The morning after

Daylight Savings is a pain in the [fill in the blank]

The things you do for love

Now that Addison is spending more time (see here, here, here and here) on the potty -- you know, crocheting sweaters and choreographing sit-down dances -- it's probably inevitable that every once in a while something falls in. The other day it was two crayons. She looked at me with anguish.

My crayons!

And I looked at her with sympathy, but firmly said,

That's what happens when you drop things. Now let's not let that happen again.

Her lips quivered, but I was proud of the way she kept it together as I flushed the vivid color-makers away. It's a lesson that we all have to learn.

Unfortunately, not everything can be flushed. Like this Rapunzel domino.

I cringe every time she asks for something to play with on the potty. Because I know something's gonna make a splashdown sooner or later. And if it's big, and if Lindsay's not around, I'll have to go after it myself.

But there's not much choice, is there? If I want her to stop leaving me fragrant surprises in her pantaloons, I've gotta do what it takes to keep her on the pot. I just know that if we ever have another kid, I'm going to lobby for an industrial strength airline toilet. Something that seals around the edges for a massive suction effect. I don't know why it kills me so much; I spent years cleaning this kid's poo off of my hands with every other diaper change. But reaching into a toilet to retrieve something is about the most terrifying thing I do these days. I'm a real hero.

On being a potty mouth

Addison has been aware of the difference between boys and girls for quite some time now. And almost 100% of the time, we're glad that we taught her accurate words for body parts. In addition to the fact that most euphemisms sound really silly, we liked the idea that it could be protective tool for her to be able to express ownership over her body, and to reliably communicate in the event that (heaven forbid) she ever ended up in an abusive situation.

However, when kids become comfortable talking about bodies you gotta accept that you're gonna end up in situations like this one, which I wrote about on my Facebook Page:

I'm sure there's something Freudian to say about the way even children observe the world and find phalli (yes, phalli is in fact the plural form. I looked it up) in unexpected places. But I don't have anything more to say about that. Just this one further story:

At church two weeks ago, there was a certain respected, high-ranking official who walked into the bathroom just as I was bringing my three-year-old in to use the potty. He walked over to the urinal as I ushered my daughter into a stall.

We finished up and got out as fast as we could, never making eye contact with the other dude. For better or worse, I have a (literally) potty-mouthed kid. My wife says it's just as bad when she goes to the women's restroom; the kid narrates every sound in the place. Probably our next lesson needs to be about judging people silently, as the rest of us do. In that most vulnerable of places, the restroom, you can think all you want, but you keep your mouth shut. Imagine sitting in a stall doing your business, only to hear a tiny voice giggling in the next stall over, "I heared a toot! Someone is doing a poopie! They need to wash their hands!" Hope you don't have performance anxiety.

Innocent children and demonic art

That red stuff is crayon, right? Why is it dripping...?

We've already established that my daughter's drawing skills tend towards Dali or Francis Bacon. Perhaps we could throw in Edvard Munch for good measure. And pictures like these probably fit in with her recent assertions about her dead stuffed animals.

You give your kid a chance to express her artistic skills in the bathtub, and the only thing missing is a blood-dripping RED RUM. Should have seen it coming. Oh well, at least she's consistent.

On imaginative play and remembering the dead

Conversations with my daughter this week, from the Facebook Page:

We weren't able to find Addison's bunny for a few days. So I finally told her,

Me: Your bunny is on vacation. Visiting his family.  

Her: But...his family is dead.  

Me: It is? 

Her: Yes. They died three weeks ago. 

Me: Well . . . I guess he's just on vacation by himself. 

Addison (whispered): We are his family now. 

 It was either sweet or creepy. Or both. You may recall that Addison is pretty good at the creepy.
______________________

Addison: What is my nipple name? 

Me: ? 

Addison: My nipple name! You understand me?! 

Me: Your...middle name? 

Addison: That is what I said. 

Me: Sage. It's Sage.  

Addison (huffily): Thank you.

________________________

Addison climbed onto the couch, then over the back of it, and her Gramps asked her what she was doing.

Addison (a little breathless): Here's the deal. 

