Dear Gwen: Month Thirty-Four

Dear Gwen,

Today you turn thirty-four months old.

You astound me every day with the things you say and, especially, the way you say them. Recently, the word "fubar" has entered your vocabulary, and I can't even describe the shock when I first heard you say it. "Where did she learn that from?" I asked your dad, who was just as clueless as I was. I heard you use it a few more times, but never with enough context to make it comprehensible. Then, last weekend, we were watching Curious George, one of your favourite movies. "Give me a hug, you little furball!" The Man in the Yellow Hat (aka Ted) enthused to his monkey friend, and you immediately echoed, "Give me a hug, you little fubar!" Ahhhh. Enlightenment! Furball, when translated into your particular accent, becomes fubar. This was confirmed when we looked after your grandparents' dog, Fritz, for a couple of days: you repeatedly referred to him as a "little fubar".

Speaking of Fritz, boy, you sure loved having him around. I think it's because you finally had someone in the household you outranked. You talked to him nonstop, and wore him out pretty darn well. Typical monologue: "Fritz! Fritzy. Fritz. Come! Come! Come come come come come! Fritz, come! Here! Right! Now! Fritz, you can do it! You can do it! You can do it! You can do it! Come on, Fritz! Come! Come! Come! Come here! Fritz! Come! Come on, Fritz!" (Repeat for approximately seven billion hours, or until bedtime, whichever is later.)

You are starting to get very interested in imaginative play, and will make your animals or dolls talk to each other. Strangely, their conversations always centre around one thing: the need for a tissue. It usually goes something like this:

Horse: Hello! I'm a horse!
Cow (in slightly different voice): And I'm a cow!
Horse: How are you today?
Cow: I'm fine! But I need a tissue! Will you get one for me?
Horse: Sure! (Goes and gets a tissue.)
Cow: (makes nose-blowing noises) Thank you!
Horse: You're welcome! Now I need a tissue! Will you get one for me?
Cow: Sure! (Goes and gets a tissue.)
Horse: (makes nose-blowing noises) Ahh, much better!

I have heard countless variations on this script from dozens of characters; the dialogue repeats endlessly, with a great many tissues being harmed in the process. Most curiously, I have never heard you, Gwen, in your own voice and speaking for your self, ask for a tissue or show any interest in one when it is offered. Your brain is a fascinating place.It's not only your animals that talk to each other. Recently, you have begun having dialogues with your own extremities as well. Your hands talk to each other in the manner of sock puppets, even when they are not adorned with an actual sock; your feet talk to each other, too, and you scrunch and unscrunch your toes to imply a moving mouth. After a meal, for example, as I fetch a wet cloth to clean you up, your right hand tells me, "Mama! I need to be cleaned!" and your left hand pipes up, "I need to be cleaned, too!"
Recently we went to visit your Grannie Maureen and Grandpa Ron in Powell River for a weekend, just you and I. We had a great time: it was a very relaxing and low-key trip, with no schedules, no big family gatherings, no obligatory commitments. You really enjoyed hanging out with your grandparents, and showing off all your skills to them. The high point of the trip, I think, was when Great Grandpa came to visit and we all had dinner together. He got such a kick out of you! At dinner, someone made Grandpa Ron laugh and he slapped the table with his hand. You were fascinated by the noise this made and tried to duplicate it yourself - but since your hand is a lot smaller than Grandpa's, it didn't quite work, so you asked Grandpa to do it again. He told you he would do it again if you made him laugh, so you decided to tell a knock-knock joke. Weirdly enough, you used to tell this joke pretty effectively, but it has morphed into something else in recent months.

Gwen: Knock-knock!
Grandpa: Who's there?
Gwen: Banana!
Grandpa: Banana who?
Gwen: I didn't say CAKE!

