Smrt Lernins

Babies are weird.

I just asked Babypie, “What’s your name, little girl?”

Babypie said, “Duck.”

I said, “But I thought it was [Babypie]?”

She said, “It’s actually Duck.”*

I again said, “But you’re [Babypie]!”

She looked at me like she was thinking, oh poor, simply mother, patted her breastbone in an exaggerated fashion and said, slowly, “ME. DUCK.”

A couple minutes later, I said, “I need a picture of a girl named Duck,” which brought Babypie running in yelling, “Me! Me Duck! Me Duck!”

Here is an incredibly attractive picture of my girl called Duck:

*I ran this through Daddyman. “Did she just say, ‘It’s actually Duck’?” He agreed that she had.

Babypie has discovered makeup. In the past 7 or 8 days, she has sneaked into my bathroom twice to get into my makeup and also discovered a lipstick that Daddyman’s mom left down in Captain Science’s room. In just over a week, Babypie has:

1) Painted her hair with clear glitter nail polish
2) Colored her forehead with a deep rose colored lipstick
3) Made up her entire face with cream shimmer blush and Bare Minerals eye color.

She pitched a holy fit each time the make up was removed (or a removal attempt was made, at least). When asked if she is beautiful, she puts her hand up by her face and poses. Girl loves makeup. Fair enough. Tank loved body art and drew pictures all over his entire body quite a few times — and when I saw entire body, I mean it, from his hair to the soles of his feet, and all parts in between (including his genitalia on more than one occasion).

Here’s my little Tammy Faye Baker in the making:

Babypie has been full of cuteness today.

When she’s been thirsty today, she has requested, “Wabwa and eyesh!” (water and ice) Plain water simply will not do.

I asked her what she wanted for dinner, and she thought very carefully about it, then answered, “Rice…and Papa!”

She brought me Captain Science’s biography of Christopher Columbus (an actual decent plague-and-slavery biography!) and said, “A beast, Mama! A beast!”

She found a discarded Christmas ornament that didn’t make it into the box before everything went into the attic. She spent the last hour carrying it around, mournfully asking, “Where tree go? Mine tree? Where go mine tree GO, Mama? Mine, Mama, mine tree go? Where go?” and making little sniffly sad sounds.

Dinner was over when she stated, “All done!” and tried to force-feed me her leftovers.

My children received many, many wonderful gifts this year. After all, they had my parents, Officer Daddyman’s mother, and my grandparents here to make sure they reached their maximum holiday capacity. The snow (the kids’ first white Christmas) and the fulfillment of their wish lists led Tank to randomly and passionately exclaim, “Best. Christmas. EVER!”

Tank’s favorite present was a giant wooden yo-yo. Captain Science’s favorite was a Fushigi anti-gravity ball. Babypie’s favorite gift was her Bitty Baby.

A little back story on the Bitty Baby: During the summer, we attended a friend’s birthday party. One of the other children in attendance had the blonde Bitty Baby. Babypie grabbed a hold of that thing and carried it around the entire party, protesting vigorously when the doll was extricated from her grasp (and by “prostesting vigorously,” I mean, “shrieking ‘Mine! MIIIIINE! MY BABY!’”). When Nana received an American Girl catalogue, Babypie pointed her chubby little finger at the Bitty Baby page and again stated, “Mine!” She specifically wanted the dark haired baby.

Well, Christmas rolled around, and of course, Nana gave Babypie the dark haired Bitty Baby. Babypie loves her baby. Loves, loves, loves her. She named the baby Water (because of Baby in the Water, also known as Ponyo, I’m sure). We change Water’s clothes (for bed, for waking, for leaving the house) and her diaper (sometimes ten times in a row, with Babypie checking it and declaring “Boop!” in between), we give her ninnies (sometimes I “nurse” her, sometimes Babypie “nurses” her). Water is carried around everywhere. I made a special bed for Water using an empty gift basket, a flannel doll blanket, and the doll quilt Nana made to go along with Water (matches Babypie’s quilt).

Everything about Water is awesome and perfect and good, except…

Her eyes close. And it freaks Babypie out.

