Bunny Hop

Last night before bed I dutifully filled about 50 plastic eggs with jellybeans and various forms of chocolate.  I might have stretched my bountiful candy supply to occupy 75 plastic eggs, but that excess went into my mouth instead.  Besides some ham and potatoes today, my diet has been largely chocolate-based since Saturday.  There is small redemption in the carrots that Ellen left for the Easter bunny, which I had to nibble in order to make the bunny look appreciative of her hospitality.  So I haven’t been all bad.

The carrots were not only my one source of Easter nutrition, but they were also the ace in the hole for bunny believability.  I etched a few teeth marks in them (not easy with baby carrots – I’m reminded of Tom Hanks and the baby corn in “Big”), and it seems that teeth marks (even obviously human ones) are proof positive that the bunny was here, and was real.  I think Ellen may even have been a little freaked out when I pointed them out to her, since her eyes opened to the size of one of the plastic eggs. 

Other Easter highlights:

J  Ellen received two little trains in her basket, and exclaimed “how did the Easter bunny know that I like Thomas the Train?  I love Easter SO MUCH.”

J  We arrived at church 45 minutes early to assure that we could sit in the usual spot, which we did.  It does make for a long morning for the girls, but the state of affairs really never got worse than Ellen’s breaking into loud sobs during a quiet moment because “Dad wouldn’t let me give Cecilia an Easter hug.”  That and the near knocking over of the car seat from the pew into the main aisle are pretty much par for the Sunday morning course, so I’m giving us an A- for decorum.

J  Cecilia had a rough moment which involved my dad jokingly throwing a pillow at me and hitting C squarely in the face.  His attempts to get back into her good graces by throwing the pillow at his own face were unsuccessful (and actually more damaging), though that moment of self-inflicted grandpa degradation was enjoyed by the rest of the family.       

J  Easter egg hunts at both Nona and Grandpa’s, AND at Moddy and Boppa’s equal way too much candy at our house.  I had better buy a lot more carrots.

Busted

Both Dave and I have come to the humbling conclusion that we do not have the smarts to fool our three-year-old.  Cases in point:

J  A while ago, Ellen lost one of her trains – Toby, the brown square one, to be exact.  We looked for weeks without success, and Ellen mentioned (out of the blue) on several occasions that she really missed Toby and was so sad that he was lost.  So finally, I broke down and bought a new Toby at Target.  Unsure of whether or not this was a wise parenting move, I put him on top of the fridge without showing him to Ellen, and decided to wait it out a little longer.  A few days later, Toby the First miraculously appeared from waaaay under the driver’s seat in the car.  Toby the Second remained on top of the fridge.  Fast-forward to yesterday, when Dave lifted Ellen so she could put something in a high cabinet in the kitchen.  He put her down just as her head was whipping around to check out what she spotted out of the corner of her eye, and he quickly hid Toby in a cupboard.  “Hey Dad, what was up there?” she asked.  “What, you mean this little cup?” he said as he held up something to that effect.  “No, Dad,” she said.  “It was brown and square.  Ack-chally it looked like Toby.”      

J  I often secretly discard of art projects that Ellen brings home from preschool or play time.  We put them up and admire them for a while, and I save a few that are special.  But she has brought home enough art projects to wallpaper our entire house, so I comfort myself with her preschool teacher’s mantra (“it’s about the process, not the product”), and put them in the garbage.  The other day she came running into the living room clutching two projects that didn’t make the cut.  “Mom!” she yelled.  “These aren’t trash!  Did you get confused?”  I just looked at her, feigned utter shock that such beautiful, unique pieces should be disrespected in such a way that made them equal to banana peels and dirty paper towels, and said, “oh dear.  Yes, I must have gotten confused.”  As she carried the projects into her bedroom, I heard her say “it’s okay, Mom.  It was just a acks-dent.”    