The last word is always something different, usually some random item that your eyes fall on as you tell the joke, and the phrase is delivered in the same coy, sing-song voice every time. You obviously find it hilarious, and that makes your audience find it hilarious, just not for the reason you think.One of your current fascinations is with space, and planets. Your Grandpa Keith recently built you a rocketship out of a dishwasher box, and Grandma Karen decorated it with her usual flair. I've got to admit, I wish I was small enough to fit inside - it's a really cool rocketship! They even bought you a space suit to wear, though you're not too interested in that yet. You love to "blast off" into space, and talk a lot about the planets and their names and features. (You learned them from a song on Blue's Clues.) On the rare moments when you are out at night - for example, when we come home from a dinner at your grandparents' house - you are so excited to see the moon and stars. Your dad is pretty happy that you're interested in something so scientific - he calls you a junior astronomer.I can't believe that you're almost three years old. You seem really big to me these days - so competent, and independent, and such a full person. Contrary to the stereotype, I never found your babyhood all that intoxicating - I think I love you so much more, now, than I did then (and I loved you a LOT back then, too!). It's just so cool to get to know you as yourself, a person I can relate to and interact with and build a relationship with. I really do feel so incredibly lucky to be your Mama. And in the past few weeks, you've started telling me you love me too - the feeling I get when I hear you say that, well, it never gets old.

Love,
Mama

Wordless Wednesday: Swimming Lessons

I have a kid

On Sunday, our local library celebrated Family Literacy Day with all kinds of fun events. There were puppet shows, live music, a magician, a craft table, etc. It was like a con for kids! There was even SWAG.


So I took Gwen out to the festivities and watched her brain explode at the concept of there being live, amplified music in the lobby of the building where we usually remind her to use her quiet voice. We took in two shows, the puppet show and the magic show. There were chairs in the rooms where these shows took place, but most of the kids elected (and were encouraged) to sit on the floor directly in front of the performers. Though Gwen sat on my lap for the puppet show, she happily joined the crowd of kids watching Zigster the Trickster from as close a vantage point as they could possibly get.


I really enjoyed Zigster's patter and his tricks. He'd obviously crafted this particular show to appeal to kids, at their humour and comprehension level, but it was also great fun for the parents in attendance. But even as I watched the show, my awareness was also on Gwen. Gwen was both physically and mentally away from me, relating to the kids and the magician without any mediation from me. It's hard to describe how special that felt.


Then, Zigster singled Gwen out and asked her to come help with one of the tricks. Time sort of slowed down for me for a moment. Would she respond? Would she even recognize that he was talking to her? Would she get shy, or lose focus? She stood up and said "Sure!" and marched over to behind his magician's chest and sat down beside him. I was absolutely tickled. Immediately after sitting down, she started looking around for me; fortunately, I was in the front row and gave her a little wave. "See, your mom's right there, she's protective, I can tell," Zigster said. He pulled out a deck of cards and asked her to pick one. Gwen, who has likely never seen a deck of cards in her life, stared blankly as he fanned through them a couple of times, then started looking around at all the other magic accoutrements. Zigster made her unco-operativeness a point of humour, which is probably exactly what he intended to do anyway. "Do you have, like, any interest at all in what I'm doing here?" he asked. "Yes!" replied Gwen, and of course the audience burst into laughter. "So, could you pick a card, like, today? How about that one? That one right there looks good." He wiggles one card out of the deck and Gwen takes it. "Show it to the audience. Show it to them, but not to me. Don't let me know that it's the ten of hearts, now. Just show it to them." Gwen holds the card obediently and somewhat blankly, with no idea what she is supposed to be doing. Then he asks her to put it back in the deck, which she does, and he shuffles the cards all together, only to produce the same card MAGICALLY a moment later. "Is this your card?" "YES!" shouts Gwen, and she probably had no idea what he was asking her but she was just so darn happy to be there. The girl knows her cues, she is born for show business.


