the pieces of my life

When I was 26, I quit a good job, packed up all my belongings, spent three months driving cross country to reinvent myself. When I was settled in Seattle, I’d sometimes look at my life in wonder and think, “Wow, if I could that, I can do anything.”

When I was 28, I spent six and a half months picking kiwis on a kibbutz and then I spent a month and a half idling my way through Eastern Europe. When I survived three weeks in Bulgaria, I really felt it was an accomplishment. “If I could make it through Bulgaria on my own,” I thought, “I can do anything.”

When at the age of 32 I let my guy friends pressure me into riding a single-day double-century bike ride from Seattle to Portland (previous bike ride length at that point: 16 miles), I can’t begin to describe the feeling of elation I experienced when I, alone and tired after fourteen hours on a bike, crossed into Portland, Oregon. “I just freakin’ rode my bike two hundred miles!” I thought. “I can do anything!”

When at the age of 36, with a fourteen-month-old son, I completed my first marathon, I thought I was a rock star. Sure, it took me over five hours, but I did it. “I ran twenty six point two miles!” I thought. “There is absolutely nothing I can’t achieve.”

Last week I pushed my boundaries. I left my kids for the first time, I cross-country skied for the first time, I ran in seven degree weather. You guys all know how macho I felt. I am a freakin’ woman of steel.

Until. And then. Except.

Somehow, somewhere, for some reason, I decided it was a good idea to take my two children–my two-and-a-half-year-old toddler and my four-and-a-half-year-old preschooler–to New York City. In a car. By myself. For fun.

I have discovered that thing that I cannot do: I cannot survive thirty-six hours alone with my children.

I am broken.

But let me start at the beginning of this debacle. Doodles has been obsessed with Egypt, pharaohs, and pyramids for a long time now. Remember his birthday party? So I got this great idea (please read “great” dripping with sarcasm) of taking him to the Metropolitan Museum to visit the Temple of Dendur. “Wanna go to New York?” I asked him casually. “YES!!!!” came the resounding response.

Truth be told, I dilly dallied on the whole thing. I checked with my parents (who live in NYC part-time) and my sister (who lives there full-time, but works a hectic schedule) if they’d be around. I checked the weather. Hmmm, looks like snow. I thought about it. And then I realized, “This is a really stupid idea.” I basically told everyone we weren’t coming. “That’s probably a good idea,” my parents told me. My mother had foot surgery and has been hobbling around on a cane, not ideal for sightseeing with little ones. My sister would be teaching all day. Both my parents are currently spending a lot of their time searching for a bigger apartment.

Alas, the road to insanity is paved with stupid ideas (that’s how the expression goes, right?). On Wednesday morning, I was poking around Priceline. It was a gorgeous morning and I thought, “I can handle this!” so before I could come to my senses: Boom! I’ve booked us a room for two nights in New York.

That’s when the panic started. I called Adam, “What the F was I thinking? I can’t do this!”

“Don’t go,” he said.

“I already paid for the hotel room.”

“So what? We can eat the cost if we have to.”

But I, for one, am never one to “eat the cost,” frugal soul that I have, so while Doodles was at a playdate, I frantically packed us up, sinking ever deeper into a depression over my recklessness. After all, what does a four-and-a-half-year-old ever remember? Take a kid on a thousand dollar vacation to Paris, and what he’ll talk about is the bug he found crawling across his shoe at the Parisian playground.

So I sent Doodles off on a playdate and I packed up as fast as I could, trying to anticipate everything they’d need. It would have helped if I had tried to anticipate what I might have needed–in which case socks and deodorant might have made their way into my bag, and yes, I was a wee bit ripe by the end of the trip. Yet I wanted to keep everything to my one bag, their ice skating bag (I had visions of Wollman rink), plus toys in each of their backpacks. And a bag of snacks for the car.

