Thirty-Five Months

As we enter the last month of the terrible twos, I'm sad to see it end.  Yes, she can be a real handful these days, but truth be told, I wouldn't change a thing.  She's acting up, acting out, acting downright annoying at times, but she's acting exactly as she should at this age.  The only way to learn the limits is to test the boundaries, and she's an excellent tester.  She's sneaky.  She's intelligent.  She thinks outside the box.  She's a challenge.  She's perfect.

I mentioned before that I wondered if something triggered her sudden change in behavior.  I think I got my answer.  A few weeks ago, the daycare sent their seasonal newsletter home.  We discovered that the rest of Punky's group moved on to the next class, so to speak, but Punky stayed with her old teacher and three younger kids moved up into her group.  This transition occured mid-September, and the behavior change hit hard by the start of October. 

When Punky started daycare in January, they wanted to keep her with the babies.  She had just turned two the week before, and it was their policy for kids age two and under to be in one room.  Of course we fought it, and once they realized we were telling the truth about her ability to count, and recognize all 26 letters and numbers one through ten, and her knowledge of all the colors and shapes, they quickly agreed that she would not do well in a room full of newborns and baby toys.  In the next group, the closest child to her age was almost eight months older.  At her evaluation two months in, her teacher told us that her biggest challenge was teaching the other kids because Punky would answer before any one else had a chance.

So now, all of her friends have been moved to a new group and she's left behind to repeat the exact same curriculum she had last year.  She has to be bored out of her mind.  As much as it angers me, I have not said anything to the daycare director because I don't think it would change anything.  I'm sure they would argue that she's right where she should be based on her age.  Plus, the other group now has around twelve kids the way it is while Punky's only has four, including her.  And it's not like she has no contact with her friends from her old group.  They only spend around two hours a day in their groups; all of the children are together for the rest of the activities and free play time.  But, I still think this change at daycare was a catalyst for her sudden behavior shift. 

I know she's the exception, not the rule, but I still wish they could spend more time really working with her on her level.  This month, the lights started to flicker.  Sounding out words for reading is beginning to click.  She's very interested in written words right now, and can read/recognize around twenty.  She always wants to know what stuff says, like the signs on the highway, the banners at the store, or any random piece of paper that mysteriously ends up in her hands even though she was told sixteen times not to touch the pile of mail on the edge of the counter or the novel on my headboard that's been collecting dust since before she was born.  At this rate, I probably won't read it until retirement but I want the pages to remain unwrinkled until I do.

Thanksgiving and Such

This year for Thanksgiving we decided to do something unusual: not travel.  A quiet, long weekend at home for a change.  It wasn't quite the relaxing time I envisioned, but it was still nice to be home.

Wednesday night we went shopping for a new Christmas tree, artificial of course.  We had been using only a four foot table-top tree previously, but we gave it back to my mom after last year.  We figured we'd need to graduate to a bigger tree this year with Punky getting older and more excited about Christmas.  We ended up buying a seven foot, pre-lit tree, but it's on the narrow side.  Space is definitely an issue in this house.

We went to his mom's on Thursday for Thanksgiving dinner, but it's only three miles away and we were only there about two hours.  Punky was dying to get home and decorate the new Christmas tree.  We had originally planned that for Friday's project, because only crazy people go shopping that day, but her enthusiasm convinced us to get the ball rolling.  

We spent the next six hours assembling and decorating the tree, unpacking and displaying my vast snowman collection, scattering other random Christmas decorations around the house, cleaning up the huge mess we made in the process, and drinking beer.  Us, not Punky, on that last one.  Alcohol is a rarity in this house, but two hours in to the decorating devastation, he ran out for a six pack.  Good thing the tree was pre-lit or we may have needed a twelve.  When we finished, the house looked nice, Punky was happy with our new Christmas tree, and I was a bit buzzed.

Friday, which should have then been a lazy day with the decorating all done, turned into a busy one as well.  I tackled all the necessary chores like laundry and cleaning bathrooms and balancing checkbooks, and he decided to cook our own mini Thanksgiving dinner since his oldest son and his girlfriend were coming to visit.  They stayed until almost eleven that night. 

