Twenty-Six Months

This month we had our very first parent-teacher conference.  

(I couldn't help but giggle as I typed that sentence.  It sounds way too official given the fact that we sat at a teeny-tine table, on teeny-tiny brightly-colored plastic chairs, in a teeny-tiny room filled to the brim with legos, dolls, matchbox cars, and such, and we discussed topics like singing the alphabet, dirty diapers, potty training, and snack time.)

At any rate, Punky's teachers officially confirmed what we had suspected all along: she is very intellectually advanced for her age.  She is the youngest in her group (seven kids) but she is the most advanced.  Her skill set is closer to the four-year-old group than her own.  When they do their "centers" (the time each day they spend directly teaching content like colors, letters, numbers, shapes, opposites, and such) the teacher makes Punky sit along side of her so she doesn't see the information at the same time as the other kids in the group...because if she does, she answers right away without giving any of the other kids a chance.  The teacher lets Punky answer if all the other kids get it wrong.

On one hand, that makes me extremely proud...yet on the other, it's sad.  She is stuck in this group for at least a year.  She already knows all the content stuff, and then some.  For example, they don't even teach this age group the lowercase letters at all, and Punky can already identify most of them.  They don't cover lowercase until the pre-k group for kindergarten prep.  That is years away for Punky. 

She is elevated in her communication ability as well.  At one point during the day, all of the age groups are mixed together for free play and additional opportunities for interaction.  The teacher said that Punky normally chooses to play with the older kids; she feels it's because her ability to communicate is more in line with that age group than her own. 

I have this vision of her asking the other two-year-olds, "What does duet mean?" and the blank stares she would get in return.  When she hears a word she doesn't recognize, she wants to know what it means.  And once we tell her, she doesn't forget it.  She soaks up vocabulary like a wet sponge, and then quizzes us to make sure we don't forget the definitions either.

Despite my fears, thus far Punky's been almost angelic in the behavior category.  There has been no hitting, no kicking, no tantrums, and no extreme defiance of any kind.  No behavior bad enough to qualify for two minutes in the time-out chair...yet.  She is doing better with the transitions from one activity to the next, but still gets upset sometimes when she is really enjoying what she's doing.  Music class is a prime example; she hates when it's over.

The teachers went through her written evaluation with us line by line.  She's right where she should be or advanced in all of the categories...except one.  The thing to work on at home?  Getting undressed by herself.  She makes no attempt to take her clothes off at school and apparently that's a necessary fine motor skill for kids her age.  I suppose we need to work on getting her proficient in stripping. 

I'm sure I'll be so proud of her fine motor skill development when she completely undresses herself in the frozen food section of the grocery store when I turn my back for half a second to grab a box of Brussels sprouts.

Snow Baby

We went home for the weekend.  We hadn't been there since Christmas and I had today off for President's Day so it was the perfect opportunity.  Plus, I needed to put money down on our Disney trip which was booked through a local agent there, I needed to drop my taxes off at CPA's office, and I wanted to get my car in for service at the dealership where I bought it.  I managed to accomplish two out of three; we had to cancel the car appointment this morning due to yet another round of extremely shitty weather.

In some respects, it was a rough weekend.  Many things didn't go exactly according to plan.  My nephew wasn't feeling well so Punky wasn't able to play with him the way they usually play: running, jumping, screaming, and giggling.  He spent most of the weekend on the couch with Punky jumping around in front of him.  She was a bit disappointed, I think.  She loves her cousin and he usually makes her giggle like there's no tomorrow.  Hopefully they will both be healthy next time so they can resume their usual antics.  We had planned to take the kids roller skating for the first time on Sunday, but those plans fell through for obvious reasons. 

I enjoyed seeing my niece; she is getting so big and I'm missing out living so far away.  She's nine months old already and an absolute cutie-pie.  My sister was living across the country when my nephew was born but she moved back home when he was almost ten months old.  I saw him almost every day until I moved away a month after he turned two, but it gave us the opportunity to get close.  It makes me sad knowing I won't have the same opportunity with my niece.  I'm sure she and Punky will be the best of friends though.  After all, they are only seventeen months apart and, with the current age requirements for admittance, they will only be one grade apart in school.

