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.

Earlier this week, one of my girlfriends came over for lunch and a chat – she brought McDonald’s (because that’s just how ladies-who-lunch do, yo!) and I’d just put Ava Scarlett to bed for a nap about thirty minutes prior, but I could still hear the little demon making noises. Chatting with the devil and making deals, I guessed. Her horns get rather pointy when she doesn’t sleep enough. Fortunately (for her) this is rare.

Naptime isn’t usually an issue for us. Like I did with her brother, sometime around 12:45 PM I change her diaper, all the while telling her that it’s time for a sleep, and that I’ll see her in a little while, and I just chuck her into her crib, cover her up, and say “sleep well” while closing the doors behind me. That’s it. Sometimes I can hear her singing and chatting away to herself… and then, after a while… silence. On days when the clock’s hands are creeping closer to 2 PM and I can still here her talking in there, I stand outside her door and say, “Ava Scarlett? It’s time for sleep now. Ssshhhh!! Sleep.” And I walk away again. I hear nothing again until I have to wake her from a deep slumber forty-five minutes later, wherein I throw a coat and hat on her and chuck her into the stroller, so we can collect her brother from school before 3 PM.

Normally, this scenario doesn’t waver much.

Though on this day, soon after my friend and I are tucking into our salty, greasy cheeseburgers and fries, cackling to ourselves, and trying to cram months of conversation into a too-short time slot, my friend stops talking mid-sentence, and peers curiously into the hallway. I hear it too. Footsteps. Footsteps that do not belong to our dog, Charley.

I lean forward in from my seat in front of the fire, to have a look too. A short person has emerged. What the fuck? How did you…? When did…? What?!

“Madame! WHAT are you doing out of bed?” And more to the point, HOW exactly did she do it?! I was confused.

The worst part was she just kinda sauntered into the room, had a little look around… glanced at our lunch and said, “Oh! Freh fries!!”

“Yes, but these are not for you, my darling. It’s time for you to have a nap. Come on… let’s go back.”

She starts walking away from me, eyeballing me up and down, like I’m short. Scowling at me a little.

I mean, really.

My friend was as dumbfounded as I was, and was trying really hard not to laugh. She has three kids of her own. She knows about shit hitting fans.

I put her firmly back into her crib, telling her that she really must stay put, please, until I come to get her.

Yeah. Right.

Of course, less than 15 minutes later, she emerged once more, though this time as I glowered at her audacity entering kitchen (and fucking up my lunch date – the nerve!) she wandered over to me with her head cocked to the side, and down a little bit… and sidled up to me. “Hi mah-mee.” She leaned her head against my arm, and put her thumb in her mouth.

Le sigh.

I scooped her up and put her on my lap. We had to leave for pick-up in about twenty minutes anyway.

I fast-forwarded in my head about how the rest of the day might play out with The Napless Wonder, and then chided myself and decided to go with the flow. I bet she’d sleep like a brick come bedtime anyway. Clearly, I had no control over this situation, so why break my head about it? Make like a duck, and let this stuff just roll off. No heart-attack today.

She did sleep like a brick that night. Same as every night. Though after two worry-free days, she made her escape again today. Twice. I was on the phone with a friend from New York – whom I almost NEVER get to speak to… so, of course she was up. Twice.

I think I’ll order that straightjacket I saw online… until it gets here? Duct tape and punches.

G.G.

I can hear the baby wandering around the house, going in and out of rooms aimlessly, until she finds me in the kitchen again. She comes to my feet and throws her hands in the air, leaning on me, saying, “UP!” and I lift her into my arms. She puts her right arm around my neck and squeezes me, her left thumb in her mouth, and she leans her forehead against my cheek. “Al-lay, ya?”

“Oliver is at school, baby. We will see him later. At three o’clock.”

“Daddy, ya?”

“Daddy is at work. We will see him tonight, after dinner.” This is a lie. Daddy won’t be home until long after bedtime tonight, but there’s no sense trying to explain that now.

“Aaa-aaa-aaw?” She whines, disappointed.

“I know. We will see Oliver and daddy later. Shall we have lunch? Would you like to have an egg for lunch today?”

“Ah… no. Uh-uh.” She is shaking her head.”

“You mean, no thank you?”

“No uuuuh, mummy.”

“What would you like to eat today for lunch, hmmm?”

“Pa-pa!”

“Pasta?”

“Ya.”

“Yes, please?”

“Yeh, leeee.”

“Okay. And what else shall we have for lunch?”

“Chee!”

“Cheese?”

“Um-hum.”

“And maybe some grapes?”

“Dape! Ya!”

“Okay. So pasta, and some cheese, and some grapes.”

“Ya.”

