• Late this morning Lucy spiked a fever out of nowhere, which this afternoon measured 103. Yikes. She actually fell asleep in my arms — something she has not done in more than a year — as I sang songs in her burning ear. She ate a hearty breakfast of pancakes, blueberries and banana, but the rest of the day had only water, apple juice, half a pear and some air-popped popcorn. By bedtime, she was just mildly warm (most likely from the medicine). We hope it’s just a 24-hour thing, but are bracing for a rough night
• Alice learned to roll onto her belly today, and is taking full advantage of her unswaddled freedom in bed by immediately rolling over when we lay her down. There she goobers on the sheet for a few minutes before bellowing like an angry buffalo. We flip her over, and the cycle starts all over again. Tonight it took a good half an hour of this before we learned to jam her up against the bars so she can’t propel over. Until, of course, she learns to roll on the other side. Then we may just have to duct tape her to the mattress
• Around 8:20, Alice was angry buffaloing on her belly, Lucy started crying about a hangnail and wanting, no needing a Dora mermaid bandaid right now, and the monitors and air in our living room were vibrating from their tandem screeching. Eric and I looked at each other amidst the chaos of dirty dinner dishes and toys exploded across the floor and burst out laughing. Because sometimes, that’s what you have to do

(Lucy, by Sunday afternoon, was completely normal. Kids are weird. And super healers.)

Since the moment I was first pregnant with Lucy, my Mom has been telling me about parenthood: The days are long, but the years are fast.

That piece of advice has rung true countless times in the past 2.5 years, today being another prime example. I don’t know what rotten side of the bed my daughter got up on (there’s only one, as the other is against a wall, so perhaps it was laced with irritableness? ridiculousness? drive-us-insane-ness?) but it was the nasty one.

Everything was an argument. Nothing would please her. By the time we made it downstairs for breakfast — 10 minutes after getting up — she declared she hated her shorts, her Daddy, toast and ponytails.

If that wasn’t foreshadowing, I dunno what was. I should have put her back to bed.

Mid-way through breakfast — after picking cheesy toast but wanting jam toast, refusing milk and wanting orange juice, flinging her bib into the ceiling fan and crying over the Dora bandaid falling off her knee — I actually called upstairs to Eric and rather desperately asked him to hurry the hell up already OMG I can’t handle this.

When Shelby was here, Lucy would. not. leave. me. alone.

So, to Harry from Michelin, and Tanya from Concordia, I’m so sorry for this:

*clicking to voice mail*: Hi there, it’s Carly Foster, manag…

MAMA! MAMA-MAMA-MAMA! WHATCHA DUN DOOIN DERE?!

*Holding wriggling, lunging, hugging child back with one hand, phone pressed to ear, while Shelby whispers, “Lucy! Lucy! Mummy’s working! C’mon!”*: …ing editor of…

MUMMY ALL DONE WURKIN’? NOOOOO, SHELBY!!

*Wildly gesturing for Shelby to just pick Lucy up and carry her out*: …[Paying Job]…

NO, SHELBY, NO SHELBY, NO SHELBY! MAMA! *cue uncontrollable sobbing*

*child is now hanging onto my office chair in a death grip, arms outstretched, legs and hips in the air, as poor Shelby vainly tries to pull her out of the room*: …[Magazine]…

NOOOOO, MAAAAMAAAAAA!

*cryingscreamingthrashing in Shelby’s arms, and whisked downstairs with sobbing fading*: …wondering if you could…

*beep*: voicemail ends.

On one side, we hate giving timeouts. The look of pure distress — tears, the open-mouth silent wail — that crosses poor Lucy’s face is heartbreaking, and just thinking about it makes my chest hurt. But they really, really work for us as a family, and we only use them for what we consider to be very bad behaviour.

Depending on where we are in the house, Lucy is removed from the room and separated from us (usually to the front stairs or onto her stool in the bathroom), and has to sit for two minutes (# minutes = her age). This gives us time to cool down, too.

Remarkably, she almost always stays put, calms down on her own, gives us big hugs and apologizes.

(And lemme tell you: Hearing that sweet little girl, in her high toddler voice, squeak out, “Sorry, Mommy” with big fat baby tears still wet on her cheeks makes me weak in the knees.)

