Not in the parenting handbook

Yes indeed, indeedy. So, Miss Bee threw a fit tonight over a trash can full of trash. That was a new one.

My poor child has had the worst cold. She is chapped and scrawny and miserable. My sick Bean-pod has had three days of antibiotics which have taken away her ear infection, but given her hives and made her very temperamental, to say the least.

We have endured days of coughing and sneezing and Bee leaving crumpled Kleenex throughout the house as though she were Gretel venturing off into a dark forest.

In an attempt to corral the tissues, we placed a trashcan at the edge of her bed. This was having a positive effect until tonight. It was trash night in our house and my husband was busily emptying all the cans upstairs. Suddenly I heard screeching coming from Bee's room. "They're mine! They're my tissues. You can't take them out," she cried.

Disbelieving my ears, I hurried to my daughter's room and found her and my husband involved in a fierce game of tug of war over the plastic trash can.

You can guess who won that battle, but I had the harder task of consoling Bee over the thrown out, lost forever, dirty tissues. (It's really hard to do that with a straight face, by the way.) And then I had to make her go apologize for yelling at her father. Over snotty kleenex.

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.

Points for creativity

I was changing Cheeks McGoo's diaper last night around 1 am. In my sleep addled state I could not figure out why, if I had just changed her diaper, she was still writhing on the changing table and screeching. I fumbled around in the dark for quite some time and finally realized that I had put the clean diaper on top of the dirty one!

God bless all the sleep deprived parents everywhere.

The second time around

Babycakes, aka "Cheeks McGee", turns four months old today. I have been thinking about how much my life has changed (again) in these few short months. Take two in parenting an infant:

It'll be okay. Miss Bee is my daily confirmation that babies will eventually sleep, eat, and use the bathroom on my own. I spent far too much of Miss Bee's babyhood worrying about her milestones, whether she was eating too much or too little, and whether I shouldn't really be doing x or y. I consulted baby books and internet websites. I charted her growth. If she was asleep, I was concerned about when she would wake up. If she was awake, I was worrying about when she would go to sleep again so I could have some time to myself. All that worry was a massive waste of energy. I probably could have powered the international space station with the combined force of my fears.

Nowadays, I don't have time to worry about anything other than the prospect of major calamity. Taking care of multiple small children is a lot like running across a wobbly bridge suspended over a shark tank. You know you're going to fall in, no doubt about it, you just hope that when you do, the sharks don't eat you. In a way, embracing failure is a heck of a lot more relaxing than striving for perfection.

All babies are different. This seems very obvious, but it has come as a surprise to me just how different Cheeks is from her big sister. Unlike Bee, I can put her down for a nap when she is tired, yet still awake. I put her down in her crib, she makes a little face, and she goes to sleep. I don't need to wait for all out REMs. It has taken me the first three and a half months of her life to actually figure this out, but ever since I have, it has made nap time and bedtime so gloriously efficient. On the first go round, we spent the first year of Bee's life holding her until she fell asleep and then carrying her like a stick of dynamite to her crib. But that's just the way Bee was. It was the only way to get her to sleep. (And breaking her of this habit was not very fun.) It's amazing how at such a young age, my daughters can already be so different from each other.

My stomach will never be the same. Oh vanity! I am beginning to wonder when the "baby weight" can no longer be attributed to pregnancy and is just extra weight. (Not yet, please!) Before traveling back to Romania I saw my doctor and was bemoaning the fact that nothing fit because I still had ten plus pounds left to lose. She merrily informed me that losing weight after the second pregnancy takes forever and that it's just nearly impossible. Well thanks. So far my strategy has been to go running, come home, look at my marshmallow shaped stomach, and eat chocolate in despair. This is only marginally effective; I'll let you know if I come up with anything better.

Bedtime is sacrosanct. The one thing that we really got right with Bee and are continuing with Cheeks is the concept of bedtime. As in, little people must go to bed before 8 pm so that my husband and I can have some time to ourselves. This is impossible, of course, with a newborn but lately Cheeks has started going to bed around the same time as her sister, and we are hoping to continue that routine. Time alone. Two of my favorite words in the English language. It's not selfish to want to be away from your kids for a little while each day. In fact, I think it has made me a better parent as a result. (It is tragic that our routines will be thrown into complete disarray when we travel back to the US next week and all have jet lag. A three year old, a four month old, jet lag, and me--I have no words to describe how this fills me with dread!)