My parents watched all three kids Sunday night so we could go out to dinner with my sister for my birthday.  We went to a Japanese restaurant...a first for me.  Based on the math in my head, a Japanese restaurant equals sushi, which equals raw fish, which equals I'd rather get poked in the eye with a fork than even look at the stuff, but I finally caved and took a chance.  A new restaurant there has been creating quite a buzz and I was curious.  And I was far from disappointed.

We sat at the hibachi and watched our chef cook our meals in front of us.  He threw knives around, cracked jokes, tossed food at us, and squirted sake in our mouths every chance he had.  Apparently their motto is "more sake...more happy."  And I have to say, I left there pretty damn happy.  Between the sake and the lone beer my sister guilted me into having for my birthday, I was quite giggly.  I am such a light-weight with alcohol; I have no tolerance whatsoever.

I wish I could say the same for everyone in our party.  I don't want to get into it now, but our delicious meal ended on a bit of a sour note...which subsequently triggered a full family crisis.  It's complicated.  It's sad.  It's life, I suppose.  My only hope is that everyone emerges stronger, happier, and healthier when the ordeal is done.  Enough said for now.

So, we waited for the roads to clear a bit before heading back home today.  The long drive wasn't as bad as I expected given all the ice and snow mother nature sent our way.  However, once we arrived safely in our driveway, it was clear that our area drew the short end of the stick this storm.  My all wheel drive Milan had no trouble making it in, but when I opened the car door snow actually fell inside.  My guess is we got at least fourteen inches.  Punky's dad stomped through it to get to the porch and then shoveled his way back to the car so Punky and I could get out without getting soaked.

Once we got everything unloaded and unpacked, we had the perfect opportunity to get Punky outside to play in the snow...for the first time.  I mean, she's messed around a bit on the way to and from the car, but we never had the chance to dress her up like an Eskimo and let her roll around in it.  Either we didn't have enough snow, or we had sub-zero wind chills, or she was already sick.  Today we finally had lots of snow, relatively mild temperatures, and a healthy child...post her latest two-week round of antibiotics.

I think it took longer to dress her than she actually spent outside, but she loved it.  She was a bit hesitant when her dad picked her up and put her on top of a nice mound of snow.  She wasn't quite sure what to do but she quickly caught on to jumping in it, rolling around in it, throwing it, and eating it.  Yeah, she just had to taste it.  Typical kid.  I'm sure I'll be spending more time outside than I care to over the next few weeks, freezing my ass off no doubt.  If I ever meet that little groundhog, I'll choke him.  He got my hopes up with his "early spring" bullshit.  Stupid little rodent.

The Thinker

Punky's dad was third shift this past week so she slept in my bed every night...the norm for this week each month. 

I am a sound sleeper, I mean dead-to-the-world sound, and I rarely hear Punky if she wakes up at night...unless she screams her head off, of course.  She has a bad habit of kicking the blankets off, so then she gets cold and winds up shivering in a ball in the corner of her crib.  She'll whimper and whine but she rarely cries and I never hear a bit of it.  Thankfully her dad is a much lighter sleeper. 

When he's at work all night, my mind is much more at ease if she's with me.  I wake up a hundred times due to her fidgeting, kicking, and spinning around on the bed, but at least I keep her warm and actually hear her if there's a problem.

I really look forward to those weeks; they have become special treats for the both of us.  We snuggle up under the cozy blankets and she asks me to tell her a story.  Then another.  And another.  I make up all sorts of things to amuse her...and she is delighted as long as the story has Elmo in it.

Now that she's getting older, we actually chat a bit before going to sleep.  She is learning the art of conversation.  She strings sentences together now.  She changes topics when she's bored.  And she has recently taken to asking me questions...quizzing me the way I have her for months.

For example, she asks me what color something is and then giggles her hiney off when I get it wrong.  At first she wouldn't correct me, she would just stare at me with a confused look on her face and then move on to something else.  Now she has no problem smugly telling me the right answer and flashing me an "I'm smarter than Mommy" smile.  It's too cute.