Through the whole trick, I was giggling madly and bursting with pride and oh so very aware that I have a kid. Not a baby, not even a toddler anymore. She's a kid. If she can interact with a stranger in a somewhat meaningful and appropriate way, without any other mediation, she's a kid. If she can sit apart from me and negotiate personal space with other children, she's a kid. She has a lot to learn yet about the subtle give-and-take of social skills, but she's starting to take a step away from me and figure that stuff out for herself. She's a kid. Ready or not, here she comes.

Unimagined

In the fall of 2008, when Gwen was about six months old, I told Chris that I didn't want to go back to work full-time. "I want to work part-time," I said, "and be home with Gwen the rest of the time." And Chris vetoed it, saying we couldn't afford it. We couldn't afford to live on his salary plus half mine. And so in April 2009 I went back to work full-time, and that was the hardest adjustment I ever had to make, from stay-at-home mom to working mom. And I spent nearly a year being incredibly unhappy in my very volatile job, and then I found a job with a different department, and since then I've been pretty darn happy at work.

And then Chris lost his job.

And then we had to scale back Gwen's daycare* commitment because we can't afford to pay for 3-4 days a week of daycare while Chris is at home.

And soon he will be receiving EI which will be somewhere around half of his previous salary.

So here we are, living on my salary and half of his, while he is at home part-time with our child. Something that apparently, we could not afford to do.

I know he can't understand why, or empathize with me at all, but I'm jealous.

Not to mention completely baffled by how we ended up in this unimagined situation. I never pictured myself as the breadwinner. I'm not career-driven: I love what I do, but I don't live for it. I'm not continually seeking ways to fulfil my ambitions. Having a child didn't derail my career goals. Hell, I don't even know if I have career goals, other than to continue being employed until I can afford to retire.

And meanwhile he's jealous of me, because at least I have a job to go to. At least I have some way to define myself.

I feel like I'm in a weird mirror-image world. It's disorienting. I don't think this is to do with my preconceived gender roles so much as the utter lack of planning and choice that went into our current situation. Meaning, if we had consciously chosen to live this way then I would probably feel less disoriented. But in reality our situation has landed on us and we are just trying to adjust to it the best we can. I guess when you find yourself in an unforseen situation, you end up doing unimagined things.

*Thank God we have the flexibility to do this. If we were in a daycare centre, as I originally planned, rather than a home-based daycare, this wouldn't even be an option: we would just lose our spot.

Dear Gwen: Month Thirty-Three

Dear Gwen:

Today, you are thirty-three months old and you are without a doubt the most interesting child imaginable. Here are some things you have said and done lately that make me feel astounded to have you as a daughter:

(As I arrive home from work): Hey Mama! It's awesome to see you. I have something for you. (Puts a crown on my head) Now you're Princess Mama.

(After building a snowman): Hi Snowman! Happy Holidays to you. How are you today? (Shakes branch-hand.) I'm happy to meet you.

(As I arrive home from yoga): Hey, Mama's here! Hi, Mama! Do you want to come and have dinner with us? Go get your bib, then! It's all ready!

I think you have been a much more enjoyable person this past month, Gwen. You are still whiny and demanding at times, but this miraculous thing happened one day and the heavens opened up and filled your heart with knowledge and the following conversation took place:

Gwen: I WANT MY MILK!
Mama: What are you missing?
Gwen: My manners.

Mama (awed): Yes ... do you want to try again?

Gwen: Mama, can I have my milk please?

Mama: OH YES YOU CAN!

So now some variation of that conversation takes place a thousand times a day, but it is still worlds and worlds better than the previous demands, which were repeated often and never politely. Now when you forget your manners (nearly always), at least we know what to say to prompt you to get it right. This is immensely gratifying, and along with your new transition from "Hey" to "Excuse me", almost has you sounding like a human being. It's a real treat to see these little habits sinking in.

