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The Green Bottle
As the mother of a pair of little girls who are now officially two, I am enjoying certain new freedoms. Such as the freedom to dance in front of mirrors like I’m a complete idiot. It’s called the Silly Willy Nilly Dance and the girls and I are very good at it. In fact, it might be the only dance I’ve ever really mastered. So that’s one freedom I’m taking complete advantage of. The other one I’m really quite happy about is the freedom of the bottle. The milk bottle, that is.
Why? What were you thinking?
Anyway, now that Zoe’s two, the girls can officially switch to “low-fat dairy.” In other words, whatever the family normally drinks. Before the age of two, the brain is so rapidly that a high fat diet is essential for connecting all the bits and bobs in our heads. After age two, though, a child should adopt the same healthy life-style recommended for the rest of us.
Now, I’m going to stop here and say that I’m actually quite terrified by this recommendation. Because frankly, if the girls’ neural pathways are finished myelinating, and from here on out we are going to see a rapid slow down in cognitive development, then, to be honest, my children will not be going to Harvard. However, I will remain hopeful that we’ve just been laying the foundation and the sum total of their abilities will not involve eating ketchup by the fistful and counting to 12. (Skipping 3, 7, 9 and 10, of course). Anyway. Back to my point.
Which is that I can now stop buying that artery-clogging full-fat stuff and allow our family to bond over a steaming mug of sensible low-fat cocoa. Except that I drink skim. Don’t sneer your nose at me. I grew up in California. It’s the law out there.
Not to say that I be pushing the girls too fast on their road from creamy deliciousness to blue-tinged water. We’re going slowly. I swapped out the blue lids for the green ones. And the girls seem okay with it. Zoe calls it her “Green Milk.” Which is as far as we’ll go for now.
And I’ll enjoy the freedom of knowing that worst thing I’ve done if I accidentally pour my red capped bottle on their cereal is just confuse them. After all, they’re used to seeing actual milk on their Cheerios. Not that stuff their mother drinks.
Happy Birthday Zoe!
This weekend Zoe celebrated her 2nd birthday, complete with a homemade chocolate cake decorated with a giant red googly-eyed creature intended to look like Elmo. And that makes it official. I’m no longer in control. I am now the mother of two-count ‘em- two 2 year-olds. And while I may be older, I’m most definitely not the one in charge. In between being told not to sing along with them (Quiet Mommy Stop!) and that I’m not allowed to sit on the left end of the sofa (Leave it Mommy, Leave it!), they continue to touch, explore, break, snap, sneak, and bite everything. And each other. And that leads me to my current problem: “The Naughty Spot.”
Might just as well have named it “The Most Awesome Place Ever.” Because that’s what Zoe and Eva think of my attempts at discipline.
I blame Supernanny. She said we were supposed to remove them from the scene and put them in a designated place for a time out. 2 minutes for 2 year olds. Okay, sounds simple. I even bought a new timer and put it on the fridge, right above the corner in the kitchen that is away from the TV and their toys. And when the timer goes off, you get down at their level, explain why they were in the naughty spot, demand an apology and give a hug and a kiss and make up.
Foolproof, right? Harumph.
Eva loves nothing better than 2 minutes by herself without Zoe bothering her. The other day she even found a Brussel sprout on the floor and was very content to peel back layer and layer until the timer went off.
And Zoe has actually taken to biting me and then screaming, “Corner!” and running happily into the kitchen. Apparently she enjoys the ritual of the hug and kiss at the end.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
So I’ve switched television gurus. Forget Nanny Jo. I’m back to Dr. Phil. He said to find my child’s “currency,” whether that is a certain toy, TV, money or blueberries.
I’m still trying to figure out what works best. With Eva it seems to be threatening to take away either her Wubbie or the 2 pence coin that she carries around. And Zoe has developed an unusual affection for a plastic soup ladle that now sleeps in her bed, so I’ve got that on my list.
I’ll let you know how it goes, figuring out what they value the most at that moment.
In between bouts of telling at them to “get out of the corner,” that is.
Zoe’s Headache
Despite the fact that both of my children have gone flying down our staircase at some point in the last 6 months, most of you should realize that I’m a bit of a nut job when it comes to safety. I’ve done my best to make our home as safe as possible, even to the point of having a new shelf built at the very top of our downstairs closet so I could move all the cleaning products out of even my own reach. And then you should have seen my face last week when I caught one of the girls with a whole grape. Let’s just say my husband won’t be doing that again any time soon.
However, I have recently been informed by my almost 2-year old that it is time for me to loosen up. And she told me in no uncertain terms. And at 3 o’clock in the morning.