She quizzes me on numbers and counting, the alphabet and letter sounds, the noises animals make, and even what some words mean.  She asks where her aunt lives, what color Grammy's eyes are, what Pappy's name is, what time it is, and how I'm feeling.  She ponders where Daddy is, how old her cousin is, what my favorite color is, and who is on the penny.  Believe me, I could go on and on...

It's fun to be dramatic with her and pretend I'm absolutely clueless.  Of course, I have to answer some of them correctly... I mean, I can't let her think her mommy is a total dunce.  I get some right, I get some wrong, sometimes I pretend to think really hard, sometimes I answer quickly, but more often then not I turn it around and toss the question back to her.

Just before we drifted off to sleep last night, she asked me what time it was.

"It's almost eleven, sweetie. Time for you to stop yapping and get some sleep."  I was fighting to stay awake; I couldn't keep my eyes open.

"But Mommy, what my name is?" she asked in a desperate attempt to keep the conversation going and delay our much needed rest.

"I don't know, honey.  What is your name?" I mumbled and tossed it back at her.  I was so exhausted; I'm not sure I even knew my own name at that point.

"Hmmm..." she said, complete with the finger to her lips to indicate she was deep in thought.  "I'm thinking about it..." she muttered.

A few seconds later, she shouted her name...first, middle, and last.

"See? You know who you are!" I responded with all the energy and excitement I could muster at that hour.

"Yes, I do!" she chirped.  "Mommy?"

"What, sweetie?"

"I'm all done thinking now."

"Good. Now that your head is clear, close your eyes and go to sleep."

And she did.

Reflections on Thirty-Seven

I turned thirty-eight on Friday.

Sigh. 

All in all, it was a rather uneventful birthday weekend but I can't say it wasn't expected.  Friday was far from a good day at work, and I haven't left the house since I got home that night.

Birthdays just aren't the joyful, celebratory events they used to be.  Once you hit a certain age, it's literally all down hill from there.  And I think I hit it.

I have to confess, I started this post four times over the course of the weekend and the delete button was my best friend.  If you think this sounds somber, you should have read the first three takes. 

I'm not down because I'm getting older per se.  I'm not stressed over middle age, gray hairs, wrinkles, or the fact that my life is probably half over at this point.  I think I'm sad because I learned a few things at thirty-seven and I hate to admit them.

First off, I think I've finally realized that you can't change someone else, and changing yourself is a million times harder than it sounds.  Being an adult doesn't necessarily mean you're a grown up and no life event, no matter how spectacular, is a sure-fire catalyst to suddenly become one.  People are who they are and the choice lies on you to either accept them or walk away.  Of course, both options require changing yourself on some level and I've already mentioned how easy that is.  In the meantime, life hangs in limbo yet time keeps ticking.

I've also realized that this is probably the best it gets.  I feel like I've gone through life...waiting.  Waiting for everyone to be happy.  Waiting for the financial struggles to disappear.  Waiting to find that perfect relationship, perfect job, perfect house, perfect family.  I'm now old enough to know that life will never be perfect.  And while it depresses me, I'm relieved at the same time.  The pressure is off to reach some unattainable goal.  An ex once told me I'd never truly be happy because I didn't want a life, I wanted a fairy tale.  Admitting he was right is like stabbing myself in the eyeball with a steak knife.  But, ouch, I suppose he was.

And to my dismay, I've learned that mothers are people, too.  Despite my attempt to be the perfect mom to Punky, I've realized it's just not feasible.  It seemed easily attainable when she quietly stayed in one place and was perfectly content snuggling on the rocking chair.  Then she turned into, well, a normal kid I suppose.  Most days I have the patience of a saint.  I teach her, and guide her, and enjoy every waking moment with her.  We play, we talk, we laugh, and I can't get enough of her.  I love her more than life itself.

