Me: Okay, well, let’s get this sweater on… we’ve only got a few minutes left before school.

She: I wan do buttons myself.

I help her snake one arm into a sleeve, and then the other. I go to button the first little button, near the neck.

She: NO! I wan do buttons MYSELF!!

Me: *breathes deeply* I know you want to do it yourself, but we’re running late, darling… can I just help you with the first couple, and then you…

She: *shrieks and rocks entire body with each word for emphasis* NOOOOOO!! I! WAN! DO! BUTTONS! MY! SEEEEEEEEELF!!

Me: *feels a stroke coming on* Ohmyjesuslord… HURRY! UP!! Gawd…

I get the lunchbox into the schoolbag and check on her. She is still trying to get the first one buttoned. I can hear her talking softly to herself – Just… put… here… o-most… awww! Okay… just… put… o-most… I fink…

So. Slow.

Maddeningly slow.

Holyfuck slow.

I am trying by very best not to hover. Or hyperventilate.

Me: *calmly* Can I help you with the first one? Just the first one…

She: No.

Me: Pfffft…

It is 8:42 AM. We need to be at the school doors in three minutes. We still have to do the wretched snowpants/scarf/hat/mitts/coat/boots drill AND walk three blocks. We are late.

Me: Ava Scarlett. Please. PLEASE! Can I just…

She: No.

Me: *spits through teeth* Fine. (But I’m waaaaaaaay pissed about it.)

I get the camera instead. And about eight hours later, she was ready.

Okay, it might have been four minutes later, but she did it! And she was proud!! And we were late, but we didn’t get penalized.

I know this is all very important for their development and whatnot, but the s-l-o-w-n-e-s-s just kills me. I’m so very impatient, you see, especially when I just want to GO! already. Ack.

Note to self: pullovers only on school days from now on.

Sheesh.

G.G.

Our littlest one turned THREE the other day, and though I already posted something over here, I wanted to post my very favourite pics from her last year – she’s grown and changed quite since last January, my little darling girl:

Wow. Lot of changes since last year, right? Who would have thought her hair would ever look like this… she kills me.

Happy Birthday, my poppet! You are loved, more than you’ll ever really know.

Go! Up!!

Love, mummy.

We’re still toiling away on the house projects. Trying hard not to cry some days.

Like when we discovered our hardwood floors in the kitchen buckling in places due to a faucet leak we’ve been meaning to take care of.

Like over the trim colour that I chose, that I fear is to blue. But I’m not changing it, so I’m sucking it up.

Like that I spend my birthday on the couch with Ava Scarlett puking all over me. (It actually wasn’t that bad – it was nice chatting with her all day.)

But the dust. And the mess. And the disarray of our stuff. And no water in the kitchen for a week. And being crammed into what feels like a smallish hotel while everything around you is under plastic? It’s getting old. My nerves are wearing thin. I’m feeling stabby.

And when the children are never, ever more than six feet away from me, the amount of noise only rivals the amount of toys on the floor right in front of the stove.

Me: Ava Scarlett! I have asked you three times to come and clean up this mess right here… please stop whatever your doing, and come and take care of it immediately.

She: I tan’t.

Me: What’sthatnow?

She: I tan’t. I swording Ol’ver now.

Me: Pardon me? What are you doing?!

She: I swording Ol’ver.

Will you please look at the child’s eyepatch? And the tutu?! I laughed my ass off.

Arrr, matey. Thy mess shall be cleaned after you walk the plank then…

. . .

My birthday was on the 24th. Like last year (and others) I stayed up late to watch the clock roll into my special day, so I could feel it and taste it and think about it. Things are good. No losses of life, serious injury, or (despite Ava Scarlett’s recent case of the heaves) no serious illnesses. My family and friends all seem to do well. I can’t complain, Universe.

I’ve had drinks and nibbles out on the town with some foxes, and some friends, and with my lovely Martin… twice so far, and it ain’t over yet. I plan on maxing out the fun times until Christmas. Like usual.

Life is good.

I’m thirty-nine.

G.G.

