Tired of Croup

The week of October 21-25 was Emmy's fall break, so it was well-timed, since we had planned to keep her home anyway, but it was also her FOURTH bout of croup.  It seems that anytime she gets a respiratory virus, it's going to turn into croup (and it seems to happen every six months).  This time, the doctor didn't think she needed steroids, so we got through it with just fever/pain reducers, the humdifier and lots of icepops/suckers.

But I am really tired of croup.  I'm tired of the seal bark cough.  I'm tired of how uncomfortable it makes her. 

She's finally getting better now, and her cough is down to just a regular congested cough instead of the seal bark.  We'll see you again in July, croup.

Halloween Prep

Before the meltdown that was dropping her off at her new preschool this morning, Emmy informed me that everyone needed to dress up for Halloween. 

She was recalling last Halloween and said, "I don't remember what Mama and Daddy dressed up as."

And I said, "Well, I think we just dressed up as a Mama and Daddy."

"But everyone has to dress up at Halloween, mama!"  Pause.  "You can dress up as a princess.  Like me."

So, hooray.  I get to be a princess this Halloween.

The Little Parrot

While we were on vacation with Mom and Dad (and Mini-weez and JP), we went out to dinner.  I wanted sushi, so I searched on yelp and found a place with good reviews.  We headed out and put our name on the list for Sushimoto.  It was a tiny space, with only about 10 tables and a bar-- and there were 7 of us.  I knew we would have to wait.

About an hour later, I decided to check back in with the hostess/owner, especially since I had noticed that smaller parties who had arrived after us had been seated.  This is when I realized that she had skipped over us (THREE times) and that she was going to wait until she had seven seats open rather than hold four until a 3 top opened up. 

Needless to say, I was not pleased.  I walked back outside and explained the situation to my family.  I may have been... emphatic, but mindful of the presence of my child, I refrained from using any language stronger than "stupid," (though that one is still technically a forbidden word).

I quickly searched again, found another sushi restaurant, called them to ensure they could seat us, and we headed out.  As soon as we got in the car, Emmy said, "Mama, that restaurant was stupid.  That was a bad restaurant!"

And though I sighed inwardly, it's impossible not to be amused by her precociousness.  "Yes, honey," I said.  "That's right." 

"Now we're going to a good restaurant."

"I certainly hope so."  (It did, in fact, turn out to be a good restaurant-- a hibachi place, and our chef, who had a four-year-old at home, was amazing-- he spent the entire time entertaining Emmy.  I'll have to do another post on the "joke" he pulled on Mama, which made Emmy laugh and laugh.)

After we got back from vacation, we expected to have Emmy start her new preschool on Monday, but they scheduled her start on Thursday instead (giving the kids more time to adjust by splitting the class in half for the week) so Emmy stayed with Grandma for a couple of days.

Yesterday, Tom told me that Emmy told Susan the following:

"Dammit.  Grandma, that car cut you off.  We should go catch them."

I'll give you a couple guesses as to who she might have gotten that from.  Mama's going to be putting a lot of pennies in the swear jar.

I'll see your baby brother, and raise you two kitties.

On Friday, when I went to pick Emmy up from daycare, her friend McKenzie was there.  Emmy told her, "My mama's here!"

Usually, McKenzie isn't there when I pick up Emmy, so I made sure to say hi to her.  I asked how her mom was doing (I knew that her mom was pregnant).

Mackenzie said, "She had a baby.  Maddox."

So I said, "Oh, that's exciting.  Is it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy."

"So you have a little brother?"

"Yeah."

At which point, my child chimed in.  "Well, I have two kitties named Maddie and Lily and I'm going to go see them now."


I tried not to laugh and told Emmy to say goodbye.

When we got home, we went straight upstairs to tell Tom what she had said.  Tom did laugh, and then gave his daughter a high five.  I don't think it's the best idea to praise Emmy's clear display of petty jealousy, but it was hilarious.

"Can you do me a favor?"

For the 11 years that I have known Tom, we have been mindful of how we ask each other for help.  I can't even remember how long we've been doing it, but to maintain respect of each other's time and efforts, I have always asked, "Can you do me a favor?" before asking Tom to do something for me-- particularly when it's something I could fairly easily do myself (but which is more convenient for him).  Like getting a new bar of soap when I'm already in the shower (because I always forget to check the soap status beforehand).

So, when my daughter started prefacing her requests with the same statement-- "Hey mama.  Can you do me a favor?" (It sounds like "fever" when she says it)-- I found it very difficult to contain my amusement.

She is so perceptive.  And she's a little parrot.  If you ask her what her mama's name is, she won't say Pam.  She says "Ham."  Because that's what she's always heard her daddy call me.  And the day she told me to "calm it down, mama," I almost lost it.  (Tom's been saying that to me for years-- minus the mama part.)

