No More "F" Bombs for Mama

Well, folks, the day has arrived. Em has transformed from a person to a parrot, a toddler-voiced echo that follows C and I around the house. Many of our conversations go like this:

“Emmy, it’s time for you to brush your teeth,” says I.

“Bruthh your TEETH!” says Em.

“Make sure to go up and down with the toothbrush, ok?” says I.

“Up and down. Up and down!” says Em. For a few seconds, she actually seems to do something akin to brushing her teeth, before she just starts sucking on her toothbrush again.

“Where are your shoes, Em?” says I.

“Where are shoes? Shooooo-ooooooes. Where ARE you? Shoes hiding” says Em.

“Maybe they are in your room?” says I.

“In your room” says Em, wandering off to HER room to see if she can find her sandals.

And so it continues.

Now, I should say, Em doesn’t ONLY repeat the words we say. She’s definitely got a mind of her own, and lots of words to help her voice her opinions.

Many a times, on our ride home from daycare, she will start a monologue of “wants”, a la “I want water (I give her water)… I want juice (I don’t have any juice, Em. Drink the water)… I want keys (I can’t give you my keys, Em. I need them to drive)… I want apple (I don’t have an apple Em. I’m sorry)… I want pizza (maybe you can have pizza for dinner, when we get home)… I want hug (mama wants to hug you too, Em, but I can’t hug you while I’m driving)”

But it’s Em’s enthusiasm for repeating words that has me scared s*&%less (see, I’m already self-editing). While I’m no potty-mouthed mama, I definitely let the occasional “f-bomb” slip out, or get a little crass when talking to my hubby.

Now I have these immense fears that, if I am not super careful, Em is going to mimic… you know, THOSE words. And if she starts using THOSE words, I’m in deep doo doo.

I envision picking Em up at daycare, and suddenly noticing that all of her teachers are giving me the stink eye. I envision her head teacher taking me aside and explaining that SOME words are inappropriate for 22 month olds to be using, and that it might affect Emmy’s classmates in an adverse way if she continues to say “I want my f^&^ing lunch, please!”

And what about the supermarket? How embarrassing it would be for me if, while strolling my daughter through the produce aisle, with Emmy attracting the smiles and waves of strangers, she loudly proclaims “I love this s%^*!”

Yeah, I’ve definitely got to put the lid on the loose lips, and say farewell to the “f” bombs. From now on, I’ll need to get creative, calling things “blinking horrible” and exclaiming “son of a biscuit” when I stub my toe.

Well, at least I can still swear on my blog.

Not-So-Great Expectations

Me and the hubby, pre-first-pregnancy, living life to its fullest.
So silly. So crazy. So UNpregnant.

Pre-pregnancy, I had certain expectations for what I should accomplish in any given day. For instance, I tried most days to get to the gym, or to at least go for a walk outside on my lunch break. I would try to look semi-presentable at all times. I would aim to eat healthy meals, and not survive on coffee alone.  I would try to post a blog on an almost daily basis. These were basic expectations, nothing too lofty, extravagant or ambitious. If I met these expectations, I would be able to check that day off as a “good day”.

Now?

Oh, how things have changed…

I’ve come up with a short list of my new expectations. Because now, at five months pregnant, it’s a good day when:

·         I don’t throw up all over the passenger seat of our car on my way into work (grabbing huge wads of baby wipes to try and contain the disaster area)

·         I manage to bring all of Emmy’s belongings, and Emmy, into her daycare without spilling several items onto the sidewalk on our way into the building (yeah, I’m a little off balance these days)

·         I walk up the two flights of stairs at work without becoming completely breathless

·         I don’t yell at anyone in a sudden burst of pregnancy hormonal-ness “You think YOU’VE got problems??? Is there a small being growing inside you, kicking your ribs every few minutes? Is a wee little alien doing cartwheels in your lower regions? No, I didn’t think so!”

·         I cough or sneeze and DON’T pee in my pants (yes, I am doing my kegels)

·         Emmy doesn’t try to kill her baby-brother-to-be by jumping on or kicking my tummy

·         A person doesn’t gasp when I tell them my huge belly is only five months preggers  (yup, lady. That’s right. I’ve got another 120 days to go. And yes, I am SURE it’s not twins).

·         I don’t accidentally drop mustard from my lunch sandwich onto my shirt, making my belly look like a big bullseye

·         I manage to poop without feeling like I am going to birth this baby right into the toilet (sorry, that’s probably TMI)

·         I can watch a tv commercial that has anything very cute (a baby, a bunny, a baby bunny, etc.) without crying

·         I DON’T secretly wish my husband was the one who was pregnant, so I could drink a very large glass of wine

And let’s face it. It’s only going to get better. Cause I know that in four months time, my expectations for a good day are going to look something like this:

·         Get more than three hours of sleep at night (not necessarily in a row)

·         Say at least one coherent sentence every 10 – 12 hours

·         Take a two minute shower at least once every two days. Ok, maybe every three days.

·         Remember my name

·         Wear something other than a bathrobe (especially when traveling outside the house)

So, what are YOUR expectations for a good day?

Flowers in Our Bellybuttons

My daughter has a magical way about her.

She can get people to do all sorts of things that I would NEVER in a million years be able to get people to do.

Like last week, when the three of us made an impromptu visit to my in-laws one late afternoon. Em asked her grandmother, Baba, to help her pick a few flowers from their garden. After picking a few colorful blooms, the two returned to where we were all sitting and relaxing on the deck, and Em generously gave each of us a flower to hold (proud mama moment).

But THEN Em had a second request. She wanted all of us to stick our flowers in our belly buttons.

Which we did. Of course.

Now, if I had been the one to ask my father-in-law to stick a daisy in his belly button? Surely he would have laughed in my face, doubted my sanity, and started questioning his son’s reasoning in choosing me as a wife (I am giving myself the benefit of the doubt, hoping that I haven’t previously given my father-in-law reason to question my husband’s taste in women).

But EMMY made the request. So there we all sat, with our shirts pulled up halfway and flowers sticking out of our belly buttons, as we continued having adult conversation about house mortgages and home repairs.

Emmy’s magic continued this past weekend, when we visited my extended side of the family down in Jersey.

On the first night, Em was able to get my mom and dad to pretend they were frogs, yelling “Ribbit Ribbit” as they hopped in a squatted position through their living room and dining room. She also got us all to march around the entire apartment in a parade-like fashion, singing songs and clapping.

On Saturday, Em somehow got her great grandparents (who are in their eighties and nineties, god bless them) to do splits and perform other gymnastic feats in their kitchen. To be honest, I was kind of worried that the afternoon was going to end badly, and that I would be writing a much less humorous post about how Emmy had caused her great grandmother to need emergency hip surgery.

On Saturday night, Em got my aunt and uncle to talk in funny voices as they animated one of Em’s little stuffed animals.

I love not only being around my daughter, but also being around other adults in the company of my daughter. Emmy doesn’t understand why it would be uncouth for us to sit around with flowers in our bellybuttons, or why it WOULDN’T be the most fun thing ever for my parents to pretend they are leaping frogs, or why her great-grandparents might not generally think about doing splits and spinning around and around on a slippery linoleum floor. But because there are no limits to how Em thinks we adults should behave, it frees us up to feel and act like children again. So we carry on like kids, our silliness filling us with laughter, as Em claps her hands in delight, shouting “Again! Again!”