So here's to the first four months of parenting two daughters. I have been so lucky to have this time at home. In short, they have been the best four months of my life.

Hush my mouth

Tonight Bee was acting very saucy and decided to try out some insults on her mean Mommy who enforces all manner of horrible rules around the house.

Her frustration with me boiled over and she unleashed the following zinger, "Mommy, you are a RACCOON!" This was quickly followed by "Mommy, you are a sea WEED!"

We had a subsequent chat about using kind words. (Sometimes, though, it's so hard not to laugh.)

If

"If" is such a little word full of unpleasant possibilities. "If" casts a looming shadow over any conversation: If I weren't so tired I would be blogging more, vacuuming the house on a regular basis, reading more than 5 pages per night, writing letters, knitting, putting together crafts for Bee to do with her nanny.

If only I didn't have to work and could stay home for a just a while attending to my family and my home. If only it were possible to have it both ways--career and a fulfilling home life. Sometimes I think I have the balance right and it is possible to do both. Other times I feel pushed from one extreme to the other. Home eats work; work eats home. The result: girl on the couch in a stupor watching YouTube.

The thing about the word "if" is that is usually leads nowhere productive. "If" usually starts a whine "if only . . ." a complaint "if you hadn't. . ." or bribery "if you eat all your vegetables, then you can have dessert." It's a dead end word.

So instead of "if" I am going to choose "now." At least for right now. So right now, I am going to take the dog for a nice quiet evening walk and enjoy the warm summer night.

Walk with me

March has gone out like a lamb. The city is positively bursting with spring. Daffodils and forsythia are blooming madly and a rainbow of peonies are peeping out of the ground. The birds are singing, the teenagers are necking, and the weather is so mild, well, even I want to go play on the playground with Bee. (Which is something I generally don't care to do--all that yucky sand and misbehaving children.)

But yesterday, I was not noticing the pretty flowers or the little birdies or anything of the sort. David was working late, so I arrived home to face the task of shepherding Bee along on Maxwell's evening walk. Independently, Max and Bee are a joy to go out in public with. Together, they are Bonny and Clyde.

Grimly, I set to getting Bee dressed and finding Maxwell's leash and the keys and the doggy bags. We all made it down the stairs and out the front door when Maxwell promptly threw up all over the front porch. Better than in the house I guess.

Looking at the situation objectively, I knew that if we went all the way back upstairs to bring down a bucket of water to clean up the mess, well, we'd never make it out again. So we ducked and ran (fully intending to clean up upon our return). Maxwell was still vomiting a little, but quickly got whatever it was out of his system.

Bee seems to have given up riding in her stroller, for the most part, and I think that's a good thing. But gosh, a toddler's pace is maddening. She wants to go slow. Max wants to go fast. I feel like a Gumby toy, stretched in both directions. Bee is picking up leaves and little sticks. Max is looking for anything disgusting to eat.

On and on we walk. Two whole blocks down the street. We head around the corner when Bee spots a prize stick--big and sturdy, the perfect size for a two year old to carry as a baton. She's so excited, she's going to be leading an imaginary parade and she is just bursting with her find. Two seconds later, Max spots the stick as well. It's the perfect size for a Labrador to carry in his mouth! To chew and crunch into twenty tiny pieces. And he does just that. Oh the horror. Abby is screaming in anger at Max and trying to hit him. Max is dancing around in circles. I quickly grab another stick to placate Abby, but perhaps it was not a good idea to give my little Fury an additional weapon.

I separate the two. Max on one side, Bee on the other, angrily holding the replacement stick. She screams about the injustice of what happened for two more blocks. Max smugly prances on my other side. Score one for dogdom.

Fortunately, fortunately, at the end of this street is a phone booth. That might seem strange, but Bee loves all phone booths. She likes to stand inside and pretend to make a call. And as we continue walking, I can just see it. It's like a rusty beacon of hope. The Distraction. The holy grail of parenting a toddler. The phone booth trick works, and we are able to continue peacefully back home.

Additional excitement ensued later on, including washing the front porch where Max threw up (lovely how six people arrived home while I was doing that), but mostly it was just run of the mill toddler stuff. And you know, when I am at work all day, I am just waiting to go home to more of it. It's the only place I want to be.

Mothers and daughters

Some women are just meant to become mothers. Everyone has a friend about whom you think, "She would be such a great Mom." Your friend is capable, comfortable with a crying child, confident in her own self. Maybe she's married, maybe she's not. She might be a proud aunt or sister. She may be a teacher or caregiver. Whoever she is, whether she can actually bear children or not, you just know, she would be the best kind of Mom.