These phrases and statements are part of the fabric of our marriage.  We're so used to them, we don't even hear them anymore.  It's just the pattern, it's just what we say.  Until we hear them coming out of Emmy's mouth.  Then I hear it.  And it's surprising, and amusing, and sometimes a little bit jarring to hear these things anew.  It reminds me how much of us will be in her forever and ever.  It reminds me how much of my parents I carry around, without even knowing that I'm doing it.

So, when I get in the car with my little girl and say "home again, home again," and my husband chimes in and says, "jiggety jig," I think of my mom.  And when we pull in the driveway and Emmy says, "now home," we think of Tom's mom.  And hopefully, someday, when Emmy's driving her own daughter around, she'll find herself saying some little phrase and think of me and her Dad.

In Anticipation

Emmy is very excited about our upcoming trip to the beach.  Everyday, she asks, "Are we going to the beach, tomorrow?"  And we've been trying to contain her eagerness-- saying, "No, honey, not yet."  Unfortunately, since Emmy doesn't really understand time-- ("tomorrow" is all future events and "yesterday" is all past events) it's been difficult to explain that we're going "next month," or "later this summer," or even in "two more weeks."  But, now we're finally under 7 days, so I think we might actually be in small enough units that Emmy has some understanding.

Last night, when she asked if we're going to beach yet, I told her, "Five more days, sweetie.  You go to school for five days, then we go to Grandma's house Friday night, then we go to the beach on Saturday."  I paused, holding up five fingers.  "Can you count to five?" 

To which she responded, "I don't want to count to five, mama."  As if she just couldn't understand what I was thinking.  She's asking about the beach (the beach! mama) and her mom wants her to practice numbers.

Missed Updates from One Year Ago

I found a post-it note on my desk last week with several notes about posts I wanted to write-- and thankfully, I dated it.  The date was May 23, 2012.  There's a post from May 23 on the blog, where I hit the first few bullet points, but I never got around to the rest.

Even though they're a year old, I think they're still valuable memories, especially in light of the differences between then and now.

One day last year when I picked her up, she told me that she had gotten in trouble, and when I asked her why, she told me she had hit another little girl.  This was the first time she self-reported bad behavior.  I remember thinking how remarkable it was that with her limited vocabulary she was able to tell me what happened, and I thought it was a mark of our good relationship and developing moral system that she told me about it.

Also, around this time last year, she started talking about Grandma, Grandma and Grandpa, and Patty and JP.  (I think she might have still been calling her Pat-Pat, which I was really hoping would stick, but alas, it's just "Aunt Patty" (and JP).)  This was the point at which she understood that they had titles, were separate people, and that Grandma (Tom's mom) was separate from Grandma and Grandpa (my parents), and that Patty was associated with Grandma and Grandpa-- AND that JP was associated with Patty.  Very complicated for a 2 and 1/2 year old.

She also had just learned what a siren was, and every vehicle that passed us with a siren blaring was automatically a "fire truck."  (Still is.)

Lastly, about a year ago, she had just started playing with the ipad.  She started with a simple coloring program that allowed her to swipe colors across the screen.  Now, barely a year later, she is, I think it's safe to say, an advanced user.

Lost and Found at the Science Museum

Everything they’ve told me about parenting so far has been true.  They said I’d love her the instant I met her, and they were right.  They said, when she was ready, potty-training would just happen—and it did.  And they said that at some point, every kid gets lost.

And yesterday, mine did.

It was the worst ten minutes of my life.

We took Emmy to the children’s science museum, which has a pretty open-plan format, and tried to keep up with her.  She’s fast, and her attention span is fairly short, so by the time we had figured out what she was supposed to be doing/learning at a specific exhibit, she’d already moved on, and we had to scramble to catch up.  She was so excited to “play.”

And then, in the side room on the second floor, she just ran off.  I turned to follow her, and I couldn’t see her anymore.  I figured Tom had kept an eye on her, so I didn’t panic, but I moved to catch up, and then I saw that Tom wasn’t with her.

We made eye contact, and realized neither of us had the kid in sight, so we both started checking the room.  We searched for about two minutes, and didn’t see her.  I went back to a couple of places she had already been to, and he checked the side room.

We met back, and then searched for about one more minute, and I said, “I think it’s time to ask for help.”   

So I went to the front desk and told them that my daughter had walked away from me.  They initiated a staff search, asking me for details about her outfit and hair color.  They asked me to stay at the desk, which I absolutely didn’t want to do, but knowing that Tom was looking for her, I agreed and stood there, wringing my hands and worrying.