She’ll be three in January… it’s still some time from now, but lately I notice how much taller she is, and how many more words she has, and how her face has changed… albeit slightly.

Sometimes she’s not cute AT ALL. Mos def. She can be a complete terrorist.

Yes. Believe it.

But that’s just because she’s growing… it’s part of the package.

And sometimes she’s just my delicious little bean.

I hope you’re having as great a time as I am, kid. I hope you know how much your mother loves you…

G.G.

Last Friday I signed for a package. I love signing for packages, especially when I have no idea what it could POSSIBLY be! Surprises are fun. Not to mention the fact that it arrived on the heels of a baaaad week for me. Just days earlier, I realised I was not going to New York. I sold my ticket to BlogHer. I cried a lot.

I confess that I had a little heads up from one of my sistah-friends, the mighty @Bibliosaurus who mailed it all the way from Santa Cruz… and I nearly went crazy when I saw the tutu she made for our Grumble Baby…

Here’s where tutu lives, stacked atop two others when she’s not in all her glorious-girly-girl service:

Wow, right??! My life is so weird and at the same time awesome, it’s nuts.

And here’s how she looks when she’s on Ava Scarlett herself…

No shirt. No shoes. Just the tutu, thanks.

And ohmygod is she EVER loving the shit out of it. And why wouldn’t she – I mean, just look at her. I can’t stop smiling when I watch her prancing around in it. (That’s how one moves in a tutu, you know. One prances.) I never thought I’d like dressing a little girl this way, but I do. I really, really do. Tutus are just the lovliest things, especially when paired with funkier stuff… black boots and funky tights. Rock t-shirts. Or whispy blouses with butterflies…

My lovely, lovely sistah-friend also sent Spiderman stickers for Oliver, and a bag of salt water taffy for us to share just for me. Because she loves me. Isn’t that something?

I’m so, So, SO sad that I’ll be missing her and my other internets in New York next week for BlogHer. The travel gods hate me, so it is not to be this time. But watch out, kids – once my passport issues are solved, none of y’alls are safe. I’ll be everywhere…

But, to my darling Kat: there will be hand-holding and shit-disturbing in Central Park one of these days – it’s a fact. Just deal with it already. Thank you so very much for these splendid things!!

Spread the love, people. Happy Friday to all!

G.G.

NOTE: The kids are sharing the room that used to be just Oliver’s. The dressmaker Judy and aaaaaaall the tutus that live on it is in there with them. He’s dealing with it – I think he even thinks it looks kinda pretty. Yay for me.

Last week I decided it was time to potty-train the girl-child. She’ll be two-and-a-half in a few weeks, though this doesn’t really have anything to do with her age. We’ve I’ve been half-assed about this whole deal since Christmastime, what with the wetting and the mess… Summer weather is ideal for this kind of thing – no snowsuits to contend with. (Can you imagine shit inside a snowsuit? Oh crap, indeed.) and I just thought it was time to get consistent. Time to shit or get off the pot, if you will. (Heh.)

I bought her big-girl panties months ago, and often times, I’d pull them out of the drawer to show her the lovely Easter-coloured things, trying to entice her with the “big-girlness” of it all. “Well, if you go to the potty every time, you can wear a big-girl panty like Fran! Or like Anna! Or like Nyla!” (All of these girls are years older than she is, and she adores each one of them – loves getting their attention too.) I’d ask her now and again if she’d like to try sitting on the big-girl potty, and then try wearing a big-girl panty after… she’d say, “No t’anks, mummy.”

I showed her the big bag of mini marshmallows I’d bought just for her. Even if she tried, just tried sitting on the potty for a few minutes, she would get one marshmallow, and she could stick a star sticker on her chart. Won’t that be nice? Would you like to try now?!

“No, t’anks.”

She had piddled in the plastic bowl a few times in the past. We made a huge hairy deal out of it, naturally, but it didn’t seem to do anything for her. If I asked, she flat out refused. I insisted that she sit for at least one whole minute before getting into the bath… she’d make a swishing sound with her mouth, and then cry, “Yay Ada Stah-dett! Now ha mar-maddow!!” And I’d shake my head and say, “Uh-uh, Miss… you have to have a pee-pee first. But you get one for sitting. That’s a good girl!” I’d hand it to her, and she’d snatch it out of my hand, and pop it into her mouth. Then I’d stand her in the bathtub, and within a nanosecond, she’d pee, standing right there, laughing her fool head off.