We planned to do some shopping on Saturday, but my sister called early and said they were coming up for the day.  They arrived about three hours later and stayed till nine.  The kids destroyed the house, but they had a great time.  Punky adores my nephew, and has to do everything he does, but the tide changed a bit this visit.  My nephew spent a good amount of time playing with legos by himself, and Punky played with my niece more than she ever has.  Every chance they had, the two of them jumped like monkeys on the bed in Punky's room, and we had our first indication of exactly how much trouble they are going to be together as they get older.  They are only seventeen months apart, and in another year or so, that age gap will seem like nothing.  I can only imagine the phone conversations my sister and I will have when they are fifteen and sixteen.  I don't even want to think about it.

As much as I wanted a day to sit home and relax, with no cleaning, no company, and no showering, we headed to the mall today.  We really needed to tackle more shopping, plus it was the perfect opportunity to get the yearly Santa photo.  As usual, I was a bit nervous as we approached the the red guy. Even though she never freaked out or cried before, there's always a first.  A year had passed since her last encounter with Santa, and she has a better understanding now, and her two-year-old personality seems to go from one extreme to the other these days.  I was prepared for the worst.

And once again, I worried for nothing.  There were no kids in line ahead of us, and she ran right to him with open arms.  Lots of hugs for Santa, and she talked his ear off while we were busy choosing which incredibly over-priced photo package to purchase.  The pictures were beautiful though, and we actually had a hard time choosing between the four shots they took.

And when Santa asked the magic question, she gave him the same enthusiastic response she gave us: "A trampoline, Santa! I want a trampoline!" She even did the boingy fingers for him, too.

Yep, still screwed.

Santa Is So Screwed

And by Santa, of course, I mean us. 

Tonight we sat with Punky and wrote her very first letter to Santa.  We started with the usual stuff, my name is... I've been a good girl this year... do you have cable at the North Pole, and then moved on to the meat and potatoes of every Christmas letter: the list.

Over the past few weeks, we've discussed it many times.  We told her to think hard about the stuff she'd really like to have most, because Santa can only bring her a few things.  He has to make sure that every kid in the world gets something for Christmas.  It wouldn't be fair to ask him for everything under the sun.  (Parental translation: our house is small, we have too much crap the way it is, and we simply can't afford to go crazy buying presents.)  She listened to our speeches, and our suggestions of things we think she would like, but apparently she had her own ideas brewing.  And she kept them a secret until tonight when she blindsided us with her list.

"Okay, sweetie, now we get to tell Santa the things you'd really like to have for Christmas.  I know you've been thinking about it for a while, so let's start with the thing you want most.  That should go first on the list."  Green crayon in hand, I was poised to write what I expected her to say.

"A trampoline, Mommy! I want a trampoline! You jump on it and it goes like this: Boingy! Boingy! Boingy!" Her little fingers were like a miniature pair of legs bouncing up and down on the kitchen counter.

"A trampoline?" I asked as I scribbled out the "D" I had written in anticipation.  She launched into another rendition of bouncy fingers and boings while her dad and I had an entire conversation with only our eyes and facial expressions.

Where the hell did she get that idea? I have no clue. Where would we put a goddamn trampoline? I have no clue. Aren't those things expensive? Yes. And dangerous? Very. Did you ever hear her talk about a trampoline before? Nope. She's never even been on one, has she? Not that I know of.  What the f**k happened to the drum set?

"Are you sure, sweetie? That's what you want more than anything?"

"Yes! I want a trampoline!"  She stared at the paper like she was waiting for me to write it down. 

"Okay, a trampoline," I said and wrote with a sigh.  "What else would you like Santa to bring you?" 

"A ping ball set!" she chirped, just as enthusiastically as she said trampoline.

"A what?" Her dad and I exchanged a confused glance.

"A ping ball set!"

"Do you mean a pin ball machine where you shoot the little balls and they bounce off all the stuff inside?" her dad asked, grasping at straws.