By the best kind of Mom I mean the kind who would make homemade birthday cakes slathered in frosting, who would always has a minute (but just a minute sweetie) to crouch down at her child's level and build a castle out of blocks, and would (at least appear to) have endless patience with fourth grade science projects. Not a TV mom, none of the extremes of June or Roseanne, but a real Mom who loves her children with her whole heart.

I know now that motherhood begins when the idea of having a baby is mere gossip on the playground and continues on, through labor and delivery and birthdays and college graduation, following an endless thread. However, it is the new mother, cradling her floppy-necked, wrinkly baby with a mixture of protectiveness and awe, who is the epitome of maternal grace.

The new mother still remembers how much labor and delivery hurt, hasn't slept more than three hours at a time for three weeks, and is hoping that she is doing it right. Even though it has been two years since Bee was born, I still remember those days with the utmost clarity. Maybe it is impossible to ever forget.

But it is now my sister-in-law's turn to be washing tiny onesies and socks, to be nursing and rocking though the night, and as she and her baby drift in and out of sleep, to imagine what shape her daughter's future will take.

Congratulations J. You are the best kind of mom.

Love,

M

Hold me tight

David and I were walking home from the metro tonight, through our neighborhood park. It is a daily chance for the two of us to steal some private conversation. We can talk about our day while not trying to feed Max, make dinner and keep Miss Bee from wreaking kitchen havoc as she is wont to do. 

So today we were strolling arm in arm through the park, past my favorite group of rose bushes, the ones with Creamsicle orange roses as big as saucers, when, 15 meters ahead, I spot Bee and her babysitter. The babysitter saw us and pointed Bee in our direction. She took off running towards us, chubby legs pounding the sidewalk path shouting "Mommy! Mommy!"  

All the ladies on the bench turned their heads to look.  I was waving and hurrying toward her. I squatted down and held my arms open. She raced into them and hugged me tight saying, "Mommy here!" 

I savored hugging my baby for a few seconds longer than necessary, my face buried in her shiny hair.  For a brief moment the people on the benches, the park, the whole world vanished and it was just me and my daughter.  

I know that in a few years there will be drama and slamming doors and pre-teen angst.  Even now, parenthood challenges me every day.  

Life with a toddler is often like trying to keep a spilled glass of milk from pouring off the table and onto the floor.  You're flailing about trying to contain imminent disaster. The milk is everywhere, it's dripping, you're mopping it up and exasperated.  And then, some days, you have life with a toddler and spilled glasses of milk.  

But the spills and the messes and the tears--they all disappear when your daughter runs toward you, calling your name, arms wide open.

They aren't little trees. . .

Bee likes broccoli.  

Who has ever heard of a toddler wanting to eat broccoli?  Her exact words tonight while eating it were, "Yum yum, body good." (As in the "Milk, it does a body good" slogan David taught her.)  

We were both aghast.  I didn't like broccoli as a child and still do not particularly care for it. 

I rewarded my adventurous eater with healthy chocolate goldfish crackers for dessert.

Thunderstruck

Last night, David and I were about to fall asleep when we were both scared witless by a monstrous crack of thunder.  Just one. I don't know why.  It had been raining on and off all day, this wasn't a thunderstorm's rumbling approach. One lonely thunderhead must have been floating by and encountered some extreme shift in the atmosphere.  It sounded as though a portion of the sky had exploded.  

"BOOM!"  David and I both lay motionless, shocked, silent.  Then I said, "Bee is totally going to wake up." David agreed. Sure enough, a few seconds later I heard her pitiful cry of, "Mommeeeeeee."  

I ran to her room and scooped a very shaken Bee into my arms.  She lay with me on the couch for some time, shocked awake. I whispered reassurances. I could feel her eyelashes fluttering on my face as she lay there silently, blinking into the darkness, trying to comprehend what had occurred.  She didn't want to go back to sleep, and I don't blame her. Finally David had to come in and help put her back to bed.  

How do you explain thunder to a small child? You can't.  You can just say, "It was a big noise, but it's gone now, honey."  You can try to protect your child from many scary realities, but thunderstorms are, unfortunately, unavoidable.  

All the things she said

I still cannot get over the fact that my little Bee talks.  She uses adjectives and action verbs and pronouns and she's not even two yet!  (I cannot help the exclamation point. I am a proud mama.)