This works so well, that on the rare occasions she does something she knows she’s not supposed to, she immediately says, “No timeout?” and gets almost panicked.

But we didn’t know the real impact they were having until lunch yesterday. Lucy got a timeout shortly before we sat down to eat, for turning her water bottle upside down and covering the couch cushion with (thankfully just) water.

“We don’t like giving you timeouts, you know, Honey. They hurt Mommy and Daddy, too.”

“Cee-Cee no like timeouts.”

“I know you don’t. How come you don’t like them?”

“They make me sad.”

Eric and I turned to each other open-mouthed, while Lucy obliviously kept on eating her pizza. For a 2.5-year-old to have such perception and be able to articulate an emotion like that just astounded us.

I loathe to think timeouts are making the poor child sad, but we find they’re far more effective than begging or yelling or hitting, and Lucy very rarely repeats the behaviour she got the timeout for. Distraction seems to work great up until a certain age, but stopped working around the “2’s”: 20 months+.

Of course, they’re working so far. Moms of older kids I know say timeouts lose their effectiveness as kids get older. But for now, what an excellent tool.

Lucy, in her never-ending quest to make Eric a manic-depressive father with her “NO DADDY!”/peeing-pant love giggles because he just launched her up the stairs like a rocket attitude, has a new weapon.

A few weeks ago, we were practicing the I love you sign, while saying it out loud. Lucy would do the sign and say the words to me, but not her father. Because she’s a jerk like that.

I turned to her and said, “Honey, we love Daddy very much. He’s your one-and-only Daddy! Daddy’s very special.”

The exasperating/completely illogical part of her toddler brain zoned in on the last part of that sentence. Adding her own condescending tone in the exact right spot (completely un-taught, I swear), she repeated, “Daddy veehhhdddy special,” while nodding her head sadly at him.

I spat milk across the table. Eric gaped at her.

And so it began.

Now she says it to him ALL THE TIME. At the most appropriately hilarious times, too. If Eric drops something: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” If he stubs his toe: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.” After goodbye kisses in the morning: “Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

Because Eric is The Adult, and because you can’t reason with a 2.5-year-old, and because he’s a boy and he’s Eric, my husband has started arguing with her.

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

“Daddy veehhhdddy special.”

“No, Lucy very special.”

And so it goes, on and on and on, neither of them willing to let the other win. It’s hilarious for the first 10 seconds, then I feel like I’m at a tennis match simultaneously refereeing a pair of 5-year-olds. This exchange often happens first thing in the morning when I’m still in bed and Eric’s changing Lucy’s diaper. They usually stop when I hoarsely yell, “Ohforgoodnesssake, enough already!”

They’re both very special. And stubborn. And best friends.

Our week goes like this:

• Monday-Wednesday, Lucy is at Julia’s (our home daycare provider) from 8-4:30-ish
• Thursday, Lucy is at my Mom and Dad’s
• Friday she is home with me (and, currently, Eric)

By the time mid-morning Thursday comes — especially since I’ve been out Wednesday night with the girls and only see Lucy for a few hours — I’m really missing my daughter. I’m aching for her to arrive home from her Nana’s, and for Friday morning to come so we can start our day.

Except Thursday nights are often…difficult. Lucy is almost always riled up, high on grandparent love and attention and treats, and also excited to be reunited with us. So she usually comes back to Chez McDougall-Foster blazing around like she’s got a fire cracker up her arse, running and yelling and squealing and laughing and not listening.

I’ve dubbed this time Thursday Night Toddler Terror.

Did I mention this is almost always around 7-ish? The time that we’re normally getting her ready for bed? Hahahaaaaa, *sob*

I don’t for a milisecond blame my parents, nor would I ever want to change the Thursday arrangement. All three of them adore their day together, look forward to it all week, and are quite literally squirming in anticipation by Wednesday evening. (Me, too, ’cause Thursday is my not-working-at-the-paying-job day where I work on the site, get caught up on email, do housewifey things and garden and shop and sometimes meet friends for lunch.)

