!)
With an abundance of choices in one slender volume: Cinderella, Snow White, Belle, Aurora or Jasmine, for Bee, other story books pale in comparison at the moment. Unfortunately for me, the reader, the stories are easy readers, comprising simple sentences, a mere string of facts shadowing the general princess plot lines.
They. Plod. Along.
However, in the final story, Jasmine receives a pet tiger from her father to make her happy. (You can't read too much into this.) She names it Rajah. He keeps her safe from harm.
Every time I read this story, and indeed that is frequently, Miss Bee asks me, in a serious tone of voice, "Who is Harm, Mommy?"
As if Harm were a Disney character to be vanquished, one more step on the journey to a happy ending. If only.
"Harm is just another word for trouble, Bee," I cautiously explain. But still, she persists in asking. She is certain that Harm is a person. And in some places I am certain he is.
My darling daughter, if you only knew, that it is my one wish, my one prayer--to always keep you safe from harm. May you never meet Him.
With an abundance of choices in one slender volume: Cinderella, Snow White, Belle, Aurora or Jasmine, for Bee, other story books pale in comparison at the moment. Unfortunately for me, the reader, the stories are easy readers, comprising simple sentences, a mere string of facts shadowing the general princess plot lines.
They. Plod. Along.
However, in the final story, Jasmine receives a pet tiger from her father to make her happy. (You can't read too much into this.) She names it Rajah. He keeps her safe from harm.
Every time I read this story, and indeed that is frequently, Miss Bee asks me, in a serious tone of voice, "Who is Harm, Mommy?"
As if Harm were a Disney character to be vanquished, one more step on the journey to a happy ending. If only.
"Harm is just another word for trouble, Bee," I cautiously explain. But still, she persists in asking. She is certain that Harm is a person. And in some places I am certain he is.
My darling daughter, if you only knew, that it is my one wish, my one prayer--to always keep you safe from harm. May you never meet Him.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Miss Bee knows
that only her Daddy will let her have this much fun at the playground.
Happy Father's Day to all the dads!
Happy Father's Day to all the dads!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
I somehow doubt
that Miss Bee will be as enamored with washing dishes when she is sixteen. At the moment, however, she is absurdly happy when allowed to take part in the after dinner washing up. She rinses with vigor and wields a mean sponge.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Dolly Picnic
Guest list: Mommy, Bee, Bunny, Katinka, Maggie, and Peter.
On the menu: strawberry lemonade, tea sandwiches (salmon and cream cheese and peanut butter and jelly), yogurt, apple slices and thumbprint cookies.
No party is complete in Romania without a stray dog stopping by.
Bee made sure that everyone had seconds of lemonade.
After we ate, we played and played, acting out scenes from Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. We received quite a lot of attention from passers by. Next time, I will make sure to bring extra cookies to share with any other kids who might wander over.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Little shoes
Bee is sleeping with her new Nikes tonight. Like all new pairs of tennis shoes, the colors are bright and unsullied and the shoe itself is factory fresh.
Bee was so excited to try out her latest pair that she cried when it came time to undress and get ready for bed. The compromise we made was that if she took them off she could sleep with them. (The shoes haven't been outside, so they are relatively clean.)
As I tucked my daughter into bed (who was holding in her arms both shoes, a small doll and a McDonald's happy meal toy named "Old Mac Donald's dog", with a bear wearing a nightdress and an ugly plastic baby alongside) I reminded myself that I belong to the "pick your battles" school of parenting.
I could have insisted that she put the shoes away. Bee would have cried for a few minutes, maybe more, but in the end, she would have gone to sleep without them. But taking a pair of new shoes to bed doesn't break any of the major family rules (cleaning up after yourself and being nice). It's not a health or safety issue. And it made her happy.
Parenting a toddler can be exasperating. I find that I am constantly asking myself, with the onset of each new (minor and major) drama, of which there are many each day, "is this important?" If it is, I stand my ground. If it is not, I let it go.
So if Bee wants to wear her rain boots and stomp in every puddle while we're out walking Max, wear her tutu to the vegetable market, or dance in Starbucks, then so be it. She has an amazing spirit which I am privileged to watch grow.