J  I dislike folding and putting away clothes.  I think nudists REALLY have that “no laundry” thing going for them.  I admit that on probably more than one occasion I’ve muttered to myself “damn, guess I gotta do a load today” while pulling on my jeans over the last thing in my drawer that passed as underwear – that is, my swimsuit bottoms.  My point here is that because of my laundry delinquency, sometimes sheets, etc. make the transfer from washer to dryer a little too late.  Now, Ellen has an enthusiastic Grammy who makes her enough blankets and quilts and pillowcases that if she were to use them all at once, she could probably sleep rather comfortably under a bridge in the dead of winter.  She might even get a little too warm.  With all these coverlets to choose from, she has taken to sleeping every night with a Curious George blanket, a Disney Princesses blanket, and a quilt with an owl on it.  So, when I tuck her in to bed with her three blankets, she gets to choose how she wants each blanket to be placed on her.  It can “fly” (I toss it in the air and it falls to cover her), “vroom” (I start at the feet and quickly pull it up to the top of her head), or “chuff” (a la the trains on the island of Sodor).  On one particular night after she gave the directive for her trio of blankets to “fly; fly; fly,” I realized that I had committed the mistake of not putting the Disney Princess blanket in the dryer after washing it that day.  There were only two blankets.  Rather than launching into an explanation, I made a command decision.  I flew the Curious George blanket.  I flew the owl quilt.  Then I picked up the owl quilt a second time and flew it again.  Stifling a little smile, I bent over to kiss Ellen’s head, which she lifted off the pillow immediately.  She looked down at her blankets, then put her index finger on each, as though she was counting.  She looked up and said, “Mom, did you just pretend that the owl blanket was the princess blanket?”  There was no way to deny it.  You can imagine my face as I said to her sheepishly, “yes, yes I did.”  “Why did you do that?” she asked.  My only answer: “well, I don’t know.  I guess I felt like being silly.”

Below, there’s a picture of Ellen with two of the three blankets – Curious George and the owl quilt, which you can just barely see under George.  My mom’s dog Piper is on her pillow, which you’ll note is covered with a princess pillowcase.  That Grammy.

P.S.  I always feel a little sorry for Cecilia when I write these posts.  I suppose there will be plenty of chances for her to be the blog post star when she starts talking.  Until then, here is a cute picture of her, just to make it even.    

A Long Life of Disappointment

This afternoon I finished a job which falls under the Mom Tasks category “Holiday Figurehead Stand-in” – that is, I took over the Easter Bunny’s job of buying a few toys for the baskets.  The Bunny will be bringing Ellen two new little trains (friends of Thomas), and Cecilia a little spinning thing that will keep her entertained for a few minutes at a time. 

I left the bag in the car because there was no good way to get it inside without Ellen seeing it.  So on our way to swimming lessons Dave saw the bag and said, in a way that he intended to be heard and answered by Ellen, “what’s THIS?!?!”  My masterful “frantic yet subtle” hand gesture successfully communicated that Dave was not to pursue this line of questioning, and when Ellen asked “what’s WHAT?” he picked up an interesting piece of plastic on the car mat and feigned extreme curiosity, then handed Ellen his iPhone so she could do one of her puzzle apps. 

To continue distracting Ellen, I said to her “hey, we’d better go visit the Easter Bunny soon.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Well, so he knows what to put in your basket.  Don’t you think he wants some ideas?” I said.

“I guess so,” replied Ellen. 

Now, I know I may not have planned my Easter Bunny purchasing very well.  I probably should have waited until Ellen visited the Easter Bunny, told him what she wanted, and then gotten the answer out of her so that I could purchase her requests (within reason).  So, I posed my next question with a bit of trepidation. “What do you think you’ll ask him to bring for you?” I said. My mind was working through what the consequences would be if the present received did not match the present requested, when said present was requested of a supposedly magic Bunny who, if he can’t keep all the Easter-celebrating kids’ toys straight, is NOT very lovable (or even believable) as a holiday figurehead.

I looked back and could see her in my rearview mirror skillfully manipulating Dave’s phone as she answered, without looking up, “well, I think I’d like my very own iPad.”  Hmm.

One year I asked the Easter Bunny for a kitten, and I was so sure he’d deliver that on the day before his much-anticipated arrival, I practiced saying “here kitty kitty kitty” ad nauseum, until it rolled off my tongue to my satisfaction.  I awoke the next morning to discover that the Easter Bunny was a non-kitten-delivering schmuck.  My chocolate eggs tasted of bitter disappointment that day. 