After so many long months of baby gurgles, crying, and sober silence, my daughter has become a chatterbox.  Whereas previously I had to guess and infer, now she can let me know what's on her mind (sometimes a little too accurately). 

Bee has this annoying tendency to wake up about ten minutes before our alarm and start calling Mommeeee at increasing volume and pitch until I go rescue her from her crib.  Sure enough, at 5:20 this morning she was up and ready to go. I tossed her into my bed and said, "Wake up Daddy."  She climbed all over him saying, "Hey Daddy, hey.  Morning!"  

I crawled back into my side of the bed, clinging to the covers, hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. It was not to be. Bee scooted over to my side and asked me very seriously, "Mommy? Friday? Friday?"  "No Baby, it's Tuesday, Friday's not for a couple more days," I said.  

Her question really hit me in the gut. I realized that she's hoping for Friday because she knows its the start of the weekend and David and I are home.  A tidal wave of working-mommy guilt followed.  But more than the guilt I was amazed at the question.  That she knew to ask.  She has a dozen little questions or statements just like that every day. Right now, watching Bee acquire language is the coolest thing about being a parent.

Singing the bedtime blues

I really wanted to write about my new banana yellow dress that garnered me compliments today and had me bouncing around the office. 

Unfortunately, I can't write about my dress because my little banshee in the next bedroom has just finished screaming at me for the past 30 minutes.  I am emotionally exhausted.

I know why she is so angry.  This weekend when we were on our vacation we stayed in a hotel that didn't have cribs. It did, however, have a giant king sized bed that Bee slept in with us.  She is a big fan of sleeping next to her Mommy.   

Despite all my other attachment-parenting tendencies, we really never practiced co-sleeping. When Bee was a baby, we were staying with my parents and sleeping in a double bed that had no room for a fragile infant.  Additionally, I liked the privacy of having Bee sleeping in another room.  It was nice to have some privacy, a few hours of relief from parenting. 

Despite my best intentions, there were plenty of nights that I fell asleep while nursing her and she managed to spend most of the night in our bed.  It was a really tough habit to break.  By 18 months, we finally convinced Bee to sleep in her bed, alone: All. Night. Long.  (Those are three magical words that, for a time, I never thought I would say again.) 

I can't say that I dislike sleeping with my little Bean curled up against me, with her soft dreaming face and fat little arms.  There is something animalistic about sleeping with your child, fulfilling a primeval need for warmth and comfort.  

However, Bee has returned home to the hard cold realities of the single life in her crib.  I am lucky to have such a vocal and persistent child, one who is very clear about what she wants and does not want.  It's just the way she expresses these wants (screaming "Mommy" and heart-rending sobbing) that leaves a bit to be desired.   

We have been comforting her and trying to be positive these past few nights at home. I am exhausted.  Unfortunately, I think it'll take a few more nights for her to get back into her sleeping routine.  

Family circle

Our evenings follow the same rhythm. After dinner David or I give Bee her bath (David on weekends, me on weeknights), dress her in her pjs, comb hair, brush teeth and read bedtime stories.  

For the evening story, we all sit together on the small couch in Bee's room and she picks out the story that she wants to read with minimal interference from us. One exception, "Going on a Bear Hunt" or "HUNT!" as Bee calls it, is strictly a day time only story. It's too exhausting to read after 7 pm. Some of her evening favorites are, "Big Red Barn," "Goodnight Gorilla," and "The Very Lonely Firefly."  We have a whole bedtime board book repertoire.  

Max has recently taken to joining us at story time.  He curls his furry self at our feet and listens intently.  I guess an almost two-year-old's bed time story is right on par with the understanding of an almost five year old Labrador retriever.  Or maybe he's just bored.

Regardless of Max's feelings on the matter, I will read a book, David will read a book, then we say prayers and its goodnight. ("Shhhhhhh! Go to sleep Bee!")

A few of my favorite things. . .

for parents and parents-to-be.  In my tenure as a mother, which is such a short time in the grand scheme of things, yet feels like forever to me, a number of items we have purchased or received stand out.  

In chronological order, they are:

Infant:

Quinny stroller, bassinet, and Maxi Cosi carseat combo.  The best 600 dollars I have ever spent on anything. Really.

