God makes them cute for a reason

Terrible Twos. We've always said we'd rather have a Bart Simpson than a Martin Prince, and boy, do we. No fear. No fear of parental consequences either. The past few days (in part because of the weather) have been peppered with what I call fits of the 2-yr crazies. The running and screaming and refusal to listen and follow directions...

I know things would be better in our own house (maybe really soon!?), where she can run and scream and not bother anyone but me during the day, but really, sometimes I expect pea soup.

So then, she does something heartbreaking.

I love to listed to her talk to Baby. She is so sweet and nurturing as she says things like, "oh, my precious baby daughter" and "don't worry, hon, mommy's here..." It almost brings tears to my eyes and makes me forget the throwing of 5 puzzles across the bedroom, or the thousands of rubber bands she set free...

And then. She finally gave Baby a name, after 14 months. Carla. "Like my mommy."

(Ainslie) Jane of the Jungle

I thought we were done with the climbing.

Last night, really, it had only been about a minute--I tested the bath water for temperature, stepped out into the hall and found a trail of clothing, shoes, and hair accessories leading to our bedroom, where Naked Ainslie was poised to jump off the bed onto the diaper pail she'd placed perilously far from the bed and close to the door facing. With a wild shriek, there she went. BOING...Boing...boom.
Bewildered, I asked my miraculously unhurt monkey, "What are you doing?" Dumb question, I know. The answer consisted of another jungle-girl shriek and running away, down the hall.

This morning, the potty chair had been moved near the dresser, and I caught her just as she was trying to balance the nefarious diaper pail on top of the potty. You see, there is hand lotion, waaaay up high. Potty chair, your job is officially over. Ainslie can make her way to the big potty every time from now on. Diaper pail, you weren't pulling your weight anymore anyway, with just a few nighttime wet pull-ups.

Now what? Suction cups?

Cage Match

I remember reading, in horror, stories of terrible people who were found keeping their children in cages. How could someone do that? I'm now beginning to wonder whether they were on to something.

Ainslie was moved out of her crib because she was vaulting over the side rail; obviously this was unsafe. Now, she is in a twin bed that she has been getting out of for 2 hours straight the past 3 nights. If I only had a 'lid' for her bed. Maybe something like this already exists? I'm off to Google. If not, I think there is an untapped market for Child Cages, cleverly disguised in bold or pastel colors as 'bed buddies' or something like that.

There was a little girl, who had a little curl...

Remember the rest of this nursery rhyme? I live with the subject. When she is good, she is very, very good, and the rest of the time, well, she's 2 and a half. For the first time last night, I identified with some of the old-time-fundamentalist-tent-revival folks who think naughty children need demons cast out of them! Seriously, she was downright impish, and not in the cute way. I took away dress-up clothes, then the easel and art supplies, tried time-out (would you believe she got OUT OF THE CHAIR five times in a row?!) and nothing phased her. I'll even admit that I spanked her, and still, no reaction (which just makes my belief that spanking doesn't do any good that much stronger.)

I know they've been called the Terrible Twos for generations, and most people tell me three is even worse. I know she is developing emotionally and is only 31 months old. I know it is my job (one that I prayed for for years) to get us all through this, but YIKES.

So last night, after screaming through the furniture store, trying to wipe the dogs' noses with kleenex after being told not to a dozen times (the dogs loved that), whining, whining, and more screaming, disagreeing with everything she was told, the time-out incident, and getting out of bed 5 million times, finally, at 10 pm she appears to be un-possessed for a minute. I held her and told her that I love her more than anything in the whole wide world, even when her behavior is bad and I am upset with her. I told her that because I love her I have to make sure she doesn't grow up to be a brat, but a nice girl and a loving person. Her response? "Like you, mommy?' Awwwwwwwwww. Sincerity or cleverly outwitting me?

57 days until our vacation

But who's counting?

I'm hanging on to this because I am hopeful that after we look forward to it for so long, then go and come home, our house will have sold and we can focus on moving, thereby avoiding serious clinical depression.

I will miss Ainslie terribly. I will worry. I might cry.

BUT

I will sleep past 6:30 am.
I will read books without pictures.
I will probably gain 10 pounds because I only have to feed myself.
I will not blow on anyone's food.
I will get ready to go somewhere (like to another buffet) in less than an hour and a half.
I will have conversations with Craig and other adults that do not include shouted interjections about climbing, jumping, yelling, or riding the dog.
I will nap.
I will wear makeup.
I will drink. Probably more than is prudent.
I will engage in adult activity without being paged, loudly.

Ah. I will miss my sweet, funny little girl, but today I am counting 57 days.

Jabberwocky

First, let me just state a disclaimer: I know how blessed and lucky I am to have Ainslie; a child in general, and Ainslie in particular. This is not a complaint. It may be a cry for help, or at least, a cry.

For all my exclaiming about her perfection over the past 29 months, I have, sadly, found a chink in her armour. She did not come factory eqipped with an Indoor Voice or an Off Button. The child's normal voice is a quiet scream, and she uses it approximately 12 hours a day, which translates roughly to Every Waking Moment.

Now, she says some amazing and hilarious things---she remembers everything and also has the ability to synthesize information into new thoughts and put things together with logic and say all sorts of things that just astound me. She is also very adept at narrating the events around us to a harrowing degree of minutia. She also monitors my response like a drill sergeant; if I don't respond immediately to a comment about the red car next to us, I am met with a frantic, "MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY! DERE'S A WED CAR WIGHT NEXT TO US! EE IT? EE IT?"

