There is something magical not only from a mother hen perspective (do you see my preening feathers?), but also from a biological perspective to watch a human learn to walk. It is pure, raw evolution in the making. I am so humbled to have seen this twice in my life, and it is breathtaking each time.
I love the look of pure glee on Alice’s face. She is determined and stubborn and proud. It amazes me, at just 10.5-months-old, that she can feel and so clearly articulate such emotions without saying a word.
Yesterday afternoon Alice let go of my hands and took two wobbly, newborn deer steps toward Eric. We wrote it off because she kinda fell forward, and pshaw — the kid’s barely 10 months old.
This morning she let go of the upstairs bathroom vanity and took two not-so-wobbly steps across the tile, hands straight up in the air, big ass goofy grin on her face.
We can’t be surprised, considering she was RUNNING with a resin table at the cottage two weeks ago:
I give it two weeks ’till she’s scampering after Lucy. And my baby days will officially be over forever.
As much as I adore my girls, I don’t want any more of them. Two is enough: Physically, emotionally, financially.
My uterus has a big blinking red sign that reads No Vacancy. Ever Again.
(How come people have such a hard time believing you when you tell them this? No matter what I say, they nod their heads knowingly. “Oh, you say that now! But you never know…” Actually, yes, I do.)
Eric and I both agree. But what we’re debating is when is the best time for him to have The Procedure (seriously, go listen to this song from Family Guy, when Lois tells Peter to have a vasectomy after a pregnancy scare. It’s hilarious).
I’m ready for him to have it tomorrow. No, make that yesterday. And have told him he’s not coming near me until it’s taken care of.
He thinks I’m joking. But I want there to be absolutely no chance for an accident, or, as Lucy says, “A big mess.”
Eric’s argument is, unfortunately, a scary and valid one: What if something happens to Alice in the next 10 months when there’s the highest risk something can? Or even to Lucy? Shouldn’t we wait — a year, he’s proposing — just in case?
(This has hit more close to home lately, too: A woman whose blog I read recently had her 4-month-old grandson die of SIDS, just before Christmas. How utterly sad and devastating. Even thought Alice is sleeping so well at night, I am still up several times checking on her.)
As valid a concern I think that is, I only want to bring two children into this world. Now that they’re here, what happens will happen. I worry I’d be replacing them, and the child would spend her/his whole life chasing a shadow.
Shelby, our teenage babysitter from across the road, was nicknamed Pork Chop when she was born because she was so big — over 11 lbs.
Eric and I always laughed at the embarrassing moniker, which her parents use all the time and cause Shelby to roll her eyes so far back in her head we can only see the whites.
I was Carly Cool because of a love of sunglasses. I’m not sure if Eric had a name, although there is a giant photo of him as a toddler — running naked and clutching a hammer — that has made appearances at birthday parties and our wedding that cause his cheeks to turn pink.
While Lucy’s nickname — Lucy Goose or Baby Goose — shouldn’t cause her great shame, I’m afraid Alice’s might.
We’ve dubbed her the Warthog because of these rooting snorts she makes all the time: Waking up from sleep, dozing in the sling, rooting for the breast…
It’s not like we are vehemently opposed to anything overtly girly with Lucy, but we certainly have never encouraged it. She has developed her own love of the colour pink and Dora, but that’s about as feminine as she’s gotten so far.
And I doubled-checked with my Mom and Julia, and both are as stumped as we are as to where THIS has come from.
But come it has. And while I’m so not rushing out to fill our house with Disney Princess crap paraphanalia, I could not resist this Dream Dazzlers skirt at Toys R Us on sale for $5 — especially after Lucy announced she wants to be a cowboy princess for Halloween (?!).
Now the hunt is on for a plaid shirt and pink cowboy hat…
Lucy is suddenly in love with Dora. She’s always liked Dora, but more as a recognized character as opposed to an entity.
Now, Elmo is oh-so-yesterday, and she wants to watch Dora Saves the Mermaids. Every. single. day. We’ve made it a bit of a routine to pop some corn and watch it after she wakes up from her nap, so before she falls asleep she entices promises from us that yes, we’ll watch the mermaids and “Dora in her gown” (crown) and the bad octopus with his garbage that you “no like him.”
(Not long after the mermaid obsession began, we discovered this pack of Dora underwear my Mom bought eons ago had — *gasp* — Mermaid Dora on them. Oh, the bugging of the eyes and the blinding grin that ensued. Can you guess which undies she wants to wear every morning?)
This little set of Dora Life Lessons books Lucy has had for ages — again via my Mom, via Avon — is enjoying renewed interest along with the mermaids and an expanding attention span for longer stories.
Last night we read “Best Friends Forever,” about how Dora and Boots are best friends, and all the nice things best friends do for each other: Give compliments, share, hold hands, give hugs, make the other feel special. As we were crouched by Lucy’s bed giving kisses, she suddenly reached over and gave me a hug, then grabbed my hand and started swinging it.
“Best friends forever, Mama!” she said with a grin.
Then I melted into a pile on the carpet, and Eric had to roll me out of the room.
Watching Elmo movies at Chez McDougall-Foster doesn’t just involve watching the 45 minutes or so of furry red manic monster (insert object Elmo is thinking about today!) love, but also previews of other Sesame Street films.
For who knows what reason (seeing as her mother rather, ahem, dislikes country music), Lucy picked up on this cowboy song from the preview of Elmo’s World Wild Wild West! Travis Tritt sings about Pecos Bill:
This has become The Song That We Brush Our Teeth To. Except we never sing about Pecos Bill. We sing about Pecos Everybody Else in the Family, Including Friends and Daycare Buddies: Pecos Mummy, Daddy, Spencer, Papa, Aunte Jenni, Uncle Marky, Auntie Michele, Gramie, Eirinn, Pearl, Julia, Mac, Tyler and Joshie. Recently, she’s moved on to inanimate objects, including toothbrush, toothpaste and pink cup.Oddly, my parents — Nana and Grandpa — are never part of Pecos Everybody. I think it’s because they have the Kids’ Favourite Country Songs DVD at their house — Lucy calls it “Chicken Elmo” — and Lucy knows they are already rootin’ tootin’ enough.
(One time, that movie made it to our house, and we watched it, and I almost died. Elmo + country twang = head explosion. As much as we sacrifice and do stuff for our children, the line has to be drawn somewhere. That movie is banned from here, and remains a special Nana/Grandpa House treat.)
What needs to be immortalized is the image of either Eric or I sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the bathroom door (blocking any escape route, you see…), singing “Pecos ________” in deep country voices, while Lucy perches on her white and blue Ikea step stool, toothbrush protruding from her lips, shaking her chubby butt to the beat.
Another completely unfathomable aspect of parenthood. Priceless.