Other days, I completely understand why some animals eat their young.  I sigh.  I complain.  I yell.  I feel terrible for complaining.  Even more so for yelling.  A friend of mine described it best when she said it's like a crap shoot every night when she goes home to her eighteen month old.  Some days are perfect; some days are hell.  Most fall somewhere in between.  Being a parent is far more difficult than I ever imagined...and I'm still only at the beginning.

All in all, thirty-seven was a good year.  It flew by in the blink of an eye.  There was good, there was bad, and there was some in between.  I think thirty-eight will bring more of the same.  After all, such is life... 

The Lowdown on Daycare

I may have been a bit snotty about it in my last post, but all in all I would have to say it's going...okay.  Now that we have a full month under our belts, I figured an honest update is in order.

Of the fourteen days she's gone thus far, she bawled her eyes out thirteen mornings at drop-off time.  I expected the whole separation anxiety thing the first week or two, but I can't believe she's still suffering.  She's such an independent and daring kid; I really thought she'd get past it quickly.  I don't know if it's harder on her or us.  Turning my back and walking away while she is literally screaming for me is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.  Thankfully, I only have to endure it three days a month.  Her dad got the short end of that stick.

So, on that note, I made it through my first three-day cycle of morning duty, but damn it was rough.  When her dad takes her, she doesn't go until 9:30 and he gets to come back home for hours before going to work.  When I have to take her, we are both working dayshift and it makes for extremely early mornings.

I usually sleep till 6:45 and still make it to work on time...thirty-five minutes away.  Those three days started for me at 5:30 so I could get myself ready before waking Punky at six.  As I anticipated, it was almost impossible to get her moving that early and she was far from pleasant.  So was I.

They serve breakfast at daycare but not until 8:30...and that won't cut it for my kid.  She isn't up two minutes when she tells me, "Mommy, I'm hungry.  Cinnamon toast crunch, please!"  I swear, she's a miniature version of her Aunt P sometimes.  As a kid, my sister would wake up before sunrise, eat two bowls of cereal, and go back to bed for a few hours.  She was always hungry and ate constantly, yet she was a skinny, little runt.  Punky is exactly like her.

So anyway, I had to give her enough time to eat before we left.  Daycare is a few miles away, in the opposite direction from work of course, so we need to be out of here by seven.  The teachers were all in agreement that her crying fits at drop-off were much worse with me than her dad.  I figured as much; she's a mama's girl.

I was worried about her actually learning...rather than just running around all day...and I have to say I think she is.  A teacher told me she heard Punky count to nineteen unassisted and without missing a number.  She's picked up a whole slew of new vocabulary words and phrases.  The last few nights she's been pointing to the words in books, rather than the pictures, and asking me, "What this word say, Mommy?"  She's about three attempts away from spelling her name...she gets stuck on the middle letter but has the rest down pat.

We have our first meeting with her teachers at the end of this month.  They are almost finished with their initial evaluation and I can't wait to hear what they have to say.  I know she's smart; I'm more interested in hearing how she interacts with the other kids and her behavior in general.  She has a temper, and she likes to do things on her schedule, so I'm sure she's had a couple less-than-angelic moments.

Once she gets over the initial separation, she is fine the rest of the day.  She really loves music class.  It's what she talks about the most.  Well, that and riding bikes in the gym.  Oh, and playing play-doh.  And painting.  Beyond those, I have no clue what she does there all day.  They are the only four answers I ever get.

She eats well while she's there, and she's not afraid to tell them when she's hungry or thirsty.  And they've actually succeeded in getting her to take a nap every day but one so far.  Two things about that: I can't get her to sleep until about eleven at night every single day she naps at daycare, and to get her to sleep they've relied on rubbing her back so now it's a demand I'm given every night as well.  "Rub the back, Mommy!"  I should've put those on the list of thanks in the last post.

She really seems to like it, and I know it's good for her, and I know she needs to learn socialization, and exposure to germs isn't a bad thing so she builds immunity, blah blah blah...

But I have my gripes about it, too.  I hate leaving her there.  I hate not knowing what she's doing.  I hate the fact that she's been sick since she started (another double ear infection now).  I hate worrying about her safety.  Life was so much easier when she was home all day with either her aunt or Grammy.  Warm, safe, healthy, and happy.