It didn’t bother her at first. She was fascinated by Water’s opening and closing eyelids, kept poking her in them. Some time yesterday, however, Babypie decided that Water’s eyes must never close. Not ever. Not even a little bit. “Do you want to put Water to bed?” now results in a screamed, “No! No! No!” I have to ask if Water needs to go to bed sitting up (“Yesh.”) and position her so her eyes don’t close. Water “sleeps” with her eyes open.

I don’t know what to say about that, except that babies are weird.

Babypie. Water in a basket. Cuteness.

I am thankful for Babypie, my only girlchild, my beautiful 20-month-old spitfire.

I have always wanted a daughter. I think it’s a testament to how close I am with my mother and how many wonderful memories I have of mother-daughter activities. I knew from the moment I got pregnant with Babypie that I was carrying the little girl I had hoped for; I felt it in my very soul. My pregnancy with Babypie was difficult — no complications, but constant exhaustion, nausea, no appetite. Her birth, even though my labor was only about 6 1/2 hours long (making it my second longest or second shortest, depending on how you look at it), was the hardest of my three children’s. Her right hand was up by her ear the whole time, a position we call “Babypie phoning it in” and which she still does when she is sleepy, and I had horrible back labor, my first experience with that particular hell. She finally came out, all 9lbs 4oz of her, and was so red and round and squishy that I dressed her in strawberry prints from that day forward, my little Strawberry Pie. Her nose was absolutely pug; she looked like Piglet from classic Winnie the Pooh, and in the video Daddyman took of us immediately afterbirth, I kept saying to her, completely thrilled, “You’re so funny-looking!”

Her nose is still a little pug, but she doesn’t look like Piglet any more.

I think, after Tank, God or the Universe sensed I needed an easy one. Babypie was the easiest baby. She was born sleeping at least 5-6 hours each night. She nursed like a champ. She was alert and interested in everyone, but not fussy or discontent. She enjoyed being held by all her family members, brothers included. She was smiling within moments of birth, usually in response to familiar voices. I had a hard recovery and it took me a while to feel “right” again, but Babypie was so sweet and snuggly and easy to care for that I didn’t have any additional stress or strain due to caring for her. She ate and grew and got ridiculously fat and developed three enormous dimples in her cheeks, plus a scrumptious cleft in her chin. I dressed her in lots of pink and strawberries, because she was all mine and I could do ridiculous things like that.

She kept on growing and growing. She started learning all manner of things in leaps and bounds. She didn’t talk quite as early as Captain Science, but was still saying a few words by seven months old. She sat a little later than Tank, crawled at roughly the same time, but learned to walk at nine months old, thanks to Patchfire’s daughter, Purple Child, who is (also an early walker) four months older and Babypie’s best friend. Babypie would pull up on PC and “cruise” along with her while she walked. Thanks, PC! I was not at all prepared for a baby of that size to be walking around, but Babypie is her own person and doesn’t really care if one is prepared for her accomplishments or not. She kept on walking, kept on talking, and her vocabulary expanded so quickly that I eventually stopped keeping track of all her words — she simply said too much.

One thing about Babypie: Babypie is fierce. A former friend once made a snide remark about certain people not realizing their children look mean in pictures. It wasn’t hard to figure out who she was talking about — I don’t think we had a picture of Babypie for months where she didn’t look like she was baring her teeth and possibly about to bite someone. It wasn’t hostile, though. Her smile was just as fierce as the rest of her. Her big white teeth and rather broad mouth made her huge smile into something of a savage smile. Nothing stops her. Nothing slows her down. No one is more determined than my Babypie. She’ll take a tumble and keep going. She can do anything the boys can do, whether she can actually do it or not. Her battle cry is, “And ME!”

She’s also a snuggler and loves her Mama (and especially her ninnies). One of her favorite people in this world is her great-great-Aunt Elaine. She loves going to visit Nana and Papa. She adores her brothers and her Daddy. We went through a bad couple of weeks where she refused to go to bed until Officer Daddyman was home from work, meaning midnight or later. She “calls” her Daddy on her play cell phone and has long conversation with him. She gives him commands that he usually follows. Babypie is the boss of everyone. She was born to be the boss of everyone and she doesn’t understand why everyone can’t understand that. “Yesh!” and “No!” are staples in her vocabulary, because they are words of command/direction. Despite her bossy fierceness, she’s also the prissiest little thing, with this funny little prance-walk-strut that she does when she’s feeling full of herself or wearing her pink princess dress with the giant fairy wings. She’ll run around in her fairy dress with a sword in one hand, a car in the other, and her water bottle and her baby doll stuffed down the front of her shirt. That’s just how Babypie rolls.