"No! The one with the tennis rackets where you hit the ball like this!" Punky replied as she swung her arm back and forth.

"A ping pong table?" I asked, hoping I misinterpreted her motions.

"Yes, Mommy! That's what I want!" 

Where the hell did she get that idea? I have no clue. Where would we put a goddamn ping pong table? I have no clue. Could she even see over the top of one? Barely. Did you ever hear her talk about a ping pong table before? Nope. She's never even seen one, has she? Not that I know of.  What the f**k happened to the drum set?

I struggled to maintain an air of enthusiasm as I wrote down her second request and hesitantly asked, "What else should we put on your list?" 

"A drum set!" she said, still smiling from ear to ear.  Finally the thing we were expecting her to say.  She drummed on the counter while I added it to the list.

 "I think we should give Santa a couple more ideas," I said, praying for some realistic suggestions.  Three items in, we had squat.  "Is there anything else you would like?"

"Yes, Mommy, paints! Like they have at the resource center with the big paper and paint brushes!"

"But you already have paints," her dad said, pointing to the tray on the kitchen window sill.

"No, honey, she's not talking watercolors." He's never been to the resource center so I had to explain the big easels, the endless supply of giant paper, the cups full of paint, and the paintbrushes of all sizes.  

"Well that sounds kind of messy," he replied.

"You think?" I shot him a sarcastic look as I wrote it on her list.  

Don't look at me in that tone of voice. It's not my fault she's asking for all these crazy things. I know, but what the hell are we going to get her for Christmas? I have no clue. With the way this is going, do we dare ask her for more ideas? I don't think we have a choice. She needs to get something from Santa that she actually asks for, or we may as well tell her he's fake right now! 

"Okay, sweetie. You have some great things on your list, but how about we give Santa some smaller ideas, you know, in case he can't fit all of these big things in his sleigh," I said, fingers crossed.

"Like what, Mommy?"  Her dad and I enjoyed a mutual eye roll.  How about something that can actually fit inside our house?

With some prompting, we managed to add new crayons, new books, and new clothes to her list.  She also asked Santa for a new ladder for Daddy, and new clothes for Mommy, and she colored a picture of a Christmas tree to send with the letter.

When she ran off to play, her dad and I discussed the list. She's obviously too little for a trampoline and we're technically not allowed to have one where we live.  She's obviously too little for a ping pong table and we would need to buy a new house to fit one.  The drum set was expected, and we already decided to buy her one, but we planned to save it for her birthday just three days after Christmas.  We thought Santa would have plenty of other ideas to choose from, and although she may be a bit disappointed at the time, she would be that much more excited to get one for her birthday.  We really didn't want Santa to steal our thunder on that gift, as selfish as it sounds.  And the paints?  Just think about it for a second.  No further explanation is needed.  

Of course, we already bought the new crayons, new books, and new clothes.

Can someone please remind my child that she's two?

Santa is so screwed.

It's Fun to Play at the YMCA

Young man, there's no need to feel down.
I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground.
I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new town
There's no need to be unhappy.

It's fun to stay at the y-m-c-a.
It's fun to stay at the y-m-c-a. 

Go ahead, do the arm motions.  You know you want to. 

Punky and I went home this past weekend for my nephew's sixth birthday party.  It seems like just yesterday I listened to his birth on speaker phone, my office packed with colleagues all waiting with me to hear that first sweet cry.  Six years ago.  I can hardly believe it.  Anyway, it was a quick trip for Punky and I, down on Saturday and back on Sunday, but well worth the drive. 

My sister had his party at the YMCA.  Now that he's in kindergarten, with a class full of kids to invite, she opted to keep the madness out of her house.  Wise choice.  Time constraints aside, the Y turned out to be a great place for the party.  

For the first hour, the kids ran around like a pack of wild animals.  Two huge bins of balls provided plenty of entertainment, and they made sure every single one was in play.  The gym floor was a sea of colorful, round objects as balls were rolled, kicked, and hurled in every direction.  Big balls, little balls, basketballs, soccer balls, beach balls, bouncy balls, and even footballs.  And nobody managed to take one in the face.  Unbelievable.