Plus, it’s Grandparent Right #1 to be able to hype up a child, then leave. After the trials and tribulations of raising your own children and setting them free on the planet to explore and grow and love and breed, damn right you should get to spoil your grandchildren and not have to suffer any of the resulting meltdowns (see TNTT, above).

Do you hear the snorts and cackling? Those are our parents, being smug.

So Thursday comes, and I’m so excited to see my Goose, and we manically laugh and giggle and kiss and nuzzle, and then after 10 minutes of her rampage through the house, I count down the seconds and nighttime tasks until I can literally throw her in her crib and collapse on the couch, gasping for air.

And then Friday morning comes and she is sane once more, divulged of the grandparent-induced high, and we have a fabulous day.

Lucy is engaging in love-hate relationship with her father.

It started a few months ago, and I keep thinking it’s a phase and waiting for her to grow out of it. But she hasn’t, and it’s starting to drive us nuts.

(And while I absolutely love 2, the following scenarios are eye-rolling, head-banging, annoyingly, exasperatingly maddening enough for me to wish for the newborn days when at least we could stuff her in a blanket and she’d shut-up be quiet for 20 minutes.)

This evening was a series of examples that are repeated in various forms every. single. day.:

• I pick Lucy up from daycare. While she’s excited that Daddy’s in the car, she will not give him a hug. He cannot put her in the car seat. “Mummy’s turn!” she cries, turning and clinging to me. She actually sheds tears, as if her father’s touch will burn or cause her eyeballs to melt.
• Lucy and I were sitting on the couch, and I asked Eric to please pass me a kleenex. Lucy jumps off the couch, crying, yelling, because she has to get the damn tissue. Eric couldn’t even hand it to her — oh no, she had to take it out of the box and bring it over to me.
• After dinner, we decide to take Spencer for a walk. Eric, who usually does the evening stroll with the dog, likes to push the stroller when we head out as a break from the joy that is dog poop picker-upper. But Eric took one step towards the stroller, and Lucy was howling: “Mummy push the tollar! Mummy do! Mummy’s turn!”

And no, none of this happens when I’m not around, such as Wednesday evenings when I’m out with the ladies.

My theory is this: When Eric comes came home from work in the evenings, Lucy is interpreting this as him intruding on her and I’s time together. Instead of undivided Mummy attention, I’m now split between her and Eric. (This whole issue stems around this, too.) So, Lucy punishes Eric.

This makes sense on weekday evenings, but Lucy is starting to carry it over to the weekends, too. This past weekend, while away at Eric’s Mom’s, it was almost always either “Mummy’s turn” or even more frequently, “Gramie’s turn.”

While Eric is The Adult (and therefore can process and understand toddler ridiculousness), the actions of The Child can be quite hurtful. I mean, you can only be rejected so many times before it starts to sting, grown-up or not. Tonight, as Lucy trotted over to me with the kleenex clutched in her hand, Eric mock raised his fist in the air, waving it at her back.

Any sort of Mummy smugness over being the preferred parent has long worn off. Now it is reaching levels of exasperation, as I become The Only One Who Can Do Anything, Ever. For our household’s well being, Eric and I both need to know that the other can take care of our child(ren). Plus there are times when I just cannot do something for Lucy, and she has to learn that Mummy cannot always be there every single second.

So far, we do not force Lucy to accept Eric doing things she is insistent I do, as this just sends her spiraling out of control (unless I physically cannot do it, or am engaged in something I can’t immediately stop). We also do not want to build further animosity or resentment towards him. And we’ve carved out exclusive Lucy-Eric time — the half hour or so between the end of dinner and bedtime — for the two to bond and play together without me.

But I tell you, it’s still hard being the rational adult. I just wish Lucy would understand us when we say that Daddy can do everything Mummy can, that he loves Lucy as much as Mummy does. We’ve sparingly told her that it hurts Daddy’s feelings, too, to no impact.

Is anyone else going through this, or have you gone through it? Those with older kids, please tell me this is a phase and will end soon. Any thoughts on where this is coming from and what you’d do are welcomed, too.

Inspired by Mary of It’s Not All Mary Poppins, yesterday afternoon Lucy and I made some cute handprint tulips to help welcome spring.

Lucy, being her miserable sick self, wasn’t all that interested in the craft, but she did submit to me tracing her hands three times.