I listened to the traffic on the walkie-talkie at the desk, and I tried to tamp down my panic.  Where on earth could she have gone to?

Finally, after what felt like an extremely long time (but couldn’t have been more than 10-15 minutes) someone squawked on the radio that they’d found her.  I waved Tom down to the front desk and, finally, she appeared at the top of the stairs, in a staff member’s arms, sobbing.

They found her in the bathroom.  The bathroom doors all push in, but pull out.  So, Emmy was able to get into the bathroom, but couldn’t reach the handle to get herself out.  She told us later that she had to wait for a big one to get her out (big person?). 

I don’t know if she left me and went straight to the bathroom.  I don’t know if she wandered off and just happened upon a bathroom and decided she had to go.  I don’t know what happened to the necklaces she was wearing (they were gone when we found her), and I don’t know why she pulled her hair down out of the ponytail.  I don’t know when she started crying.

And I don’t know why we didn’t check the damn bathrooms.

It turned out fine.  No lasting damage.  But during that terrible time, while I stood at the front desk, literally wringing my hands, I didn’t know that would be the case, and it was terrifying.  I hated being out of control.  I hated not knowing where she was or what might be happening to her. 

The Discovery Center staff did a great job.  I could see in the faces of the few staff members who crossed my line of sight that they were taking it seriously, and they found her quickly, without having to disrupt any of the other guests.  I can't emphasize enough how much I appreciate them.  We won't be going back to the Discovery Center for awhile, but it's not because the staff didn't do a great job-- it's just that I don't think Emmy is quite old enough to run around by herself in such a large space.

Every time I think about it, I get upset again, but I just don't think we could have done anything differently.  I will always kick myself for not keeping up with her better, and for not checking the bathrooms right away.  Tom and I both said later that we each thought about the possibility of her being in the bathroom, but we both shrugged it off.  I didn't think that enough time had passed for her to have decided to go to the bathroom.  I thought she was off playing, totally unaware that neither Mama nor Daddy knew where she was.  I didn't think she could be stuck in the bathroom crying because she couldn't get out.  The image that my brain produces of what that must have looked like will haunt me for a long time.  I failed her.  I wasn't there to get her out of that jam.  I didn't check the bathroom.

But, on the other hand, I know I have to let it go.  It's over, it ended fine, and we all learned from it.  And that's the most positive thought I can muster about it today.

Emmy's First Story

It was raining yesterday when I went to pick Emmy up from daycare.  As we walked out to the car, Emmy told me that God made the rain.  I agreed with her, and asked her if she knew why God made the rain.  Why is kind of a difficult concept still (she often answers the same thing for why, when, and where), so I plowed ahead and told her that God made the rain so that the trees, flowers and vegetables could grow.

Then we talked a bit about vegetables and people who eat vegetables.  Emmy is familiar with vegetables because during the spring and summer months (and often into the fall, bless you Tennessee's long growing season) we go to the farmer's market on Saturday mornings to "get vegetables."

Then, as we drove home, Emmy told me a story.  I'm paraphrasing here, because I can't remember it exactly, and I didn't realize she was telling a story until she got to the end. (It's hard to tell the difference between toddler rambling and more concrete communication attempts)

When she finished, I told her I loved her story and that we should write it down.  Emmy said, "Write it down?"  I promised I would, so here goes:

Emmy's story:

God made the rain.  God made the vegetables.  I (Emmy) broke the vegetables.  God made more vegetables.  "That's all the pages."

(That last part is a direct quote, and it's how I knew that Emmy had just told me a story.  She's just started saying "that's all the pages," whenever she gets to the end of a book, movie, or TV show.)

How's that for a solid understanding of God's love and forgiveness?  God made the vegetables.  Emmy broke the vegetables, but it's okay, because God made more vegetables.  (Maybe I'm reading WAY too much into it.  But I think I can be forgiven for that.  Probably.)

Also, clearly, Emmy is another in a long line of Rollins-Smith-Watson (and probably Schleicher and Eggenberger) story-tellers.

Hit the Road, Jack.

I'm still working on my post for Emmy's birthday, which, hopefully, I'll complete sometime before her next birthday, but in the meantime, I wanted to post this:

Grandma Susan taught her the hook to "Hit the Road, Jack," and she's been singing it for a couple of weeks.

This weekend, she made up her own lyrics.

She was eating lunch with Grandma Susan, and singing:

"Hit the road, Jack,
and don't you come back,
I'm eating my mac and cheese."

Tom missed it, so later in the car on the drive home, I was telling him that she had started making up her own songs, so I asked her to sing her lunch song for Tom, and she did.

I almost collapsed from the cuteness.