Nothing about this fierce girl has been a disappointment. She’s a delight and a joy nearly every moment of the day. Sure, she’ll run me ragged and exhausted, but she’s so funny and entertaining while she’s doing it, I hardly notice how tired I am until we both drop. She has the best sense of humor, tells little baby jokes, makes up funny stories (sometimes about Beasts that poop in her pants), wants to be involved with everything we’re doing. No baby could be more fun than Babypie. She is the perfect compliment to her brothers. They’re a perfect unit of three, even when they fuss and fight and squabble. She brought something to the dynamic that can’t be replaced. She’s Captain Science’s ally, Tank’s sometime-nemesis, and they are both her heroes.

She’s the daughter I always longer for and more, my amazing number three, my boisterous yet dainty Strawberry Girl. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be the mother of this child.

All my babies — I love them equally and in their own special ways. None of them is like the other, but they are all treasures to me. I have never done anything as meaningful and rewarding as being their mother. I can’t imagine I ever will do anything better than that.

Here’s one of those things the books don’t tell you about parenting:

You will have the exact same conversation about thirty-eight times in one day. You will have the same conversation about twenty-two times the next day. You will have the conversation fifteen times the day after that. You will have the same conversation three more times before the next “same conversation” starts up.

Babypie has entered “same conversation” age with a fury this past week. Our conversations thus far have centered around two subjects, Ponyo and the driveway beast that poops in Babypie’s pants. Like I could make this stuff up!

We recently discovered Ponyo, the 2008 Miyazakii film, is available on Netflix instant watch. We’re huge Miyazaki fans and the boys have always loved Totoro, so we figured we’d give Ponyo a shot. It’s as adorable, if bizarre, as I expected. Ponyo in her fish state looks a bit like a Waldorf doll, which I find amusing. The boys enjoyed the movie a lot, but the one who has really become obsessed with Ponyo is Babypie.

Now, I’ve historically been a “no/limited TV for under 2″ kind of mom, but when you add that third kid, sometimes your standards slip a little. Babypie likes to sit with her brothers and watch a movie, even if she doesn’t watch it that closely. Ponyo, however, has been declared the greatest Babypie experience of all time. She calls it “Baby inna Wawa” (baby in the water) and talks constantly about the baby inna wawa, baby go byebye, baby aw’off, [Sosuke says] “MOM! MOMMY!”, Baby inna Wawa Mahmoum (baby in the water Ponyo). She tells me about baby inna wawa all day. If I don’t give the right responses (“That’s right! Ponyo does live in the water.” “Yes, Sosuke is very sad when he can’t find his mom.”), she will repeat the conversation louder and louder until I give them.

Yesterday, we upgraded to a second conversation, so at least I now have some variation. Every morning, I ask Babypie if she slept sweet and if she had dreams. Yesterday morning, she said yes, so I asked what she dreamed about. “Poop pants.” Oh, you dreamed you pooped in your pants? “Cow.” What? You dreamed a cow pooped in your pants? “Yes.” Ok, then.

Later in the morning, she declared, “Beast poop pants!” (She actually says “beat” and “boop” and “pans” which I think is cute) A beast pooped in Babypie’s pants? “Yeeeeeah! A beat!” What kind of beast? *points out the window* “INNA DIE-WAY!” A beast in the driveway pooped in your pants? “YEEEEAH!” Oh no! That’s terrible! “YEAH! BEAT BOOP PANS!” Oh dear, what a bad beast! “BAD BEAT! BEAT BOOP!” Yes, very bad. “Beat boop pans!” Really? You don’t say! “Beat inna die-way…”

I”m not sure which conversation I prefer, honestly. The beast one is funnier, but I do try to discourage poop humor. That’s parenting for you, if you are childless and ever wondered. Ponyo, beasts, and the same darn conversation over and over again.

Luckily, she’s an amazingly adorable little beast.