This is an exciting time with our gardens, as it’s the first spring in our new house. So every day is a new discovery: A bunch of tulips here (right where I planted a Black Eyed Susan, whoops!), a smattering of crocuses there. Each night we come home from Julia’s, Lucy bounds out of the car to our front beds to exclaim over the days’ growth. She constantly talks about helping me in the garden (last year she loved clomping through the dirt and poking plants with sticks) and how she’s going to wear her rubber boots.

I noticed on my walk with Spencer last night (Eric came home and I literally gave him a kiss and walked out the door for a much-needed break from our  adorable-but-cranky-and-patience-stomping daughter. I haven’t had to do that in more than a year, but seriously, yesterday was HARD), I noticed that all the snow is officially gone from our neighbourhood in the Boonies.

Maybe, just maybe, we’ll put away the snow boots and winter mats this weekend, and take the snow tires off the Altima. Then and only then will it officially be spring.

Lucy is developing this rather annoying habit of yelling at us (by “us” I mean me) when we are not paying attention to her.

This usually happens at the end of the day, when Eric gets home. Lucy is in her booster seat finishing her dinner. Eric and I start talking — catching up on our day, trading work war stories, sharing daycare pick up/drop off tales — and the child, she starts squawking.

This is what happened on Monday, when I finally decided the rational discussion was not working and I had to do something drastic to get her to understand that what she was doing was not nice or acceptable behaviour. I’m curious to know what you think, as Eric wasn’t sure it was the right thing to do.

“NO MUMMA!”

“Lucy, Daddy and I are just talking.”

“No, Mumma.”

“So, as I was saying, he acted like…”

“NO, MUMMA!”

(You have to picture her, fork clutched in her hand, fingers squeezed into balls, pressed down her sides, chin pointing at the ceiling, literally turning pink-faced from the exertion of these yells.)

“Lucy! You cannot yell at Mummy like that. I’m still sitting right here with you. Please apologize for yelling and interrupting.”

“Sorrem, Mommy.”

(The Mommy comes out when she knows she’s in trouble. How does a 2-year-old already know to do this?)

“ANYWAY, the guy was being a total…”

“NO, MUMMA!”

“Fine. You don’t want Mummy talking? You keep yelling at me? Mummy is going to leave then.”

And I walk out of the kitchen into the office. Lucy goes almost hysterical, sobbing, crying for me, begging me to come back. I’m 15 ft. away from her just dying inside listening to this, but I hold out for about three minutes.

When I return, I tell her she cannot be mean to me, that she cannot yell and interrupt, that sometimes Mummies and Daddies have to talk about things. I know she’s only doing what she’s doing because suddenly I am not giving her my 100% like I have been the past two+ hours before Eric comes home. I know it’s one of the reasons she often yells “No, Daddy” when he comes in the door (such a lovely thing for the poor guy to come home to) and won’t go to him — even though she’ll spend the 10 minutes leading up to his arrival asking where he is.

(Anyone else boggled by the so-called logic of toddlers? They truly are exasperating creatures.)

Lucy was very apologetic after this little showdown, and calmed up quickly after I got back. She seemed to really listen this time. She repeated her line once Tuesday night when Eric got home, and I told her “No, that’s not nice, and do you remember what happened when you yelled at Mummy yesterday? Do you want to hurt Mummy again and make her leave?” She solemnly shook her head no and that was the end of that.

Eric said to me later that he wonders if it was right to use “abandonment” as punishment. This comment surprised me, as I didn’t think of what I did in that way at all, and it made me stop and think. All I was trying to show Lucy was that there was a consequence to her actions: You can’t be continually mean to someone and expect them to stick around and take it.

Perhaps this wasn’t the right way to do that? What do you think? What would you have done?

As I mentioned in Lucy’s 2-year post, she has spontaneously entered what is commonly referred to as the Terrible Two’s. I like to call it The Time of Unreasonable Meltdowns For Ridiculous Reasons Usually Unknown To Those Around Her.

Take last night. Lucy had dinner in front of her: Fish, corn and milk. I sat down with her (Eric and I eat after she goes to bed), a cored apple on a plate as a snack. Perfectly willing to share, of course. I’d even brought a knife with me to slice up some pieces.