I’d turn my head and leave the bathroom, saying nothing. There was no question in my mind that that clever monkey was toying with me but I will not react.

Le sigh. It’s been like this for months.

To complicate things, she’s at a kinder-camp in the afternoons, and though they might have a rest period at some point, I know she’s not napping. And trying to be consistent with potty-training gets tricky when the trainee isn’t with you for part of the day.

But I was determined to try anyway. I thought, if we can get this thing licked over the next couple of months, we’ll be golden. Now is the time.

Monday, I put her in panties all morning before camp, and she wet about four pairs in the span of two hours, which is to be expected. I somehow managed to keep her off the couches – only the floors got wet. But she had a few successes too – including a couple of poops – which was more than I was hoping for! In the evening, she took off her diaper by herself, and peed three times successfully. Yay! Marshmallows and stickers abound.

Tuesday morning she woke up with a dry diaper (good sign!) and she went the the potty six times without any prompting from me… she’s just come squealing, “Mummy, lowt!! I ha a pee-pee!!” And I’d come running, and she’d open her eyes and her mouth WIDE in amazement, and leap into my arms… we’d run and get marshmallows and stickers. Great job! I’d put a pull-up on her for camp, and try panties again at home that evening. When I picked her up from camp that day, she was in a soaking wet swim-diaper (they went to the sprinklers) so I striped her, put her shorts back on, and said, “Please try not to pee-pee in the stroller. We’re going straight home now.”

Yeah, right.

Not only did she soak the stroller about mid-way home, when she needed to get out and run with her brother, she suddenly stopped and peed in the grass – in her already wet shorts, down her legs, and into her shoes. She laughed her fool head off. So did Oliver.

“Oliver! You’re totally not helping, man! Stop laughing.”

Which of course made him laugh harder. Any time I say the word “man” at the end of things, they start roaring. As in, Fuckballs, man.

So the moment we got home, I deconstructed the stroller enough to get the cushy-lining off of it, and put it to wash. With the shoes.

Wednesday morning went very well – she’d go by herself, and then tell me afterward. No accidents! After camp, we went to the pool for the first time this year, and though she came thisclose to drowning (a story for another time) she asked me for the potty twice – one pee, and one poop… the latter was a little bit “loose” and I was glad she asked to go. It was the sort that could have a pool shut down for cleaning, had anything escaped that swim-diaper. I was impressed that she asked me to go at all! After a good amount of swimming under that wicked sun, she fell asleep in the stroller on the way home… wearing a panty. I raced to get home before things could go foul, and I won! Still sleeping, I put her on the couch, vowing to move her the minute I had dinner going on the stove. Minutes, I tell you…

Of course, by then it was too late. She’d peed an enormous amount. And some of those loose stools made a second debut too. Holyshitwhatafuckingmess doesn’t quite cover it. Martin was home, and got her into the bath right away, and I stripped the couch and put it to wash. With the skirt and panties. (This is a perfect example of why Craigslist and Ikea make for ideal furniture shopping during these pee/poop/vomit years. I will not buy a $3000 couch right now. Will. Not. Under no circumstances.)

The rest of the evening was fine, though. She went as often as she needed to, and you’d be none the wiser, but for hearing her trying to empty the plastic vessel into the porcelain bowl on her own. NOOOOOOO!! Let mummy help you… A few splishy-splashes on the floor. The bleach and the rags and I have become well acquainted in recent days.

Thursday morning was another splendid day of doing. And doo-dooing. No problems except for wanting to wipe herself… that’s completely disastrous. And I’m trying to teach my thumb-sucker to please not touch the seat so much. And to not wear the vinyl seat around her neck, either. We’re just asking for a roaring case of gastro with a side of pink-eye this way.

