| Thursday, March 09, 2006 |
| to lauren, on her 18-month birthday |
My dearest Lauren,
Today you are 18-months-old. This morning as I drove to work, some wispy leftover clouds from last night's much needed thunderstorms lingered about 50 feet off the ground on the east side of the highway. It was a beautiful sight, and when the sun broke through the clouds for just an instant, I knew it was going to be a good day.
Last night, Granny Grin called to say that she and Paw Paw took a road trip to SW Oklahoma to see some poochies she found on Petfinder. They adopted two dachshund mixes named Joshua and Wilson. Granny Grin got to name Wilson, as it is her dream to call out across the yard, "Wilson!" just as Tom Hanks did in the movie "Castaway." The "Wilson" in that movie, however, was a volleyball. I never said your Grandma wasn't an oddball. Of course, I never said your mother wasn't either. But I can tell you that your grandmother is a saint. Wilson was at the pound and scheduled to be put down yesterday if Granny Grin hadn't saved him.
This morning you woke up early, and I could hear you fussing with the toys in your crib. I looked over to your father sleeping on the couch with our weather dog, Farlito, and knew that I needed to help get you ready for daycare. You were so happy and full of smiles this morning, but your breath left much to be desired. I tried putting a 24 month outfit on you, but the pant legs were about four inches too long, and your tiny backside couldn't hold up the waistband. It looks like we'll be wearing 18 months clothing for awhile. If only your Buddha belly didn't pop out underneath all of your t-shirts making you look like a Britney Spears wannabe that eats too much pizza and pop rocks with the breath to prove it.
When I picked you up from our HDL's yesterday, I commented that it looked like we could start putting your hair in a ponytail, rather than the Pebbles up-do that you've been wearing for six months. You fought me the entire time, but I finally conquered my baby wildebeast, and succeeded in putting your hair in a two-inch long ponytail. I sighed a sadness that only a mother can feel when her baby is growing up too fast right before her eyes.
For the past few weeks, your father and I have marveled at what a big girl you have become when it's time for bed. When 8:30 pm rolls around, we mention the words, "Night, Night" and you repeat it as you toddle off to your room. We give you hugs and kisses and lay you down on your pillow. You give the pillow a big hug, and then we put your Pooh doll under your arm, and you attempt to pull the covers up over you. We say "Goodnight" and close the door, with nary a peep. This was not the case a few weeks ago. When it was time for bed, there was much screaming and clawing and eye-gouging. We attribute a lot of your newfound bedtime happiness with the addition of your big girl pillow, but I think we both know that we should attribute a lot more to the fact that you are becoming a big girl.
A month or two ago, you went through a phase where you would fall down on the ground in "tantrum mode" even when you weren't mad. In the following days, you added much screaming and inconsolability to the mix, and we had a full blown tantrum. Luckily, I whipped out my Mary P.'s Daycare Daze Philosophy of Childcare notes (Part 1, 2, and 3), and we worked through it. You still get upset when you're mad, but I haven't seen you flail on the ground in a long time.
Thank goodness, and thank you, Mary P.
Want to know my secret trick? I quietly whisper in her ear, "Lauren, sweetie, I know you're mad because mommy won't give you another box of goldfish/sharp scissors/another elephant ride/let you eat toilet paper, and it's okay to be mad, but I won't allow you to scream." It works...most of the time. If it doesn't, ice cream is always a good back-up.
Last night, your daddy had to come and tell me that you were a little mime. He said that you tried to mimic him as he wedged off his boots, standing on one leg like a flamingo, or is it an ostrich? Either way, you were one silly little copycat bird. The look on his face told me that he was so proud of you.
Your favorite things of late are Pringles chips, chocolate, goldfish, Baby Crack, reading books (especially the difficult tongue twister ones), wooden puzzles, taking off your shoes and socks, attempting to put them on again, playing with and/or observing older kids, emptying diaper bags, purses, and wallets, guzzling down a sippee cup full of milk in 9.8 seconds.
Bread is also a big favorite and so is chocolate pudding, and sometimes both.
To our dismay, Cheerios don't cut it anymore. You cast them aside like a broken toy and ask for more goldfish, Pringles, Lucky Charms marshmallows, or sun dried tomato and basil wheat thins. You know, "I'll have whatever Mommy is having." Oh, and you still hate vacuums with a vengeance. That's okay, I suppose. I really don't like housework either. And now that I have you to do our laundry...this is a better arrangement than I could have ever hoped for!
You are such a little babbler, but each day you try to sound out new words or letters. Last week, you broke into a rousing rendition of "a, buh, cee, duh, cee, a, puh, DEEE!" out of nowhere. At that moment, there was no prouder mother to be found on this Earth.
Among the litany of words in your vocabulary, I noted the following yesterday as we played Baby Crack on the computer: night night, more (verbal and with sign language), milk, apple, dog, tiger, ball, duck, eggs, and even a terribly butchered "I love you."
I uh boo, too, darling. |
| posted by ieatcrayonz @ 3/09/2006 |
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