The trip down was pretty uneventful. I picked up Doodles from his playdate and cleared up the confusion (“You’re taking him to New York to see the temple where the Jews pray?” I clarified it was where the Egyptians prayed, but he didn’t quite believe me). Pie slept for about an hour and a half and woke in relatively good spirits. Doodles was thrilled to get Triscuits–Triscuits!!–from a vending machine. Neither one got at all fussy till we’d already hit the Bronx. Including the one bathroom/vending machine stop, we made the trip in just barely over four hours. Found the hotel with no problem. Parking was just two blocks away. Trip is already a success!

We hop a subway to head to my parents’ apartment. Pie utters the comment she is to make every time we get onto the subway, “I LIKE the subway!” and Doodles scrambles for a window seat, despite my repeated insistence that we are underground and there is nothing to see! “Yes there is!” he insists. “Look! A wall!”

Dinner a Benny’s Burritos (the West Village one) is fine, although surprise surprise both kids make a dinner of chips. We leave my parents at about seven to head back to the hotel. “I LIKE the subway!” “I need a window seat!”

Out of the subway. Walking back to the hotel. And then it starts. The screams. “I want to go home!!!!” I assure Pie we’ll be back at the hotel in minutes. “No, HOME! I want to go home! RIGHT NOW!” For two blocks the munchkin is screaming and she won’t be appeased till we get back to the room and I turn on the TV. I make up a lovely nest for them on the floor–they’re so excited to sleep on the sleeping bag!–and in three seconds, they’ve happily ensconced themselves in the bed. So much for spacious living. Of course, Pie is incapable of falling asleep without some tears, and she cries for about thirty minutes, while I lie right next to her, ignoring her as I read my book. It’s really the only thing to do.

And then, they’re all asleep. It’s not easy to sleep with the two monkeys next to me. They end up head to head with each other, all cozied up, and then the next thing I feel is four little feet kicking my side as they’re lying perpendicular to me. But at least I can stop worrying about one of them falling out of the bed and I can drift off…

…until 2 a.m. Which is when the screaming started. Did you guys know that there is no toddler-appropriate TV on at 2 a.m.? Really! I know it’s shocking. I didn’t know how to calm the munchkin who has not only woken me and her brother, but I’m pretty sure is waking the whole hotel. So for an hour, she gets to watch The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It was the most appropriate thing I could find.

At 4 a.m., she drifts off into sleep, and I’m determined to eat the second night’s hotel cost and head back. Yet, at 8 a.m., when everyone is awake, I feel delirious from lack of sleep and think, “We can make it one more night. Right?”

Surprisingly, the day was somewhat of a success. The kids loved the Met. Doodles was fascinated by the mummies and the Temple of Dendur and Pie seemed to enjoy the Degas collection (one of her favorite books is Dancing with Degas). My mother met us for a bit and Tweeds came when my mom left. We had lunch at the mus
eum and when Tweeds had to go to work, the kids and I took a bus down a ways (“I LIKE the bus!”) and I let them go hog wild in Dylan’s Candy Bar.

Back at the hotel room around 3, and there were no complaints when I let them gorge themselves on their candy and watch PBS. Pie was tired–I didn’t bring a stroller out with us–but she revived quickly when presented with chocolate. I didn’t revive quite so quickly. The wear and tear of corralling those two through the museum (“Don’t touch that! Don’t wander off! No, you can’t eat in the museum! No I won’t buy that! Don’t touch! Don’t touch! DON’T TOUCH!”) took a toll on me and all I could do was let them rest so that I could have a minute of downtime (“Mommy are you going to sleep? No, Mommy!” Pie says laughing. “You have to wake up! WAKE UP, MOMMY!!”) We met my parents for dinner again and Pie told them her favorite part of the day was, “I like the Degas,” and Doodles told them, “I got to watch TV… during the day!”