A coach from the Y took over the second hour of the party.  Armed with only a whistle, this brave man stopped the chaos and managed to get all the kids to clean up the balls, line up against the wall, and be quiet.  I was impressed.  Then the real fun began.  One full hour of extreme physical activity cleverly disguised as fun, that is.  Game after game, race after race, activity after activity, those kids were in constant motion.  

Red light/green light left them running, and jumping, and dancing, and crawling, and spinning.  A version of tag made them chase each other in circles in an attempt to steal flags from one another.  As they raced back and forth on gym scooters, they were forced to rely on those hidden leg muscles that you don't even know exist until you pull one.  And just when they seemed to be running out of steam, he pulled out an enormous parachute to refuel their excitement and make them run some more.  Fun and games my ass, these kids got a total body workout.

Punky and Emmy, ready to race the big kids

And my little girl kept up with them.  She listened to the coach and followed his instructions.  She played the games, and ran her tiny butt off, and didn't get discouraged when she was the last one across the gym, or when she had her flag stolen first, or when she fell off her scooter and cracked her head on the floor.  It didn't matter that most of the other kids were four years older, she was in it to win it.  She had a great time and I'm so proud of her.

My Little Drummer Girl

Rock on!

Given the opportunity to play with blocks, most kids build towers.  Houses.  Castles even.

Not mine.

My kid builds drum sets.

A footstool, her sunglasses, and two pencils - not sharpened, of course - set the stage for her solo rock concert.

And the drumming can last hours.

We've actually been kicking around the idea of buying her a real one.

I know, we're crazy. 

But it's not like we ever have silence in this house anyway.

Ten Minutes in the Bathroom

Once Punky finally got to sleep on Halloween night, I headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed myself and had a startling revelation.

My period was late.

Before I had Punky, my cycles were anywhere from 25 to 33 days.  But, I could always feel ovulation and it would start exactly two weeks after, like clockwork.  Since Punky's birth, my body has been running a classic, textbook cycle, 28 days on the nose.  Maybe once or twice it was 29, but hardly a reason to panic.

By my calculations, it was already two days late at that point.  Normally I wouldn't think much of it since we tend to have dry spells that last for months, but the last few weeks were far outside that norm.  My heart started to race.

When there was still no sign of anything on Tuesday, I gave Punky's dad the stats.  I could see the panic in his eyes as the color drained from his face.  Needless to say, it was the topic of conversation for the next forty-eight hours.  We talked about our fears, the impact it would have on our lives, and how physically hard it would be on both of us.  But we also talked about how beautiful Punky is, how fast she has grown up, and how likely it is that, given our ages, she will be all alone in the world by the time she's my age.

By Thursday, we needed to know.  One way or another, we needed a definitive answer.  He grabbed a test at the store, and proceeded to ask me fifteen times over the course of the next two hours if I had to pee yet.  Truth is, I had to, but I didn't want to.  I knew the rest of my life hinged on that pee, and I held it in as long as I could.

When Punky was occupied with her crayons at the kitchen counter, and he was distracted on the internet, and my both my courage and bladder were as full as they could be, I slipped into the bathroom to face the music.  I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as I read the instructions.  I started to sweat.  I felt dizzy.  I wanted to throw up.

I peed.

I put the test on the floor and sat there for a few seconds to catch my breath.  Within thirty seconds, I knew what the result would be, but I gave it the full two minutes as instructed before calling him in to see for himself.

He was white as a ghost when he walked in the room.  He looked at the test, looked at me, looked at the test again, and burst out laughing.  We both did.  We giggled a bit, sighed at the relief of finally knowing, and then we cried a bit.  Real tears.  Not for us; for Punky. 

The test was negative.  

And I knew what the results would be because my period started at the very moment I took the test.

But we learned a lot in those ten minutes in the bathroom.  While we would both prefer not to have another child, it wouldn't be the end of the world if we did.  We were equally relieved and disappointed by the test result, both happy and sad at the same time. 

We returned to the kitchen to find green crayon scribbles all over the counter, and vowed to be more careful in the future.