Last weekend, my parents attended the Rally to Restore Sanity. Because they’re super awesome, they flew up in the morning, rallied, and flew home in the evening. On one of the flights, my mother found this tucked into the Sky Mall magazine:

She almost stuck it back in the magazine, but then decided she needed to bring it home to show it to me.

The site advertised on this card is…well, it’s sort of everything that freaks me out about Christianity (and I honestly have no idea what flavor of Christianity this site is promoting, just that’s it’s tongue-speaking, “Whore”-fixated whackadoodle). Of course, I wouldn’t be able to look up the website while on the airplane, because come on. Have you seen how much the airlines cost to use their special Internet connection? *pshaw* So you can feel free to visit the site and marvel and/or gawk, but we’re going to focus solely on this card, since we’re on a hypothetical airplane right now.

So. Yeah. This card.

Now, I appreciate the need some folks have to spread God’s love and advertise for Jesus and all that, but I’m questioning:

A) The effectiveness of Sky Mall magazine proselytizing.
B) Whether a quote about God (who, presumably, is in Heaven, right?) calling us to Himself is the right choice for an airplane, considering how many people have a fear of flying and/or crashing. I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking, “God is great, but I don’t want be “going to Jesus” (dot com or otherwise) right at this very moment. I’d really prefer to land at my immediate destination.”

I have some alternate suggestions for the GoingtoJesus.com people that they might consider putting on their cards instead:

“God’s love helps you fly the friendly skies without turbulence.”
“God is calling you to Himself…eventually. For now, have a nice, safe flight!”
“Going to Jesus, but changing planes in Chicago en route.”
“God always fits in the overhead compartment.”
“God accepts your extra baggage — no charge.”
“No snakes on this plane. Just Jesus.”

Oh, business card proselytes! A little word of advice from a secular homeschooler: I appreciate the sentiment of wanting people to feel close to Jesus, but try not to freak people out on airplanes, ok?

You know, I hear a lot of nonsense from the anti-natural birth and anti-breastfeeding camps about how women don’t get medals for: giving birth without drugs, surviving the pain, giving birth at home, breastfeeding through difficulties, etc. The hell with all that; I never wanted or needed medals to do those things, because they were better for me and my babies. I didn’t need a plaque, trophy, or medal to reward me: our health and happiness was the reward.

Not everything is so inherently rewarding, however.

That overheating-related puking Tank experienced at Disney World? Yeah…might not have been solely overheating, as evidenced by the last 36 hours of illness that Babypie and Officer Daddyman have been experiencing. Could be two different puking viruses, as the incubation period seems awfully long and Babypie has been running a fever, whereas Tank (my fever-runner) did not, but it might be the same.

What I really wanted to do was call off homeschooling for another two days, since I’ve been holding and nursing a sickly baby, cleaning up said sickly baby, or washing clothes, sheets, and towels generated by that same sickly baby. I do not want to helpfully sit down with Captain Science and talk about Essay Town or correct his math or keep tabs on his time management. Because I’m made of awesome (well, because we took the previous week off for Disney World), we’ve been doing school work anyway. I’m not checking over his work with my usual vim, vigor, and haste, but we’re slowly plodding through it. Luckily, Tank has been more than happy to help me indulge Babypie in some Dinosaur Train after she threw up on her own feet and my clothes a second time.

You know what I want a medal for? THAT: Homeschooling with baby puke on my pants.

How come nobody ever says, “You don’t get a medal for homeschooling with baby puke on your pants?” when we homeschooling moms manage it anyway? Because THAT is actually quite hard and unrewarding, and getting a prize at the end would be really motivating.

I should also note that I started this post at 4pm, but Babypie puked on my feet, so it is only just now being posted.

At this very moment (I know, because I schedule this to post right at that time) my “baby” is turning 18 months old. This is a big deal for me, because she hasn’t been all that baby-like for so long–she walks, talks, gets into all manner of mischief–that I’ve been holding on to “she’s not even 18 months old yet” as my way of comforting myself that my little Babypie is still a baby.

I must face the facts, however, and finally admit that Babypie is now a toddler. A full blown, personality larger-than-life, Princess Pitch-a-Fit toddler.

She was a fat, juicy 9lb 4oz baby:

A beautiful force of nature at a year:

Now she’s a 23 pound, lean, mean fighting machine:

So big that I’m pretty sure it shouldn’t be allowed:

And a right good dancer.