The Latest, and On Being Two
Well, life--working, raising the kiddos, prepping for (and, like, actually attending) my class, and Chris traveling quite a bit for work lately has back-burnered blogging. It's not just blogging. I realized I haven't watched TV in about 2 weeks (unless you count Jake and the Neverland Pirates on in the background now and then). I could care less. I'd so much rather read. Is that weird? It DOES mean that I am unable to converse normally with people who actually know what's on TV. Oh well.
Last night, Chris got home late from Dallas. He walked through the mud room door and found me on the couch, fire blazing, dog snoring, a glass of red wine just poured. Oh, and a book on parenting two-year-olds.
"Bad night?" he asked.
"Um, yes." I held up the parenting book. "I should write my own book. It's title would be: 'Your Two-Year-Old: Satan's Spawn, or Your Own?"
Chris laughed. He would. He has dodged oh so very much Lorelei drama (she said, without bitterness). That night, for example, had culminated in an epic showdown in which Lorelei escaped her room to avoid bed dozens of times. She used every tool in her toddler box: howling, hitting, desperate clinging and hugging, heartbreaking moans of "MOMMY!", coyness and charm, outright defiance (e.g., getting out of bed two dozen times), stalling, loving kisses to win me over, even pretending to have pooped in her diaper (which required turning on the lights, a trip to the changing table, a diaper change . . . but no poo---the child is a freaking genius).
In the end, Lorelei failed. I won, if you call listening to your daughter cry herself to sleep via baby monitor WINNING.
Poor Charlotte then went to bed too late, because her evening routine had been entirely upset by her sister. She's learning to read, so story time is (understandably) a lengthy thing for the two of us. (She reads one book, I read the other.) We kept getting interrupted and finally just had to put the whole thing on hold. She was frustrated but patient, and clearly concerned for her little sister. I consoled myself with Charlotte's model behavior, probably giving myself too much parenting credit at her awesomeness. This was Lorelei's TWO-ness, I told myself. She's testing limits. And she's spirited. Let's call it SPIRITED. I'm not an ineffective, crappy mother. (Am I?)
The good news is that my child didn't drive me to tears, which was particularly good because Charlotte was still awake and observing everything.
I adore my little greenish-grayish-eyed Lorelei. Nobody on earth can instantly melt me like that girl's unexpected sweetness---her cupping my chin to kiss me right on the lips (why yes, I do indeed get her colds this way), or patting my arm to the rhythm of music, or wrapping her arm around my neck and pressing her cheek to mine.
But I'm also incredibly frustrated and at a loss. Everything is a battle. Every. Thing.
And yet. Sometimes, she's adorably EASY. But I just never know! On a snow day, while Charlotte had ballet, I took her to get frozen yogurt. She was just a doll, sweet and silly and NOT SPILLING a drop. We had our little inside jokes and I genuinely enjoyed our cozy one-on-one time. But my goodness. I'd rather see the Niners beat the Seahawks than buckle that writhing, pissed off child into a car seat.
So, that's where we are/I am. Lots and lots going on, but my number-one anxiety producer is, at the moment, Lorelei Belle.
Two is not forever. Two is not forever. Two is not forever.
Last night, Chris got home late from Dallas. He walked through the mud room door and found me on the couch, fire blazing, dog snoring, a glass of red wine just poured. Oh, and a book on parenting two-year-olds.
"Bad night?" he asked.
"Um, yes." I held up the parenting book. "I should write my own book. It's title would be: 'Your Two-Year-Old: Satan's Spawn, or Your Own?"
Chris laughed. He would. He has dodged oh so very much Lorelei drama (she said, without bitterness). That night, for example, had culminated in an epic showdown in which Lorelei escaped her room to avoid bed dozens of times. She used every tool in her toddler box: howling, hitting, desperate clinging and hugging, heartbreaking moans of "MOMMY!", coyness and charm, outright defiance (e.g., getting out of bed two dozen times), stalling, loving kisses to win me over, even pretending to have pooped in her diaper (which required turning on the lights, a trip to the changing table, a diaper change . . . but no poo---the child is a freaking genius).
In the end, Lorelei failed. I won, if you call listening to your daughter cry herself to sleep via baby monitor WINNING.
Poor Charlotte then went to bed too late, because her evening routine had been entirely upset by her sister. She's learning to read, so story time is (understandably) a lengthy thing for the two of us. (She reads one book, I read the other.) We kept getting interrupted and finally just had to put the whole thing on hold. She was frustrated but patient, and clearly concerned for her little sister. I consoled myself with Charlotte's model behavior, probably giving myself too much parenting credit at her awesomeness. This was Lorelei's TWO-ness, I told myself. She's testing limits. And she's spirited. Let's call it SPIRITED. I'm not an ineffective, crappy mother. (Am I?)
The good news is that my child didn't drive me to tears, which was particularly good because Charlotte was still awake and observing everything.
I adore my little greenish-grayish-eyed Lorelei. Nobody on earth can instantly melt me like that girl's unexpected sweetness---her cupping my chin to kiss me right on the lips (why yes, I do indeed get her colds this way), or patting my arm to the rhythm of music, or wrapping her arm around my neck and pressing her cheek to mine.
But I'm also incredibly frustrated and at a loss. Everything is a battle. Every. Thing.
And yet. Sometimes, she's adorably EASY. But I just never know! On a snow day, while Charlotte had ballet, I took her to get frozen yogurt. She was just a doll, sweet and silly and NOT SPILLING a drop. We had our little inside jokes and I genuinely enjoyed our cozy one-on-one time. But my goodness. I'd rather see the Niners beat the Seahawks than buckle that writhing, pissed off child into a car seat.
So, that's where we are/I am. Lots and lots going on, but my number-one anxiety producer is, at the moment, Lorelei Belle.
Two is not forever. Two is not forever. Two is not forever.
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