We went to the pool after camp again, but this time she asked me to go to the washroom about 400 times. Okay, maybe it was only 8 times, but we did go EVERY time (because you have to go if they ask, you know?) And public pool washrooms? Um… nast. Besides always being leaky and damp on the floors, there’s wadded up paper in corners, pulpy puddles everywhere, and one toilet is always blocked and nearly overflowing… in short, they’re totally gross. They smell bad too. Feels like rain forest in there. You can practically hear the bacteria growing, not to mention feel it in the warm wetness of pool-yuck under your feet (whether you’re wearing flip-flops or not.) And the last thing I want is to be in there every 10 minutes with a small child, trying to squeak a wetsuit-like diaper off her chubby behind, so she can giggle and say,”Uh-oh… no pee-pee!” again and again and again.

And I’m trying keeping her thumb out of her mouth the whole time too. Because, ew. Super gross.

But we were successful! And we got home with a dry diaper (I remembered to pack one this time) so the clothes AND the stroller were intact. I put her on the potty when we got home, and she had a joyous pee right away. Oh my god, this is awesome!! She got marshmallows and stars, and went running away.

I forgot to get a fresh panty for her.

A few minutes later, I hear Oliver stammering at me, “Mummy! She… she’s not… mummy! She POOPED!!” I go flying, off to find them in the house somewhere. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. You could ruin everything…

I find her in her bed, sitting on the duvet (which had no cover on it today) in her Stella McCartney dress she wore for the first time ever, with a little brown schmutz everywhere – duvet, sheet, pillowcase – and a nugget of poop in one hand. She looked a little bit stunned. “Lowt, mummy! I ha poop!”

Everything needs washing. (This is a perfect example of how the baby Jesus hates me.)

“Oh, Ava Scarlett… what happened?! We have to go on the potty every time! Awwwwww…” I pick her up and survey the damage. Fuuuuuuuuck!!! I march her to the bathtub to put her in, but there are too many solids, so I have to put her on the big toilet first. She has poop on her hands. I put the dress in the sink. I run the bath water.

I burst into tears.

I was so tired, from the day, from the week. And PMS probably too. But this deal is exhausting, no matter how you slice it. The watchfulness… the mindfulness of it all is very fatiguing.

Oliver came into the bathroom and rubbed my back as I was hunched over the side of the tub. “It’s okay mummy. I’ll help you with the laundry. I’ll help you. Don’t worry.”

Ava Scarlett said, “I sorry mummy.”

And I suddenly feel like a gigantic asshole.

“No, no. It’s okay, I’m fine. I’m just a bit tired. It’s so hot today… let’s just clean up.” I tried to smile at them. “Oliver, don’t touch anything, okay? Ava Scarlett, let me wipe your bum…”

And after that, she used the potty for the rest of the evening.

Friday, she wore a panty all morning, without incident. Apparently she used the toilet at day camp, and she came home with a dry pull-up at the end of the day. We skipped the pool that day – had a friend over to play instead. She wore a panty the whole time. No accidents.

This weekend has been much the same, I’m happy to say. I expect that there will be accidents sometimes. She may even regress once or twice – maybe months from now. It may be years before she’s dry at night, if her brother is any indication… but all told, I think we’re kinda done! She’s got the concept – now we just have to be consistent about it all.

Well done Ava Scarlett!! I’m very proud of you, poppet!! And my goodness, but your bum looks to teeny without a diaper on it… cheeky thing.

G.G.

I crouch down to her level and say, “Hello, you!”

Her thumb-sucking mouth splits into a huge grin, and she throws her arms around my neck, hugging me close. She breathes, “Mummy.”

She is two. She is still so little.

But I just know that in a blink she will be six, and then she’ll be sixteen, and then she’ll be… gone.

We’ve been so busy renovating for the past several months, I’ve not really noticed her as I should. I need to talk to her more. I need to hug her more. Le sigh.

My baby is growing.

G.G.

I’m not so accustomed to the tantrums.