Leftover pasta and a handful of stuff from the fridge. Easy. And she’s talking a little bit more very day… life is good.

And this kid is adorable and everything, but I can hardly wait for naptime…

G.G.

Until recently, much of Ava Scarlett’s language has been baby blurbs of indecipherable nonsense, unless you know her as I do. I often know what she’s trying to say, even though her pronunciation is still far less than perfect. She stopped calling me “mumma” a while ago, in favour of “mimi” which I hated more than I can tell you. I actually wouldn’t answer her for a while, until she called me “mummy” (which sounds like “mah-mee?” all the time) like Oliver does. I’d remind her once, and then pretty much ignore her after that until she remembered. It worked. Not very nice of me, but I’m not a very nice mum. I do so love the sound of her little voice when she says “mah-mee?” even though it sounds like a question.

She seems to understand everything, and can point to something she wants, or to body parts when quizzed. She knows her foods. She knows our neighbours’ names. Hi… Bye-bye. Ta-ta for thank you. Aah-po is apple. Lately, we’ve been working on animal sounds. She knows most of the standard animals, and will say “doh” for dog, or “ka” for cat, “du” for duck. Many days, while walking with her in the stroller, we’ll sing Ava Scarlett Had a Farm, and she shouts out the animals of her choice, in order for her peon (me) to make the appropriate sounds for. I’m upping the game, and asking her to make the noises herself.

“Mis?” I’ll say. (It’s short for Mischief.) “What sound does a cow make?”

“Ee-iy-ee-iy-yooooh.” She sings.

Okay, not quite… but we’re getting there. She’s still little.

G.G.

I decided I had looked at my unpolished nails for long enough – I try to keep them nice-looking with two coats of buff nail polish, practically at all times, but somehow I’d managed to neglect them for the past week or so. Every time I look down at my hands, I groan at my failure to fix this… I hate the way they look unpolished.

I save this task for late-nights… the house it quiet, and I have no one but myself to tend to (for once) and have little worry of being interrupted. I’ll have time to let them dry before bed. It’s usually a good plan. Even the late-night feed I usually give the baby before I retire for the evening should be easy to manage with slightly tacky nails, if need be. I’ve done it many, many times before.

And indeed, I hear the little screech of the Little Screecher around 11 PM, and wave my hands around in the air as I walk to fetch her. I’ve already got the milk warmed. I am so smart.

I settle my little darling in my lap, and give her the last repass before morning… she is nearly a year-and-a-half-old baby, but she still takes less milk after dinner than she needs to make it until morning, so we’re still in the habit of feeding her a little more before we hit the sack. This is MUCH better than waking up at, say, 5 AM, or 3 AM, or 2 AM… I’ll do anything within my power to avoid that kind of hell. She’s been a bit congested lately, and could always use another cuddle. Besides that, she’s just a baby, and I don’t mind having another little snuggle with her, late at night like this. She’s growing so fast as it is… and they’re only babies once, you know.

After she’s drained off the five ounces of warm goodness, I hold her for another minute, waiting for the soporific effect to work it’s sleep-making magic. Instead, she coughs.

She coughs again.

Cough, cough…

Cough, cough, cough… (wretch) gurgle-Blaaaaugh!!! (heave) gurgle-Blaaaaugh… (heave) Blaaaugh…

Ho. Li. Shit. The entire content of this baby’s stomach is in my lap, along with her. She looks a bit surprised. I, of course, am waiting for her head to start spinning around, and when it doesn’t, I look at the two of us, assessing the damage. Not as bad as it could be.

“Uh-oh…” she says, in that sing-song baby way.

“Uh-oh is right.” I scoop her up carefully, trying not to spill on the couch. I JUST washed the slipcover yesterday. Yesterday!! Fuck. I hate washing the couch slipcover. With two kids in the house, I’ve been here before, sadly. Too many times to count. I manage to get her to the bathroom without spilling a drop on the couch. All the offending vomit and my baby are cradled tightly in my arms.

I think of dumping her into the shower, but then I remember my still-drying nails and decide to just wipe her down instead. She’s practically sleeping on her feet anyway, so I make it quick.

It smells so gross… but I’m long-past feeling the need to wretch myself. One becomes immune to this kind of thing after a time.

Within three minutes, she is washed and changed into pink Paul Frank monkey pajamas, and I’m tucking her back into her crib. “G’night, Pukey.” I close the doors of her room behind me.

I have a look at my nails… still shining and beautiful, showing no marring evidence of struggle. Bulletproof and ready for battle tomorrow. I am so smart. (Okay, maybe lucky.)

Save for the sweater and soiled jammies I throw into the sink to soak, I am unscathed. Yay for me.

I consider putting her up for adoption, but all that paperwork… I went to bed instead.

G.G.