Bee was so excited to try out her latest pair that she cried when it came time to undress and get ready for bed. The compromise we made was that if she took them off she could sleep with them. (The shoes haven't been outside, so they are relatively clean.)
As I tucked my daughter into bed (who was holding in her arms both shoes, a small doll and a McDonald's happy meal toy named "Old Mac Donald's dog", with a bear wearing a nightdress and an ugly plastic baby alongside) I reminded myself that I belong to the "pick your battles" school of parenting.
I could have insisted that she put the shoes away. Bee would have cried for a few minutes, maybe more, but in the end, she would have gone to sleep without them. But taking a pair of new shoes to bed doesn't break any of the major family rules (cleaning up after yourself and being nice). It's not a health or safety issue. And it made her happy.
Parenting a toddler can be exasperating. I find that I am constantly asking myself, with the onset of each new (minor and major) drama, of which there are many each day, "is this important?" If it is, I stand my ground. If it is not, I let it go.
So if Bee wants to wear her rain boots and stomp in every puddle while we're out walking Max, wear her tutu to the vegetable market, or dance in Starbucks, then so be it. She has an amazing spirit which I am privileged to watch grow.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
But I can sing this song . . .
For the past couple of months now, I have been singing to Bee before she goes to sleep. It all began one night where some toddler drama happened too close to bedtime and she was inconsolable. Reaching for my favorite parenting trick, aka, "change the subject." I asked Bee whether she wanted me to sing her a special song. Snuffly and tear streaked, she stammered, "Yessss."
I lay down on the couch with my daughter, frantically trying to think of a song that she would consider to be special. It couldn't be one of the usual lullabies, and it had to be something to which I knew all the words. This limited my options to the Beatles (which I deemed a little too high energy for bedtime) and James Taylor. I picked "Sweet Baby James" and sang the song, pleased that I could remember all the words and changed the refrain to "sweet Abigail." She snuggled deeply into my arms, stopped crying, and went to sleep in her bed without protesting. Parent victorious.
The only thing is, and this is the way it goes I guess, is that now, the "special song" has become an essential part of the bedtime repertoire. Bee has learned almost all the words, and she frequently sings along. Her favorite line, the one that she sings every night in her sweet soprano, "And as the moon rises/ he sits by his fire/ thinking about women and glasses of beer." Bee puts really a nice emphasis on "mooon" and "beeeer," as she sings.
When I mentioned to my parents that cowboy drinking songs had all but usurped our nightly family prayers, they were mildly horrified. So now I sing "Sweet Baby James" and "You can close your eyes," which a little more bedtime appropriate.
I was thinking about it tonight, how maybe the extra singing is coddling and coddling leads to all sorts of other bad habits, but you know, I don't really care. I will sing to her for as long as she wants to listen.
I lay down on the couch with my daughter, frantically trying to think of a song that she would consider to be special. It couldn't be one of the usual lullabies, and it had to be something to which I knew all the words. This limited my options to the Beatles (which I deemed a little too high energy for bedtime) and James Taylor. I picked "Sweet Baby James" and sang the song, pleased that I could remember all the words and changed the refrain to "sweet Abigail." She snuggled deeply into my arms, stopped crying, and went to sleep in her bed without protesting. Parent victorious.
The only thing is, and this is the way it goes I guess, is that now, the "special song" has become an essential part of the bedtime repertoire. Bee has learned almost all the words, and she frequently sings along. Her favorite line, the one that she sings every night in her sweet soprano, "And as the moon rises/ he sits by his fire/ thinking about women and glasses of beer." Bee puts really a nice emphasis on "mooon" and "beeeer," as she sings.
When I mentioned to my parents that cowboy drinking songs had all but usurped our nightly family prayers, they were mildly horrified. So now I sing "Sweet Baby James" and "You can close your eyes," which a little more bedtime appropriate.
I was thinking about it tonight, how maybe the extra singing is coddling and coddling leads to all sorts of other bad habits, but you know, I don't really care. I will sing to her for as long as she wants to listen.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Child's play
One of Bee's favorite games to play is "makeup." You would be amazed at her eyeshadow application technique. Bee can also do a mean impression of a hairdryer.
However, my favorite part is when she stands real close, looks me in the eyes, and says, "Mommy, I make you so bee-you-ti-ful!"
Sunday, February 1, 2009
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