Then there is the endless Pretend Play. Again, I AM thrilled that she is so good at this for her age, I mean, I can tell she knows what is real and what is pretend, but she will carry her games over so they overlap with reality, in almost a tongue-in-cheek way. For instance, she knows the Disney Princesses are wearing thin with me, so we'll be out somewhere and she'll mention they came too, but in their own car. The trouble here is that once we start using pixie dust to dance or fly, we aren't allowed to stop. For anything.

Who knew how exhausting it could be just to hear someone talk all day? By the time she goes to bed I am zapped. I want complete silence. TV doesn't even offer any sort of soothing. I just want some peace.

Again, this isn't really a complaint--I would much rather be here than be worried that my child wasn't speaking or having pretend play. I guess I'm just looking for a little commiseration, and a little reassurance that this too, will pass, and someday I'll want her to talk to me so bad that I'd endure all those princesses being around.

Today I love this age

Today I have to post an "I love this age" entry about Ainslie. Last night I could have just as easily posted an, "Urrrrggghhh this age where they talk, talk, TALK for HOURS at a time!" entry, but today is better. :-)
I love this age. I love seeing her progress with her "reading" and with her imaginative games. This morning while I was getting myself ready she was reading to Baby. She has just about all of her favorite books memorized, so she just imitates me. It was downright heart-melting that she even sings, "Pajama Time" instead of reading it. If she can't remember the words on a particular page, she narrates by using the picture. Pretty darned resourceful I'd say!

I remember doing the same thing, and I remember Carrie doing that too, especially with Mother Goose rhymes. You don't realize it at the time, but those rhymes are actually good for you--rhyming words, memorization...good stuff! Ainslie is so proud of herself when she can either 'read' or recite a whole Rhyme. Her Humpty Dumpty is Oscarworthy, I tell ya, and she also does a mean Little Miss Muffett. Doesn't she wonder what the heck a tuffett is, or is she "using context to gain meaning?"

The other thing that has me laughing is the pretend play. This morning, all the Disney princesses (except Jasmine--too far? Too rough a time change?) came over, introduced themselves, and then got into the van (Ainslie drove) to go to Bob Evans for cinnamon rolls and coffee, although Ainslie also ordered her staples of mac and cheese, broccoli, chicken fingers and french fries, with milk, juice, and water. Guess I should have fed her a better breakfast. After Bob Evans, they all went to Washington Park, where they played on the various equipment, before getting bored and driving to Rotary Park (aka Rodeo Park if you're 2.) Finally, I had to drive everyone home to the castle, and Ainslie decided to go live at the castle too. That was hard. I'll sure miss her.

My Yucky Day, by Ainslie Wilson

Sometimes it is so hard to be 2 years old.

I woke up this morning, ready to play, but not remembering how tired and behind in my sleep I am. I managed to hold it together through breakfast and some playing with Mom, then I became incredibly sleepy and wet my pants, I mean full-out peed in my shoes, for the first time since I can remember. I swear, I just couldn't get the words out in time. After having a bath at 9:30 am, I felt quite ready for lunch, so I ate my leftover chicken and fries and let mom put me down for a nap.

This was all fine, except I awoke at 11 am with no intention of resting at all for the remainder of the day. Instead, I just felt like crying about everything. Mom got mad at me for my continuous crying, and that just made me feel worse, so I cried more. And louder.

Finally, around 3pm, mom said we could go to the Y. Something about she needed just 30 minutes to herself with no one demanding anything from her...? Anyhoo, we got there and my frazzled mom realized that the kids' room re-opens at FOUR, not one o' clock as she had thought, so I didn't get to play with the kids and Miss Keisha, instead, I had to go to the grocery store.

However, things seemed to be turning around. For once, there was a race car cart available and mom let me ride in it. We got all the things I like: bananas, cereal bars, yogurt, and then mom said we could go to Sam's. I love that place! Today we got to try some brownies and ice cream. Good trip.

When we came out of Sam's, the sun had finally come out and Mommy and I both felt we could make it until Dad came home, and ultimately, bed time. When Daddy came home, he wanted to ride bikes with me, hooray! Mommy said she had work to do (?) so she didn't come, but I rode my bike and Daddy walked to my pretend church around the corner where the sidewalk ends. I got off my bike, took off my helmet, folded my hands and sang, "Jesus Loves Me" and said Peace to all the pretend people. Then, I went up for a blessing and a mean, horrible, stupid BEE stung me on the eye. THAT HURT!

By the time Dad ran me back home and Mommy gave me 2 kinds of medicine, I just wanted this day to be over. I ate a little bit, cried some more, and finally went to sleep. Tomorrow just has to be better.

You know it's going to be a long day when...

"Mommy! My toes are pink!"

These are the first words I heard from Ainslie yesterday morning. I thought she said her nose was pink, so I rushed across the hall, thinking maybe she was having a nosebleed. Nope. She had somehow reached a little makeup bag that I keep in that room (I like the light and she can play while I get ready) and had painted her fingernails, toenails, arms, legs and nightgown OPI Bubble Bath.

She also drained a liquid eyeshadow, painted the case to my blush and unscrewed the lid to my mascara. Mercifully, she didn't actually open the mascara. I didn't know whether to punish her or laugh, she looked so proud of herself, yet she had that gleam. Of course she knew better. As for how she reached the darned thing, I still can't figure it out. Apparently she's been watching Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. The worst part is, for a 2-yr old, she did a pretty decent job on her nails.

The killer was, when we went downstairs, she told her grandpa, very seriously, "Grandpa, I'm a mess."