A pause to collect her thoughts. 

Addison: Wolves are coming. I need to hide in the curtains. 

I suppose hiding from wolves in a flimsy curtain is her version of the duck and cover drill for nuclear attack. Luck with that, kiddo.

________________________

Me: Who is my favorite little girl? 

My wife raises her hand. Addison crosses her arms belligerently, but then sees her mom raising her hand and shoots hers up in the air too. You can always count on her sense of competition.

Me: Oh, so you're both my little girls? 

Addison: Yes. 

Me: And who am I? 

Addison: Your name is Neal and you are a gentleman. 

 And you, little girl, will get a pony someday if you keep up this kind of talk. 

Conversations with my daughter: An evolution

When Addison turned three last week, I spent some time looking through old movies and audio files we have of the little monkey (you can find some here, here, here, and here). If you're a long-time reader of my blog or if you follow my Facebook Page, you know that I think a lot about the conversations that we have, and I came across a few that got me thinking about how much Addison has grown since we moved to California half her life ago.

This is a message that Addison and her Grammy left us on our first overnight getaway after moving in with Lindsay's parents. She was not quite two years old:

Cute, right? And I wanted to be really diligent about helping her vocabulary grow, because I just knew that we'd be having some really important discussions soon. This was a few months later, just after she turned two:



I take my dadding responsibilities seriously, you know? Her fondness for calling "blue shirt" when she sees it prompted the comic for this post about her loud, totally awesome exclamations at church (I didn't prompt her, I swear).

A couple of months after that, in July, Addison had her first nightmare. I blame Sandra Boynton for the bovine paranoia.

Then, last year, just in time for Halloween, Addison started having conversations with us about death.

And now, while we're cleaning up around the house, or when she's in the tub or doing her quiet time, she'll bust out stories to help pass the time. And she's totally figured out the dramatic arc of storytelling; she sets the scene in context, she gives us rising tension, and then she resolves it all with a cheery rainbow at the end:



If you couldn't discern it, this was a story about elephants. Or, Effants. She does say they live in the sun, so maybe it's some sort of alien race. I've been really working to get her interested in science fiction.

And here are some of my favorite conversations with Addison this last week. They weren't all super lengthy, but a few really surprised me.

Brought Addison in for her three year check-up today. Among other things, they did a finger-prick blood test to check lead levels. 'Cause of all the dirt she eats.  

Also, after her flu shot, as she's sniffling and with tears rolling down her cheeks, I ask her if she wants to say anything to the receptionists. 

"Have a nice a day," she calls out, before burying her head in my shoulder again. 

"Can we take a elevator," she whispers to me. "Because I'm a yittle sensitive right now." 

No problem, kid.

_____________________

At church today Addison was playing with a Buzz Lightyear toy. She noticed that one of his hands was in a fist. So she started punching me with his fist. 

Me: Be nice, Addison. 

Addison: But he is just a toy. It is only pretend hitting. I am only pretend hurting you. 

Me: And I'm going to pretend put you in time-out. I'll need you to pretend to be very quiet while you pretend to sit against the wall without moving. And then you can pretend to think about the consequences of your actions. 

Addison: Okay.

_________________________

Addison just clapped her hands over her mouth in surprise. 

Addison: I can't talk! 

Me: Are you sure about that? 

Addison: Mm hmm. 

Me: What happened? 

Addison (hissed with a mad face): Ursula.

________________________ 

Last night Addison had her first ear ache. Or at least it was the first time she was able to express it to us.  

At some vague middle-of-the-night hour I was just coaxing her back into bed and we were having a mostly cheerful conversation about Monsters, Inc. And she says as though suddenly experiencing an epiphany:

"Monsters don't have gynas or bums! Only humans have gynas and bums."

And with that, my poor, clingy, sick little girl appeared to have achieved a powerful peace with the universe. She said:

"You can go now, dad. You can go."

It wasn't the last time last night that I held her on my shoulder as she cried, but I'm still thinking of that thoughtful dismissal she gave me. There's a tough young woman in my little girl, preparing herself for the world.