On Friday a snow storm was predicted so I wanted to get out of town nice and early. It was nothing major–just two to four inches–but I figured why risk traffic and snow. Of course, by the time we woke up at 6:45 a.m., three inches had already fallen and five to seven inches was expected, so I rushed the kids through their hotel breakfast (“Can I have a yogurt? Can I have an orange? Can I have more cereal? Can I have a bagel with cream cheese? Can I have another waffle?” and “Just a waffle for me. Okay a little cereal. No milk in it!”), and I managed to trudge through the snow with Pie in the stroller, the skate bag around my neck (“Why didn’t we go ice skating?” “Uh, I took you for candy instead.” “Okay!”), the clothing bag also around my neck, and the diaper bag hanging precariously as I discovered that, no, a $10 umbrella stroller cannot make it through the corner snow banks. But we got back to the car, and headed out in the mess.

The trip home was painfully slow–I skidded a few times on I-95, the snow was so bad–and the kids were edgy. At one point, I’m on the Triboro bridge, looking for signs for the Bruckner expressway. I’m trying desperately to see through the snowy fog and the moron car in front of me doesn’t have his lights on, making him nearly invisible. The snow is coming down fast, and I need to make sure I don’t accidentally head toward the George Washington bridge. I’ve shushed the kids as I’m trying to not skid across the road, but I keep hearing a “Mommy! Mommy. MOMMY!” and finally I yell back, “What, Pie? I’m trying to concentrate here,” and she asks, “Can you open my window?” and then adds, “Pleeeeaaaase?”

The “No,” didn’t go over that well. So she then turns to her brother: “Doodles? Doodles! DOOOOODLES! Are you awake, Doodles?” As if he had a choice.

Just over five hours later, we’ve arrived home. Of course, I needed to shovel my way into the driveway, as the storm followed us, but soon we were inside, ready to collapse. Pictures, by the way, are posted.

Would I do it again? Sure. In three years. With a nanny. And a lobotomy.

I love my daughter to death. I know that there’s nothing in this world she can’t do. But, but, but… Right now she spends all her time, with a notebook and “pencil” (read: pens) in hand, scribbling. All day. All over the place. “I want to draw!” she says and she creates these pages of scribble. “How do you spell your name?” she asks me, Adam, and Doodles, and then she scribbles. “What do you want for lunch?” she asks, taking our order and then she scribbles. She’s left-handed, so she has that odd writing hunch as she scribbles. She can sit for a good hour scribbling. She fills notebooks up with these tiny little scribbles. Today we call her Pie. Tomorrow we’ll call her Unabomber. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I cut my finger last week. Not a big deal. A little bloody, but minor. But the thing is it’s on my thumb and as such I keep hitting it and it’s not getting better, so I’ve been putting Neosporin on it and stuck a Band-Aid on. Which is kind of like pasting a flashing neon sign on myself that says, “Please, ask me about my cut. Again. And again. And again. And again…”

Pie: What’s that?
Me: I cut myself.
Pie: How?
Me: With a knife.
Pie: Why?
Me: Because I was careless.
Pie: So you cut yourself?
Me: Yes.
Pie: With a knife?
Me: Yes.
Pie: Why do you have a Band-Aid? [Repeat ad nauseam]

And then, the coup de grace: On Sunday morning, I got up early and without thinking I grabbed a Band-Aid and stuck it on. It wasn’t until it was out of the paper that I realized my error: I had grabbed a Sponge Bob Band-Aid.

Pie: What’s that?
Me: A Band-Aid.
Doodles: Is that a Sponge Bob Band-Aid???
Me: Yes.
Doodles: Why do you have a Sponge Bob Band-Aid?
Me: I took it by mistake.
Doodles: I LOVE Sponge Bob!
Me: What do you possibly know of Sponge Bob? You’re not allowed to watch it.
Doodles: I LOVE Sponge Bob. Can I have a Band-Aid?
Me: No.
Pie: Can I have a Band-Aid?
Me: No.
Doodles and Pie: I WANT A BAND-AID!