Background: Babies should never sleep with blankets or pillows or toys or bumpers or anything else that could possibly cause suffocation in the night. I think this is a good rule. A suffocated baby is a bad idea. So I followed it. Religiously.
That said, Eva is 2 and Zoe is turning 2 in a couple weeks. And over the last year I have very gradually started to give in to stuffed animals making their way into the cribs, first tiny little bunnies and now 18 inch Big Birds. In fact, at last count I believe there were 2 rabbits, one Cookie Monster, one Big Bird, 2 pink snakes, 2 Gymboree Gymbos, 4 books, 2 sippy cups of water, and two small blankets in their beds, collectively.
But do you see what was missing? Honestly it didn’t even dawn on me. Until Tuesday night.
She started at 2:30 in the morning. I went trudging down 2 flights of stairs in response to the “Mommy, Mommy!” coming across the monitor. Binky back in mouth, blankie tucked under her arm, back upstairs I went. Repeat the scene 15 minutes later. Now if you are counting you realize that is already 8 flights of stairs I’ve climbed. Normally she sleeps through the night. Or else I would permanently live downstairs.
So on the 3rd call, I enacted the “three strikes” rule and took my pillow with me. Because I’d be spending the rest of the night in the guest room, which sits next to the girls but lacks the same high quality head support I keep in my own bed.
I went into their room and tried to lie Zoe back down. She began sobbing violently and pointed. “I need pillow.”
“What?” I said, “You need my pillow?”
“I…sob…need…sob…pillow,” she wailed.
I gave her my pillow. She lay down and went promptly to sleep. I saw her again at 7:15.
And I now understand. Babies get no pillows. Two year-olds need them. Duh.
Tumble, Slide, Screech, Splat
Well, you knew it was going to happen, didn’t you? Zoe was going to have to have her turn on the staircase, wasn’t she? It’s not that we are cavalier about watching them or that we haven’t maximized safety in our home. It’s just that child-proofing is more of a delay tactic than safety insurance. And so this week, as I was trying to help Eva go potty, meaning both girls were with me in the bathroom (which does not have any barriers between it and the stairs) I realized one child was missing. It was the thump-thump-thump-squeal that told me where Zoe had gone.
As I rounded the corner between the bathroom and the staircase I saw the poor kid upside down sliding backwards down our wooden staircase, heading straight for the stone flooring. The same staircase that Eva took a flying leap down last summer. Only this time, instead of forcefully bouncing down the stairs, in a scene that I never want to see again in my life, I saw Zoe just staring up wide-eyed, completely confused as to what was happening. And not at all pleased with the situation.
I started yelling, “Stop moving! Stop moving!” In her sad little toddler attempt to halt her slide down 15 steps, she was actually making things worse, banging her little head against the wood and the wall. I finally got to her as she approached step #12, grabbing first one ankle, then an arm.
She just looked at me in shock. I picked her up and started searching for blood or other obvious injuries and she began crying, “Okay, Okay.” Clearly she was okay. No loss of consciousness, moving all limbs, nothing bleeding, nothing tender to touch with the exception of a big red mark down the middle of her back where she had slid against the wood.
Honestly I don’t think my heart can survive one more of these.
After I got both of us calmed down we had a little chat. “Now this is why Mommy always says ‘be careful’ on the stairs. And why we don’t jump or play on them. We go down on our bottoms, right?” I was hoping she would understand and start giving the staircases a little more of the respect they deserve.
I don’t think the message came across exactly right though. Because for the last two days she has continued to try and hop down the stairs like a maniacal bunny while holding my hand.
And every time I mention going to the potty, she reminds me that, “Zoe fell down stair,” and shows me the bruise on her back. Clearly any future attempts to go tinkle in the potty will result in bodily harm, goes the logic of an almost 2 year-old. Hmmm. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Happy Holidays!
Just a quick note to wish all of you a very happy and healthy holiday season. I had to do some research on holiday injuries and other horrors and thought I’d share a few tips with you.
Firstly, poinsettias aren’t as poisonous as it’s rumored. A 50lb child would have to eat about 500 leaves to reach a toxic level. The most dangerous poison in your home at the holidays is alcohol, so just do me a favor and pick up all the cups after the party tonight.
As for raw cookie dough, the chance of getting salmonella poisoning from raw eggs is probably less than than of getting it from your pet turtle.
And for a bit of cocktail conversation, here you go: nutmeg can actually cause vomiting, diarrhea and confusion when consumed in large quantities.
Which just goes to show, it’s all about moderation.
Happy Holidays!
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"WHAT I LIKED: This book is written in a funny, down to earth way that doesn't make you feel like an idiot. I really would have appreciated something like this when my kids were really little and I freaked out over everything they put in their mouths. It has a scenario/question and answer format, with clear answers on when not to panic and when to call 911."
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