Things of Which We Should Not Speak
We've now entered the era when Pie is speaking. Truly speaking. Which means double the fun for you guys. For instance, Doodles takes swimming at our Y. Pie just watches simply because there was no toddler class at the same time, and the toddler classes are just to get used to the water and the preschool classes are to really learn how to swim. After class, I changed Doodles from his swimsuit to his clothes. Pie leans down curiously, sticks out her finger, and says to me, "Look at p*enis?" I explain that it's a private part, and no, she can't stare at it. That night in the bathroom getting ready for her bath, Pie looked down and then looked back at me. "Where's my p*enis?" she asked. I explained that she doesn't have one. This morning, we did another role call of body parts as I changed her diaper. "Doodles has p*enis?" I respond in the affirmative. She continues, "Pie has gagina?" Again, a yes. "Mommy has a gagina?" Oh, that girl is going to be a hit in preschool today!
Speaking of preschool, Pie went for an hour on Monday. Pie is the only one in class with day care experience. Pie is the only one used to such intense socializing. Pie is the only one who's used to having teachers as caregivers. Anyone want to guess who the only one in the room to cry at drop off was?
One awwww moment: Doodles and Pie have a toy that you can record into. Adam discovered that Doodles had recorded: "I love you, Pie, but sometimes you make me so mad!"
On Tuesday, I dropped Doodles off at school and realized that Pie had a stinky tush. As I insist that my child retain membership in the Clean Tushie Club, I made a detour home to change her diaper before we headed out on our daily activity. I run in, change Pie's diaper, set her down to grab a cup of coffee to go, and then go to head out. It's time to go. We need to leave. So where the hell are my keys? I've been home for no more than five minutes, and I definitely used my keys to open the front door. Check the TV table by the front door. Nope. Check in the cushions of the couch. Nope. Check the diaper changing table. Nope. Check by the coffee pot. Nope. Check the floor between the diaper changing table and the coffee pot. Nope. Check my pockets. Nope. Ask Pie, "Do you know where Mommy's keys are?" Pie tilts her head and thinks, finally saying with a questioning voice, "Stroller?" "Thanks anyway, Sweetie," I say. "We haven't used the stroller in days. See if you can help Mommy find the keys," which is her sign to continue ignoring me. Okay, go back and check all of those places again. One more time. One last time. No keys. Adam never takes the keys to my car with him ("Too bulky," he says), so I give up and head into his basement office to get them. Would you believe today is the one day he took those keys with him? THOSE DAMN KEYS ARE SOMEWHERE! How did I possibly lose my keys in the space of five minutes? That's unusual even for me. I'm tracing my steps one more time, when out of the corner of my eye, I see skulking in the corner of the hallway to the bathroom... Pie's toy stroller. "Stroller?" I mutter. "No, couldn't be." I look into the stroller and don't see anything. I take out the baby doll. I take out the toy phone. I take out the airplane. And lo and behold, what is at the bottom of that stroller? My keys. Moral of the story: Always listen to your child.
Of course, there are those children who don't like to speak. Last year, everyday when I picked Doodles up from school, I'd ask him, "What did you do today?" and I'd get one of three answers: "I don't know." "I don't remember." "I sat and did nothing." Luckily the teacher posted a list outside of the classroom of what they did so I could do a little prompting. "Did you make a bird's nest out of paper? Did you have movement today?" So now, Doodles is a year older and a year wiser. He adores his school--on the front door of the classroom is an elephant with his name on it, and he needs to take it from the door and place it in a "We are here" chart, which is he absolutely loves to do--but I still want to hear about his day. On the first day of school, I put him in his car seat and asked, "So, Doodles! What did you do at school today?" Doodles gave me his most exasperated look and sighed his biggest sigh. "Mom!" he exclaimed. "The teachers posted in on the wall! Didn't you read it?"
And thus, our school year begins.
Speaking of preschool, Pie went for an hour on Monday. Pie is the only one in class with day care experience. Pie is the only one used to such intense socializing. Pie is the only one who's used to having teachers as caregivers. Anyone want to guess who the only one in the room to cry at drop off was?
One awwww moment: Doodles and Pie have a toy that you can record into. Adam discovered that Doodles had recorded: "I love you, Pie, but sometimes you make me so mad!"
On Tuesday, I dropped Doodles off at school and realized that Pie had a stinky tush. As I insist that my child retain membership in the Clean Tushie Club, I made a detour home to change her diaper before we headed out on our daily activity. I run in, change Pie's diaper, set her down to grab a cup of coffee to go, and then go to head out. It's time to go. We need to leave. So where the hell are my keys? I've been home for no more than five minutes, and I definitely used my keys to open the front door. Check the TV table by the front door. Nope. Check in the cushions of the couch. Nope. Check the diaper changing table. Nope. Check by the coffee pot. Nope. Check the floor between the diaper changing table and the coffee pot. Nope. Check my pockets. Nope. Ask Pie, "Do you know where Mommy's keys are?" Pie tilts her head and thinks, finally saying with a questioning voice, "Stroller?" "Thanks anyway, Sweetie," I say. "We haven't used the stroller in days. See if you can help Mommy find the keys," which is her sign to continue ignoring me. Okay, go back and check all of those places again. One more time. One last time. No keys. Adam never takes the keys to my car with him ("Too bulky," he says), so I give up and head into his basement office to get them. Would you believe today is the one day he took those keys with him? THOSE DAMN KEYS ARE SOMEWHERE! How did I possibly lose my keys in the space of five minutes? That's unusual even for me. I'm tracing my steps one more time, when out of the corner of my eye, I see skulking in the corner of the hallway to the bathroom... Pie's toy stroller. "Stroller?" I mutter. "No, couldn't be." I look into the stroller and don't see anything. I take out the baby doll. I take out the toy phone. I take out the airplane. And lo and behold, what is at the bottom of that stroller? My keys. Moral of the story: Always listen to your child.
Of course, there are those children who don't like to speak. Last year, everyday when I picked Doodles up from school, I'd ask him, "What did you do today?" and I'd get one of three answers: "I don't know." "I don't remember." "I sat and did nothing." Luckily the teacher posted a list outside of the classroom of what they did so I could do a little prompting. "Did you make a bird's nest out of paper? Did you have movement today?" So now, Doodles is a year older and a year wiser. He adores his school--on the front door of the classroom is an elephant with his name on it, and he needs to take it from the door and place it in a "We are here" chart, which is he absolutely loves to do--but I still want to hear about his day. On the first day of school, I put him in his car seat and asked, "So, Doodles! What did you do at school today?" Doodles gave me his most exasperated look and sighed his biggest sigh. "Mom!" he exclaimed. "The teachers posted in on the wall! Didn't you read it?"
And thus, our school year begins.
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