Luckily I was running a half marathon that morning so I only had to deal with the Band-Aid bandits’ demands for a mere three hours before being dropped off in Hampton, New Hampshire. I met up with my friends from my boot camp class, although I knew I wasn’t as prepared for the race as they were, so I chose not to run with them and ran with a friend from my Saturday running group who assured me she’d be going slowly but still beat me by a good minute (Hi A.M.! Good run!). The race itself was pretty good–not too hilly, nice scenery, lots of the run was on the coast–but the weather wasn’t great. Started off chilly, but nice, in the lower 30s. By about mile 8 the rain started. By mile 9 it turned into a heavy snow that kept flying into my eyes. By the end, I was jonesing for both the soup and beer waiting for me. But I did much better than I had thought I would–I ran it in 1:54:34–although I was sore for a good two days after.

Anyway, after the race Adam and the kids and my in-laws met up with me, and we all went out for a nice lunch at the Old Salt. Doodles has made HUGE strides in his feeding group, and he will now eat a fish stick or two, which means our dining options have grown. So we went for lunch where I smell (no showers after the run), Doodles is eating fish sticks, and Pie is trying to choke herself with my medal. Halfway through the meal, I look down and comment to Adam, “Um, my Band-Aid is gone and I have no idea where it is.” But the highlight was when Doodles hopped up from his seat and proclaimed loudly enough for the next five tables to hear: “I need to poop!”

Adam quickly shuffles him toward the bathroom, and I can hear him calling loudly, “I have poop inside me! I also have–“

Adam quickly cut him off with “We can talk about it when we get in the bathroom.”

So of course, in the bathroom, Doodles completes that thought: “I also have sperm inside me.”

(Note, I’ve tried explaining to him that, no, he doesn’t have sperm in him yet, but that conversation has gone nowhere fast.)

So now I’m sore. Doodles has sperm. And, for the record, Adam found my Band-Aid. In the wash.

And no. You can’t have a Band-Aid, either.

Pie has some very strong opinions… (Contact me if you don’t have the password. If I know you–or know of you–I’m happy to give it to you.)

In case you were wondering, peeing on the bath mat before climbing into the bathtub does not, repeat not, earn you a potty treat. I don’t care how loudly you yell.

When Pie has a temper tantrum, I’ve learned to just walk away. They come fast, they come furious, they come frequently. Every little thing turns into a temper tantrum. If I walk away, the tantrum will eventually end and things can proceed as they were. Except…

Except…

Except it’s no longer just me that Pie has to break. It’s not longer me who has to stick with the “When you have a temper tantrum, you get nothing” rule. Because now there is Doodles. And Doodles can’t stand to see his sister in distress.

Pie was having a meltdown. I can’t remember over what. It could have been a) because I forgot and smooched her b) because she wanted a yogurt and couldn’t be bothered to ask me in a normal tone of voice c) because she wanted 2-3-4-5 pencils and I only gave her 1-2-3 and then I took them away when I realized she was using them to write in Doodles’s books d) because she breathes or e) none of the above. The rule in our house is, you have the right to have a temper tantrum. But I also have the right to not listen to the temper tantrum so you must do it in the playroom. If you won’t do it in the playroom, you will be put upstairs and the gate will be closed until you are done.

So Pie was tantruming. Rather than put her upstairs, I decided to retreat to upstairs, to sit in a chair and leaf through a magazine till she was done. I offered to have Doodles come with me, but he opted to stay downstairs with his sister. Sitting upstairs, I could hear the conversation:

“Look, Pie!” I can hear from top of the stairs. “It’s a creepy crawler! You’ve got creepy crawlers!” (Creepy crawlers being one of Pie’s favorite games.)

Pie: Waaaaaaa!

Doodles: Don’t cry, Pie! It’s okay! It’s really okay! Look, Pie Pie! Creeeepy crawlers! There are creepy crawlers on your arm.

I come back downstairs and Doodles pulls me aside and loudly whispers in my ear, “Just give her what she wants!”