I know the differences in personality and development between one child and his or her sibling(s) can be as vast in difference as apples and marshmallows. Oliver, my first, wasn’t usually prone to tantrums. I found him fairly reasonable for a child his age, and didn’t usually have to endure a lot of sassy mouth or actions from him. I do remember the six months betwen the ages of 2.5 and three that I could have totally done without – he started pre-school at that time, and just worked mummy pretty hard… pushing the boundaries… it’s part of his job. I hated it, but I was prepared.

I feel as if the minute this second child turned two (which was about 4 weeks ago) her pointed little horns have come back to the surface with full-on purpose and avengence. She’s trying to kill me, I can tell.

Anything she can’t have… anytime I tell her “no”… anytime I look at her sideways… she falls to her knees, face all crumpled, arches her spine and throws her head back… WAAAAAAIIIIIIIL!!! Then she lies down completely and start stamping her little feet on the floor, rolling her head from side to side, hands over her eyes… the tears start rolling… of course, I can’t reason with her, so I step over her and leave the room.

WAAAAAAAIIIIIIIL!!!

I take very deep breaths and pretend that I’m not bothered in the slightest, when in reality, I. AM. SEETHING. Because? Because this is the fourth such tantrum in the space of about three hours, and NO you can’t have chocolate at 8:05 AM, but you can have some after lunch. And NO you can’t jump on the bunk-bed, ever. And NO you can’t play with mummy’s nail polish, but wouldn’t you like a little lip gloss instead?

WAAAAAAIIIIIIIL!!!

She’s not hungry. She’s had enough sleep. She’s got no symptoms of illness. She’s just being TWO, and man, oh man is she ever getting good at it. Holy fuck. Feels like Every. Little. Thing… And the trick is to stay as cheerful as possible, because it’s not really her fault that she’s two years old, and learning to manage her stress. I know this. Whistle while you work. Try not to eat the poisoned apple. And never shake the baby. (Somebody please pass the wine?)

The worst part is, she appears to be this way, largely with me, and me alone. Daddy doesn’t get nearly as much of this kind of behavior. At pre-school she seems to be quite a cute little peach. She saves it for me… because I’m the mum.

Because I’m the mum.

Because I’m the mum.

Fuck, I hate being the mum sometimes. It’s so freaking unfair this fucking unpaid, thankless, no-time-off-EVER cocksucking motherfucking job…

Today, I quit.

And I’ll tell you something else: if I could punch her in the face, I totally would. (No, I really wouldn’t… you know. But, FUCK YEAH I SOOOO FUCKING WOULD!!)

Fuckballs.

G.G.

NOTE: I can barely contain the love I have for this child… I’m just not liking her so very much at the moment. Meh.

My, oh my. My delicious baby girl turns two today. I can scarcely believe how quickly the time is passing… and though I kid about her antics, she is a wonderful child. She can be a stubborn mule, but for the most part she is very sweet. Curious, talkative, charming, and very bright. She smiles a lot. She laughs like it’s gonna be her last one ever… she sounds like whatever it is that’s so funny is just KILLING her! I love that.

I snapped the first pic in this lineup just a few days before her scheduled C-section delivery. I had one with her brother, four years earlier (which was unplanned) and since the procedure was so easy and stress-free for me, and I healed so quickly, I opted for the same method the second time. If nothing else, they’ve got nice-shaped heads, these kids. The second and third pics are from within her first week… and the rest are just some of my favorite images I’ve captured during her short life thus far. Just look at how she’s grown!

That’s my baby. The baby I wanted so much to be a boy at first. Ultrasound said there’s a vagina and we were floored. “A girl? Really?! Are you sure? Um, what the hell am I going to do with a girl?!” But she arrived, early in the afternoon, all 7 pounds and 3 ounces of her, lily-white and blue-eyed. Amazing.

All told, she’s a lovely little creature. Walking and talking on the early side, and kinda tiny. Big, brown eyes like mine, with sweeping long lashes, like daddy’s. She’s a clever little monkey too. Sings all the live-long day… she counts as she’s climbing steps, or lining up grapes. She loves lollipops. And pasta. And French fries. She won’t drink milk anymore, but thank goodness for cheese and ice-cream. I wish she’d eat more at one time, but she appears to be growing perfectly well… I don’t worry about it. She continues to be a good sleeper, and though the naps are getting shorter, she’s happy to announce that she’s tired, and heads for the crib. Not bad.