The one verbal habit we haven't figured out how to address yet is the whiny, "I don't WAAAANNNNNT to," or its twin, "But I WAAAANNNNNT to." In your world, this stands as a valid response to any command we issue or any demand we decline to meet. Logic is irrelevant in the face of these discussions, to wit: "I'm sorry, Gwen, we don't have any bananas," is met with "But I WAAAANNNNNT one." Repeated explanations of the utter lack of bananas only cause you to repeat your point with increasing volume and decreasing emotional stability. Or, if I say "Listen to Mama, please," you respond, "But I don't WAAAANNNNNT to." Barring long existential discussions about how we all must do things we don't want to do, I'm not sure how to deal with this problem yet.

You had a great Christmas this year, Gwen. On Christmas Eve, you dressed as an angel and took part in our church's pageant. At one point, the kindly narrator told about the shepherds hearing heavenly music from the angel choir. And then you burst into song. "Laaa, laa laaa laaaa la laa," you sang sweetly (and mostly tunelessly) from your vantage point near baby Jesus. It. Was. AWESOME. On Christmas morning, unlike every other kid in the world, you didn't really want to go downstairs to see what Santa had left. Instead of feeling excited, you felt quite shy and timid, and it took a lot of coaxing to get you to come down. You told us you would rather just have a time-out on the stairs. It just goes to show that you can still surprise me, Gwen.

Shortly after Christmas, we spent a harrowing but ultimately successful four days potty-training you. I predicted that you would love the independence brought by this step, and I was right. Nowadays when you have to go potty, you jump up from whatever you are doing and say, "I have to go potty!" Then when I jump up to come with you, you say, "NO, Mama, I do it all by myself! You go away!" And then, most maddening of all, you won't proceed on your path to the potty UNTIL I SIT BACK ON THE COUCH and make it clear that I have no intention to follow you. Meanwhile, convinced that your bladder is about to burst, I'm shouting, "RUN, Gwen! Run to the potty! GO!" But go you shall not until you are sure you can go alone.

On the other hand, it seems that sometimes you do want company while you're doing your business. Last week, you came out of your room in the morning and came into our bed for a brief snuggle before deciding, as is typical for you, that snuggling is boring. You then went into the bathroom, grabbed your potty, and brought it into our room before sitting down and ... well, doing what one does when on a potty. Right next to our bed. I ... I just can't explain that. It got us out of bed in a hurry, though.

Although you still love to watch Blue's Clues, you have now added Backyardigans to your TV-on-DVD repertoire. Your dad and I are really grateful to have something new to watch, and we love the music and the imaginary play modelled by this show. You have picked up a lot of sayings from the characters, like "Oh, for goodness' sake," and "Here goes nothing!" One thing I'm not a fan of in the show is that at the end of every episode, the characters all discuss going to someone's house for a snack. And you, like every other TV viewer out there, think that sounds like a good idea so you ask for a snack too. Regardless of the fact that you may have finished breakfast 30 seconds earlier, or that dinner is only a few minutes away, or that YOU ARE ACTUALLY CURRENTLY EATING WHILE YOU'RE WATCHING THE SHOW. No, you will insist, using the same phrases that the characters use, that you are hungry and need a snack. And oh, how hard done by you are when we do not agree!

We recently started your third round of swimming lessons - Sea Turtles. You are really enjoying your time at the pool and it's fascinating to me to see how competent you are becoming. I haven't actually taken you swimming since you finished your last round of lessons over a year ago, so you are a totally different kid now from who you were then. You are pretty fearless, which is no surprise, and it doesn't faze you too much when you get a mouthful of water. At our last lesson I had the awesome experience of watching you finally "get" how to blow bubbles. I know your Dad and I have been modelling this to you for years, in the pool or at the lake or in the bathtub, and it FINALLY clicked! It was so neat to watch your eyes light up as you blew those bubbles - you were so proud. I'm really glad that you are happy and confident in the water, and I PROMISE to take you to the pool more often.

Well, that's it for this month, Gwen. As always, I love you a million billion kajillion (and two) and look forward to what the next month will bring.

Love,

Mama