A couple of days later, she’s having a tantrum because she wants a third yogurt of the day. Those yogurts are so sugary sweet that I of course said no. I retreated to my office while she screamed. Yet, suddenly, the cries suspiciously end. I mean immediately. I of course hurry back to the kitchen where I see the refrigerator open and hear Doodles asking, “Now, what would you like Pie Pie?”

Pie’s favorite words are “I can’t do it.” Walk to the car? “I can’t do it.” Put on her jacket? “I can’t do it.” Feed herself lunch? “I can’t do it.” Yet, on the food issue, Pie’s found herself a new sucker. Doodles, apparently, doesn’t realize that the girl won’t starve if she misses a meal. Hell, she eats about fifteen of them a day (nonstop, all day. “Snack, Mommy!” We set a new record last week. Hard-boiled egg at 7 a.m. Two bowls containing four kinds of cereal with milk at 7:30 a.m. Carnation Instant Breakfast milk at 8 a.m. Strawberries at 8:20 a.m. And then, in the car to preschool at 8:40 a.m., she starts whining as if she hasn’t been fed in weeks, “Mommy! I need a snack! Mommy, I’m hungry!”). Last week was no exception. I gave Pie a bowl of mac and cheese. She demanded to be fed. I refuse, walking into the kitchen to get my own lunch. I expect to hear screams, but I don’t. And walking back in, I discover why. It’s because Doodles is standing precariously on the edge of his chair, leaning across the table to delicately shovel macaroni and cheese into his sister’s mouth (quote of the day: “I don’t think that one wanted to be eaten, Pie. That’s why it fell onto the floor. Because it didn’t want to be eaten.”). And Pie is happily allowing her brother to feed her.

On one hand, I want to commend him for being such a great big brother. On the other, I want to make him deal with her every temper tantrum if he’s going to encourage them. If you’re looking for me, I’m hiding upstairs. No. Seriously.

That devil has found new and unusual ways to torture me. There’s the straightforward approach:

Before nap time, we have debates on whether or not she should change into her pajamas. She wins. Gets into pajamas.:

Pie: I ready for nap.
Me: You’re tired?
Pie: Yeah.
Me: That’s great! So no crying?
Pie [squinching up face in her Pie way]: No, Sweetie cry.
Me: But you’re tired!
Pie: Yes.
Me: But you’re going to cry?
Pie: Yes.
Me: Why will Sweetie cry?
Pie: Because Sweetie cry and Mommy and Daddy get sad.
Me: So maybe you won’t cry?
Pie: No. Sweetie cry. So Mommy and Daddy get sad.

But then there’s the insidious ways she inflicts her sadistic her persecution. Because Sweetie? She’s figured out the thing that will get me at the core. The thing that will bring me to my knees. My Sweet Sweetie Pie, my little butterball, my little beauty, well… Sweetie had become Smoochless Sweetie.

That’s right. My little one has cut me off from the thing that makes parenting worthwhile: those little pecks of the lips.

I’m not even sure how it started, but it’s evolved to this:
Adam: Time to give Mommy a good-night smooch.
Pie: Okay.
Me: It’s nighty-night time for Sweetie Pie!
[I lean in. Pie’s hand shoots in front of her face]
Pie: No smooch! High five.
And so Pie gets a bedtime high five now.
She got me once when she was procrastinating. Adam came back downstairs.
Adam: She wants her smooch after all.
Pie: Smooch, Mommy!
Pie starts to move her mouth around in the our tradition of “warming up” the mouth for a smooch. I start to warm up my mouth. She leans toward me with a big pucker. I lean in and get within centimeters of her face when she jumps back.
Pie: NO!
The hand goes flying up.
Pie: High five.

If I want to piss her off–which, yes, I occasionally want to do–I give her a smooch. “No!! No smooch! No smooch!” and she vigorously wipes it off. I like to taunt her, “Oh no, Sweetie! You still have a bit of smooch there!” I start wiping her face. “Oh, you missed a spot there!” She starts wiping. “There’s still smooch on me!” she’ll wail until her face has been sufficiently scrubbed. It’s my new form of punishment: Pie, if you don’t behave, I’m going to smooch you! Works every time.