Lucy, not surprisingly, asked for a piece. “Of course, Honey!” I cheerily said, picking up the knife.

Well. Did you know that attempting to slice an apple into non-choking-sized pieces like I’d done bajillions of times before causes Armageddon? OH BE WARNED YE OF LITTLE KNOWLEDGE OF TODDLERS, FOR YE HATH NO IDEA THE WRATH OF A SLICED PIECE OF FRUIT.

Lucy lost it. In, quite literally, a blink.

“NO CUT, MUM-MUM!”

“What? But I always cut your apples, Lucy. I don’t want you to choke on a big piece.”

(We are all about getting down to Lucy’s level and explaining things to her. Often this helps curtail the severity of The Time of Unreasonable Meltdowns For Ridiculous Reasons Usually Unknown To Those Around Her.)

“NOOOOOOOOOOO! NO CUT, MUM-MUM!”

(Now her face is as red as the Gala apple on my plate.)

“Lucy,” I said calmly, for I am The Adult, “Mummy has to cut the apple. It’s too big a piece for you.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

“How about I cut a piece in half, like this?”

“NOOOOOOO, MUM-MUM! Dere, tray, dere,” she said, pointing to the top of her tray.

Thinking, perhaps, that Julia lets Lucy eat apple pieces, and that I’m sitting right here and can monitor the progress of a large piece of apple, I decide to just give her a full-size eighth of an apple. For again, I am The Adult. The calm, rational, Adult. I put the piece on her tray.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO, MUM-MUM, NOOOOOO!” She puts the piece back on my plate.

Now the exasperation has kicked in. I put the piece back on her tray, and she again puts it back on my plate, ALL THE WHILE ASKING FOR A PIECE ON HER TRAY. This goes back and forth for a few minutes, me talking patiently, asking what she wants, she screaming, red-faced and crying.

Finally, I put the piece on her plate. And she stops. Like that. In another blink. She is smiling, says thank you, is happy.

I calmly get up from the table, for I am The Adult, walk into the hall, and bash my head against the wall a few times.

Last night. 6:30. Scene: the doctor’s office for Lucy’s 18-month well baby check-up.

Lucy has been merrily playing with the (probably-infested-with-sickie-germs) toys on the (probably-infested-with-sickie-germs) floor as we wait for the doctor to arrive. She’s also pounded the office keyboard a few times, covered her chest with turtle and fish stickers from a bag she discovered on the desk, and walked up and down the hallways in her navy blue shirt, white diaper and pink and brown striped socks like an adorable pant-less lost wanderer.

Mood gauge: Happy.

Dr. M walks in, and Lucy is instantly apprehensive. She was fine with the doctor until she had that bout of Roseola and strange beach nurses stick an ear scope in her *gasp* ear. Oh the inhumanity!

Cue sobs and clawing at a) the stethoscope, b) the ear scope, c) the tape measure around her noggin, d) Dr. M’s hands as she tries to check out Lucy’s girlie bits, e) the stand-up scale, f) the sit-down baby scale, g) the paper covering the exam table as we lay her down to get a height measurement, h) the needle during vaccinations, i) Dr. M’s hands during vaccinations, j) my hands during vaccinations as I try to hold down her hands so Dr. M can just get the needle without stabbing all of us, thankyouverymuch.

Holycrap I was exhausted by the end. Lucy, of course, trots out of the exam area clutching her snack cup with emergency Cheerio stash, smiling amid her red-rimmed eyes and tear-soaked face. This is to the chagrin of the waiting room, who are literally craning their necks searching for the cause of the murderous screams that just seconds ago filled the airwaves for kilometres around.

“Well, are you the little tyke making all that noise?” an elderly gentleman asks with a knowing smile.

“Oh yes,” I say. “It started with the stethoscope and went down hill from there.”

Remarkably, we did get toddler specs out of the chaos: Lucy is 2 ft. 9″ and just shy of 29 lbs. Her head is…big. All were in the 95-ish percentile on those silly charts.

Too bad they don’t give percentile measurements on doctor freak-outs, ’cause she’d kick ass on that scale.