So it begins for Ellen.

Operation New Sofa

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED 

That is to say, my mission was not actually accomplished.  Dave’s solution to the urine problem was to buy a new Bissell steam cleaner.  Cheapskate!  He even called me from Target just to double check that our old steam cleaner was actually broken.  (It has been broken for more than a year).  Today when I watched him going over (and over and over) a fresh spot with limited success, I questioned the new Bissell’s merit.  “Yeah, well, I got the cheapest one I could find,” he answered.  Yep.

A week or so after the inaugural Bissell couch steam, I have to concede that with a little Febreze chaser, our couch’s response to the Bissell’s work has been fair to good.  Frankly, a brand new sofa would smell (and look) a lot better, so I’m not giving up all hope.  I think Ellen is my closest ally—just a few accidental afternoon naps paired with morning potty neglect could be my ticket to Sectional with Chaise Paradise.  We’re well on our way:     

Heart Snapshot

At 10:30 last night, Ellen yelled for me from her bedroom.  When I opened her door to ask her what she needed, her little voice came through the dark – “I’m hungry.”  Usually I hear this when she spots a dessert somewhere in a quarter-mile radius, immediately after finishing a big lunch of macaroni and cheese. 

I walked in her room, knelt by her bed, and said, “well, it’s not time for eating now.  Put your head back on your pillow and fall asleep.” 

She gave it her best effort for about 3.5 seconds, and then said again, “I’m really HUNGRY.”

Maybe it was because yesterday was a bit stressful for me (for various reasons related to the cancelling of an appointment to get another tattoo), or maybe I just really wanted to get back to my movie – in any case, I responded “would you like a piece of bread?” 

“Yes PLEASE,” she answered.  So to the kitchen I went, and returned with a plain piece of 100% whole wheat bread – in other words, a snack so tasteless that in order to eat it, one must be truly hungry and not just jonesing for a dessert.  I sat down next to her, handed her the bread, and she began munching.  I could barely make out her Elmo pajamas and her bright eyes due to the light from the paused movie in the living room, and the relative darkness exaggerated her three-year-old chewing sounds.  She took a second bite without a word, then a third, and put her head back on the pillow. 

I rested my head on her soft little lap, and as she silently continued eating, I envisioned the two of us fifteen years from now.  Ellen is 18, and I’m…fifteen years older than I am now. 

The whole family is riding along in the car on the way to take Ellen to college (St. Olaf, naturally) and we’re reminiscing together.  “I can’t believe this day is here,” I say.  “These 18 years went so fast.”  I ignore the eye rolls from both of my daughters and say, “hey, what’s the earliest thing that you remember?  Do you remember the house in St. Louis Park?”  “I don’t,” says Cecilia.  Ellen responds, “Vaguely.  I remember the bathroom with the pink countertop, and Dad’s train set in the basement.  Actually I have this memory of eating a piece of bread in my bed in the dark, with your head resting in my lap, Mom.  Did that happen, or did I make that one up?”  I look back at her and smile.  “You remember that?  You were only three years old!”  “Yeah,” Ellen says as she looks out the window at the passing fields.  “That’s one of the earliest things I remember.” 

This scene was so vivid in my mind that I really felt myself as a mother with her firstborn going to college, and it made me nostalgic, and mournful for the three-year-old Ellen who will never exist again.  The tears started coming pretty steadily, and I had to remind myself that this precious moment was still happening.  I was still in it.  My three-year-old wasn’t gone yet, and I could look at her sweet face through my tears.  She took another bite of her bread, and then I felt her soft little hand cradle my cheek.  It stayed for a moment, then moved to my chin, then my forehead.  “Oh Mommy,” she said to me.  “I LOVE you.”  I put my hand over her little one, and said, “I love you too” while trying not to completely break down.  Her bread was gone, so I said, “do you want a sip of your water to wash it down?”  She nodded, took the cup from my hands, took a big gulp, then nestled back down into her pillow.  As I tucked her in I said “Ellen, you are my beautiful and special girl.”  She looked at me and replied, “I know.”