Doodles was having his morning constitutional and Pie was bugging him, so to distract her, I said, “Pie, where’s your baby?”

Pie ran to get her doll, but of course, ran back to be with her brother again. He, though, didn’t mind. Here’s their chat:

Pie: I have my baby!
Doodles: Oh! It’s your baby!
Pie: Yeah.
Doodles: I can be the baby’s daddy!
Pie: Okay. You be baby daddy.
Doodles: Pie, I’ll change your baby’s diaper and do her laundry.
Pie: Okay.
Doodles: Because they’re daddy jobs.
Pie: Yeah.
Doodles: I’ll take good care of your baby.

Feminist heart of mine, be still!

The other day, Pie was pulling every trick out of the book to avoid nap time. She was clearly exhausted but didn’t want to give in. She had climbed down from lunch in order to play with Doodles, so I put her in her crib. “No!” she screamed. “Hungry! I finish lunch!”

“You finished lunch,” I told her. “Remember? You got down from the table. Lunch is done.”

“I need pencil!” she tried.

“Nope. No pencils in bed.”

“Pencil, pencil, pencil!” she screams and as I head for the door, she changes tact. “Poop in diaper!”

I pause. Is this a trick? “Really?”

Satisfied that she’s found her ticket out, she says, “Yes! Poopy diaper.”

“You need a new diaper?”

“Yes!”

Okay, Pie wins this round. I pull her out and change her diaper. But then I make a rookie mistake. “Pie, there’s only a tiny poop in here. Is there more in there?” Arg!!! The second the words were out of my mouth, I began to mentally slap myself on the head.

“Yes! More poop! Pie use the potty.” This is a trap. A big fat trap. Because every time “potty” is mentioned, Pie declares, “I’m a little tiny baby. Not a big girl.” We haven’t had a successful potty attempt in months. But I’m cornered at this point, so back downstairs the little pisser went (and yes I mean pisser in a literal sense and not pisher–the girl will pee anywhere except a toilet. Case in point: I had to ask my father in Florida, “Let me ask you this: hypothetically speaking only of course, but if someone peed in your shower, would you want to know?” And then last week at the Y, after her swim class, I realized it was a major faux pas to shout in the middle of the girls’ locker room, “Pie! Are you peeing on the floor?!?” Luckily Doodles saved me by, erroneously, saying, “No, Mom, I think it’s just water dripping from her swimsuit in a funny way”).

Yes, I’m getting to a point. So I take her to the bathroom, and I set a timer, with the strict understanding that she’s to go back to nap when the timer rings whether or not anything has happened. After a bit, she volunteers, “The poops not coming out,” and she hops off.

But then it’s time for inventory. Must have inventory every time a body part is exposed.

“Pie have v*agina!?”

“Yes, Pie has a v*agina.”

Thinking a moment, Pie says, “Mommy has a v*agina.”

I agree. “Yes, Mommy has a v*agina.”

She needs to continue. “Doodles has a p*enis!”

“Correct.”

“And Daddy has a p*enis!” All present and accounted for!

“Yes, Daddy has a p*enis.”

Now, Pie thinks very hard for a moment. Then she announces, “Pie has a v*agina…and a Dora backpack!!!”

Ah, only two and a half years old, and her life is complete. And no, the nap never came. A v*agina, a backpack, and a nap? Now that would have been just plain greedy.