Love and Thanks

...an appropriate topic with Valentine's Day just around the corner, don't you think?

Punky is all about the love these days.  She loves, well, everything apparently.  Once in a while, something hits the "don't like it" list, but for the most part it's love all around...

In the past twenty-four hours, I've heard each of the following phrases spew from the lips of my dainty, little girl:

"I love boogers!" (This one she chose to scream across the room at me when I walked in to pick her up at daycare yesterday...and I made the mistake of saying, "What?"  So, of course, she yelled it again.)

"I love earwax!" (Out of the blue for no reason at all.)

"I love potties!" (Now if she'd only learn to use them.)

"I love boo-boos!" (Maybe her way of coping with the black and blues that still cover most of her body at all times due to the sheer gracelessness she inherited from her mother.)

"I love dust!" (Her response to my attempt at getting her to come out from the corner by the toilet in my bathroom by telling her it's all dusty back there.)

"I love meat!" (I think this one is truth; she always asks for seconds.)

"I love diapers! I love water! I love crayons! I love pillows!  I love my blankie! I love cars!  I love stop signs! I love toothbrushes!  I love refrigerators! I love ice! I love ceilings! I love germs! I love stinky socks!"

There were more, but you get the gist...

"I love you, too, Mommy." (Tonight when I tucked her in to bed.  The embarrassing "I love boogers!" incident is forgiven.)

Now for the thanks...to daycare...

Thank you, daycare, for calming our fears over peanut allergies by totally disregarding our instruction.  I know it's silly, but Punky never tasted peanut butter.  With my history of food allergies, I was holding off as long as possible...like till she was old enough to say, "Hey, Mom! My throat is closing up! I can't breathe! Call 9-1-1, please!"  

We told them she never had peanut butter when we signed her up, and that we would give it to her when we felt comfortable, and we'd let them know when that happened.

But alas, there she was, inhaling a huge PB&J when her dad picked her up one day last week.  Sigh.  Part of me truly is thankful that they pushed us across that hurdle, but mostly I'm ticked at their lack of attention and respect for our wishes.  And hell, if they screwed up this simple request, what else will they do?  I'm rethinking the field trip permission slip already...

Thank you, daycare, for causing round two of that wonderful stomach bug to invade our home this past week.  Punky coated the living room Saturday night, in the same fashion as before, but at least this time her dad was home to help with cleanup and it didn't result in another ER visit.  My turn came Monday night.  Punky's dad pulled up the rear on Wednesday night.

And yes, I did ask if it's going around the daycare, and I was told, "Oh yeah, the kids have been like little puke fountains erupting all over this place the last two weeks!"  See?  I'm not blindly pointing the finger at them.  But it we are forced to endure round three of this shit, someone's going to die.  And we're going to need new carpet.

And last but not least, thank you, daycare, for filling my upcoming Sunday afternoon with the task of writing out almost thirty valentines to a bunch of kids I've never even met, and figuring out how to attach some sort of candy, trinket, or other token object to each one as to not appear cheap and heartless in comparison to the other moms, and crafting some type of Valentine's Day bag/box/bucket contraption to collect all the junk treats I was already warned that Punky will be bringing home that day.  Ugh.

But first I need to buy the damn cards.  And figure out what treat to attach that is safe for all the children at daycare.  And I'll probably need to pick up some construction paper, glue, and whatever other shit crafty people would use to create the treat receptacle.  And I need to find some hearts to trace cause I sure as hell can't draw one.  Well, I can, but they always tend to look a tad deflated on one side.  And I can't send her to school with lopsided hearts.

Oh, the pressure.  I hadn't even considered this aspect of daycare and I am fully unprepared for the task at hand.  I better get my act together.  St. Patrick's day will be here before you know it and I'm sure I'll need to come up with some imaginative green food to send that day.  Or teach Punky to dance the jig and dye her hair red for the occasion.  Or sculpt a four-leaf-clover from of a mixture of play-doh, sequins, and the marshmallows from Lucky Charms cereal.