Even nursing mamas need a break.  A breast pump--I still remember David trying to say this casually, while we both looked at each other and inwardly shuddered--is indispensable.  The Medela Pump in Style allowed me to nurse Bee until she was almost 18 months old, while working full time.  Even better, it allowed me to take a few hours and do something by myself when Bee was still a little Bean.

Ergo baby carrier.  It's 1,000 times better than the Baby Bjorn.  I can still use it with my almost two year old.

Bumbo seat.  Silly name, yet indispensable when you want to put baby down for a few minutes. Baby is sitting upright and can watch you.  

Toddler:

Bee walked a lot of miles in the apartment with her Haba walker.  It is well made, sturdy, and is destined to be a family heirloom.

Finally, a strange piece of furniture that has completely changed our family.  The Learning Tower allows Bee to help at the kitchen counter while we prepare meals.  No more crying and pulling on our legs to be picked up. She's part of the action while in her "tower" and while she's entertained, we can actually cook.  

Daily time warp

Every morning when I step into the shower I tell myself that I am going to hurry.  I will not dawdle.  I will wash, condition, soap, and shave and have enough time afterward to actually comb my hair (as opposed to scraping it back into a messy ponytail/bun) and maybe even put on makeup.  

But somehow, lost in the rush of water, minute after minute after minute floats down the drain.  I start thinking about stupid things like, "How will I provide childcare for Bee when we have moved back to the United States and she is in elementary school?"  That is indeed a very important question--but one I need to consider TWO YEARS from now.  It's like this every morning.  I think it's because I am so rarely alone that when I finally am my brain kicks into overdrive.  

David knows only to bother me in the shower if something has gone seriously wrong--and we're talking flames or blood.  Occasionally Bee will burst into the bathroom, startling me out of my reverie, but for the most part, it's my 15 minutes of the day.  

When Bee was a baby, the shower was practically the only time I was away from her.  I adored my baby, but those first few weeks after she was born were difficult. I used to hand the baby to her father, and go in the bathroom and turn on the exhaust fan and water. The white noise drowned out her mewling cries and I could relax.  As a new mom with racing hormones and leaking breasts, my baby's cries were like a hot wire running through my body. If she was sleeping, I was waiting for her to wake up. The tension was constant, the shower my solace.

Nowadays, my baby is a little girl who sleeps through the night and wakes me with her sweet voice.  Despite this, I still become so lost in thought in the shower that I will wash my hair twice, forget to shave some part of my legs, or just find myself standing motionless under the shower head--dreaming and soaking and steaming.  

A million little pieces

I have just spent the better part of an hour organizing Bee's toys. It has become a nightly ritual: after Bee has had her bath, and story, and last drink of water, and requests for specific stuffed animals (she has been sleeping with an entire zoo recently) she quiets down and I set about putting everything to rights.  

We have a spacious apartment, but it is filled to capacity. Every drawer, cabinet, shelf, nook and cranny is filled with stuff.  Consequently, things don't just get messy around our apartment--left unchecked, they explode onto any available surface.  

I am constantly battling against the surge of Abigail's "kitchen center" play area into the rest of the living room.  She has enough wooden fruits and vegetables to feed an army of dolls, a herd of stuffed animals that I am certain breed in captivity, and so many books, well, I will make no excuses for her board book collection--there is no English language library for several hundred miles, so I had to bring my own with me.  

I love Bee's toys. She has the exalted status of being the first grandchild and great grandchild on both sides of our family.  She is spoiled rotten, but fortunately, most people buy her the kinds of presents that promote imagination and learning, as opposed to "made in China" whiz-bang electronic crap.  

Her birthday present from me arrived today. She doesn't turn two until the fall, but I wanted to get her this particular doll.  She is absolutely perfect, and I hid her away for the time being.  It's one more thing to add to the treasure trove of toys that dominates our apartment, but I just couldn't help myself.  

A few thoughts.

It is really heartwarming when your daughter points to the Stations of the Cross at church and says "Jesus."  It is less so when she shouts, "Goat!"

It is good to hide the banana bread you baked when a guest brings you their banana bread as a hostess gift.  "Banana bread?  What a perfect addition to our afternoon tea!"  

Almost two year olds should have play dates in a neutral territory.  

It is possible for a labrador retriever to look exasperated.  

And the froggy went "gung-gung". . . .

9:30 at night and "gung-gung went the little green frog one day, gung-gung went the little green frogggggyyyyy," is running though my head like a toy train around a track.  

Of all the songs from the "Wee Sing" album. . . .it's always the most annoying one. 

Sleep froggy, sleep!