Let me ask you? Do any of you care that Adam’s an ass? I have nothing to blog about this week, and so I asked Adam for a topic. “I have nothing for you,” he said. “You’re an ass,” I responded. “Blog about that!” But really, it’s simply not that interesting. So, what do I have for this week? Not really much but here it goes…

I was playing with Pie, general roughhousing, when she suddenly opened wide, leaned down, and chomp! That’s an immediate time out, which means sitting on the stairs with the bottom gate closed. She wasn’t happy at first, at least not till her brother walked by (and Pie mangles his name in a really cute way that I’ll replicate her as Doogles).
Pie: Doogles! Hey Doogles!
Doodles: Pie? What are you doing Pie?
Pie: I’m in time out, Doogles!
Doodles: Why?
Pie (with the utmost glee): I bite!
Doodles: Oh, you bite!
The timer goes off. Pie jumps up and down at the gate, yelling: It’s over! It’s over!
We may need to find a more effective means of discipline.

Meanwhile, Doodles is signed up for the Pike swim class at the Y. Pie’s had to just watch him swim because the toddler swim classes are all in the morning, and I refuse to go twice. Lazy, I know. But this session they lowered the age of the Seahorse class from three to 2 1/2. Because she hadn’t taken a swim class in a while, I figured I’d do one session of Seahorse with Parent before segueing into an independent class. After all, Pie is technically still two months away from 2 1/2.

We talked about it daily:
Me: Pie want to go swimming?
Pie: Yes! Swim with Mommy?
Me: Of course! Mommy and Pie will swim together.
Pie: Swim with Mommy! Swim now?

So, of course, the night before our class was to start, I got a call that the class was underenrolled. We were the only ones signed up for it. So I transferred her into the Seahorse class. By her lonesome.

Me: Pie, so how would you like to take a swim class with just a teacher?
Pie: Um…no. Swim with Mommy.
Me: I’m afraid our class is not going to happen. But you can take a swim class with just the teacher! Like Doodles does!
Pie: No. I swim with Mommy.
Me: Well, why don’t you just try it?
Pie, scrunching nose: Hmmm. Pie try it. [Thinks a moment] Teacher hold Pie?
Me: Some of the time. Some of the time you’ll hold the wall or stand.
Pie, thinks some more: No. Teacher hold Pie.
Me: There are going to be two other kids in the class. The teacher won’t be able to hold you the entire time.
Pie cocks her head and thinks for another moment: No, no stand. Teacher hold Pie.
And conversation over, Pie waddles off.

Swim class finally arrives. I’m wishing Doodles’s class was first so Pie could at least see him go off on his own. But Pie is first so I change her. I take her out to the pool with Doodles in tow. Pie’s always had great relationships with her female teachers, so of course her teacher is a guy.

Me: Okay, sweetie, this is your teacher.
Pie looks him up and down.
Me: Can I have a smooch?
Pie puckers up and I give her a big kiss.
Me: Okay, Pie, it’s time for your class.
And you could have knocked me over with a floatie, because the girl took her teacher’s hand, said, “Bye Mommy!” and walked right into the pool. I could barely see her from where the seats are, but I could see her doing just fine. She refused to jump in, but was willing to be pulled in by the teacher, had no issues getting her hair wet, and had a big grin on her face the whole time. The two other kids in the class were boys over three, which worked out well as they were more independent in the water. At the end, the teacher said to me, “She needed to be held onto the whole time–she couldn’t swim on her own–but she wasn’t crying so it was fine with me.”

It’s refreshing, especially since she’s decided the rest of the time that she’d rather be a baby. “Hold me like a baby!” she’ll say. “Carry my like a baby!” I’ve been trying to subtlety inject the “big girl” thing in preparation for potty training. But it’s like she’s on to me. “Pie! You’re doing the jacket flip so well! What a big girl!” “No,” she corrects, “I’m a baby.” I’ve got Doodles on the one hand–“Am I old enough for a booster seat? Am I old enough to drink coffee? Am I old enough to go to clown school?” (all real questions asked regularly)–and Pie on the other–“I caaaaan’t do it! Feed me! You do it!”

Trouble. I got it coming from all sides. Would you rather have heard about Adam? He’s sitting in the chair next to me. Fast asleep. Yeah, I didn’t think so.