Ava Scarlett, my darling girl… I can see that you’re well on the way to being a headstrong woman. We will fight. I will lose. But I wouldn’t want you to be any less than you are. I have such high hopes for you… for now, let’s just talk a whole lot more so I can know what goes on inside that funny little head of yours. You daze me sometimes. Your level of understanding of the things around you is truly awesome. You made me get more in touch with my sense of girliness, and now it would appear that I cannot resist a tutu. For you, or for myself. What a hip little kid you are! Cool.

Let’s keep singing our jazzy renditions of Pop Goes the Weasel, and make up silly rhyming songs about cutting off toes and baking them into pies. I love that you think those games are hysterical. I think you are hysterical. And who ever thought patent-leather shoes could be so much fun?

Happy Birthday, baby. I love you very much, my sweet peach. Je t’aime, beaucoup-beaucoup.

And thanks for not giving me stretch-marks.

G.G.

The baby doesn’t listen to anything I say. It would appear that her brother rules the roost.

I say, “No running!” and she only runs faster. If her brother tells her not to, she will (usually) stop dead in her tracks.

I say something like, “Miss? Can you please put that wrapper in the garbage?” and she just wanders away from me, like she’s deaf or something.

I repeat: “Ava Scarlett? You need to put that wrapper in the garbage where it belongs, please.” She walks away, shaking her head saying, “Ah… no t’ank you, mummy.”

I say, “Madame! Come back here!!” Nothing. Of course.

Oliver calmly looks up from his crayoning, and says, “Ava Scarlett, you see that wrapper from the chocolate you had before? Well, you have to put it in the garbage where it belongs, so mummy will give you MORE chocolate next time, and anyway, Santa is watching, and he won’t bring you any presents if you’re a naughty girl, so could you please just put it in the garbage now, and don’t antagonize mummy, because anyway, we don’t want her to be cross.” (Yes, this is exactly what he said. I am amazed.)

She blinks at him twice.

Then she walks back over to the table, picks up the crumpled piece of cellophane, and says, “O-tay, Al-lay…” and promptly deposits the debris into the trash can under the sink.

I take a deep breath and pretend not to be offended that I clearly have no authority here. Le sigh.

And then I get a great idea.

“Oliver? Do you think you could take your sister to the potty and explain how it works to her? I think she’d like your company. Maybe you can read her a book too?” He can’t exactly read yet, but he’s heard the stories a million times… pick your book.

“Okay,” he breathes, putting his crayons down. “C’mon, Ava. Let’s try to have a pee-pee on the potty, okay?”

“O-tay, Al-lay.” She follows him blindly into the bathroom.

It takes all of my restraint not to interfere. I overhear him explaining “being a big girl” to her. “And you know what else? Maybe we can make a chart, and you can get stickers, and if you do a REALLY good job, mummy will give you some marshmallows or something. You like marshmallows! But, you have to have a pee-pee first. That’s just how it goes, you know. Just sit right here…”

I saw him take a train picture book in the bathroom. I hear him asking her which diesel she likes better – the red or the yellow? They chat and giggle. I get the camera.

And this is what I saw…

She didn’t make a pee-pee, but Oliver assured her that it was okay, and that it’s important that she tried. That they will try again a little later. Can you imagine?!

Oh my lord, sometimes I just want to EAT them… freaking adorable is what they are. (Though sometimes I just want to roast them, really.)

I’m so pleased and thankful that my boy is such a good little egg… or at least seems to be. For the most part, he is very kind to his sister. And I believe he has more patience than I have to spare at any given moment in the day, so perhaps that’s why she listens to him and not me. She thinks she’s his twin. She wants to do everything he does. I’m thrilled that he’s so polite, because she is following suit… she says everything the way he says it. It’s making the job a little bit easier.

Yes, I hereby declare that Oliver is in charge. My work here is done.

Please pass the wine.

G.G.