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Trifecta

dawn — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 16:28:17 +0000

On Tuesday Annabella hopped off the bus from camp and told me she had gotten poison ivy in the Amazon Valley. Which is awesome, right?
I have my own doubts about whether poison ivy grows in the Amazon Valley, but she did have a lot of redness and swelling about the legs. We washed her up and applied her prescription hydrocortisone, as the area was also littered with mosquito bites. [The prescription is from two years ago, when I actually took her to see the pediatrician because of a mosquito bite on her face that resembled a golf ball. Yes, I'm that mother. Shocked? Me, too.]
Now, because I did not plan ahead, I helped her take off her clothes after applying the lotion. In that process I noticed that she had her swim suit on. Over the swim suit she had her underpants, then her shorts.
I said, “What’s with the underpants?”
Annabella replied, “We were in a hurry to get dressed after swimming and get on the bus.” OK, fair enough, but she continued, “I put my swim suit on over my underpants when we were getting ready to go swimming, but it felt funny. So I took them off.”
“Good thinking,” I said as I wondered to myself whether it could have possibly been that long since the last time I took her swimming. Less than a month, which seems odd, but then again, she’s probably on her own getting changed.
The next day after camp we had to pick up dinner on the way home, so she could be at her soccer game on time. On the ride home we talked about her day at camp, what she had been up to, etc. I remarked, “Short on time again, today? I see you’ve got your swim suit on under your clothes again.”
“Yep. I made sure to put my underpants on when I got dressed, though. This time I put them under my swim suit.” Bad mother that I am sometimes, I giggled. “Do not laugh at me, Mom!” Annabella demanded loudly.
“I’m sorry honey. I am not laughing at you. I am utterly charmed by the way you see things. It has been a very long time since I was 6 years old. You have a very unique way of approaching the world. By the way, when you get dressed over your swim suit, you do not have to wear your under pants, you can just leave them in your backpack.” This answer satisfied her somewhat, but as I kept smiling she kept glowering at me.
Which brings us to yesterday. Yesterday after camp we went into the Y, so I could get some exercise before we went home for dinner. When Annabella got off the bus yesterday she was not wearing her bathing suit with her clothes. I commented without smiling too much, “So, either you didn’t swim today or you had more time to change, huh?”
Annabella told me, with delight in her eyes, “Well, Mom, actually we did have more time to change. But I did what you suggested.”
Confused, I said, “Wait, what? What did you do?”
She said, “I skipped my underpants when I got dressed after swimming. I threw them in my backpack. I. Am. Not. Wearing. Any. Underpants!” And with that she burst out laughing like she had pulled of the greatest joke in the history of mankind.
Now I know for certain that she listens when I talk. Whether or not she actually understands what I’m saying remains to be seen.
No underpants. Commando camper.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

dawn — Tue, 15 Jun 2010 02:00:51 +0000

While driving home from soccer practice tonight, Annabella asked me, “Mom, how high can you count?”
I said, “I can’t really say, honey. I’m pretty good at counting and, given unlimited time, I could probably count quite high.”
“Then what is your favorite number?”
“My favorite number happens to be the number 2. What about you? What’s your favorite number?”
“When I become president, I think my favorite number will be 50.”
So, thinking it has to do with the number of states, or something like that, I ask, “And why do you think the number 50 will be your favorite?”
“I don’t know. It just sounds right.”
“Ok,” I say, “So, I notice you say when, not if you become president, is this something you’re planning on doing?”
“I think it would be a good idea.”
“Just to be clear, you are talking about becoming president of the United States, right? Not president of a company or a club or something?”
“Yep.”
Perfect.

Soccer Mom

dawn — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 15:31:07 +0000

I just signed Annabella up for a short 3 week soccer clinic. If it goes well, she will join a local U8 soccer team and play a season from the end of April through the end of June. There are two evenings a week, one for practice, one for a game.
You may be witnessing the birth of a soccer mom. Now, will I have to trade in my (RECALLED!?!?!!!) Matrix for a minivan?

17 Month Old Object Lessons

dawn — Mon, 10 Jan 2005 21:01:28 +0000

On January 3rd, I went to a blood drive and donated. It was the first time I’ve donated since the embargo on my blood (I could not donate for 12 months after receiving platelets during my c-section) it was far from the first timeI’d ever donated blood. It’s something I do, something I believe in. On that day my daughter was 17 months old, and it had been more than a year since she’s had a blood transfusion.
I didn’t keep a pregnancy journal. Mostly because if I had kept track of how crummy I was feeling, I’d never be willing to do it again. As it stands, I’m not sure I’d be willing to do it again anyway, but for other reasons.
I didn’t keep a baby book. A regular one just doesn’t have the milestones that meant the most her first few months. While they do have baby books for preemies, it doesn’t seem like the stuff you really want to commit to memory.
“Today Bella graduated from the ventilator to the C-PAP.”
“Today Bella got her first eye exam.”
I can still put myself right back there, feel the awe and fear and hope and dread all at once. And putting a date on it, doesn’t begin to cover the experience.
So, as Bella’s first birthday rolled around, I thought I’d write her a letter. A letter to tell her how prescious a gift she is. A letter to cover her first year. I can’t say for sure why I haven’t managed to write that letter. Part of me wants to shield her from the experience, and part of me wants to keep her from ever using that as an excuse.
I never want to hear, “Mom, I can’t learn long division, I had a brain bleed.” “Mom, I can’t join soccer, I had chronic lung disease.” “Mom, I can’t keep my room clean, I was alone in an isolette for too long.”
Yet, somehow, I want to give her the feeling of, “If I could make it through that, when I was so little and so fragile, I can do anything!” And you can’t do that by not talking about it.
Although I’d like to think that it’s just that the first year is hard to sum up, I’ve realized that I gain new perspective on it almost every day. And before I start to really revise the details to suit my own feelings, I will commit to being brave enough to write it down.